glittery nihilist dumpster fire

The captain manages the after-hours shows rather than participates as he does during the daytime shows. These require finesse, he says, and careful planning and orchestration. He simply can’t manage properly if he’s bound to perform. And him onstage during this type of show? He’d just take far too much attention away from the other actors. Strange how that’s never a problem during the daytime shows. You and the rest of the performing crew know it’s because he doesn’t want to get naked on stage, but no one’s had the balls yet to say it.

Tonight, the captain is more frantic than usual, shoving through rails of costumes and crew members, dragging Cabaji along behind him. He’s annoyed, clearly, if the shouting tells you anything. He taps his feet, chews on his lip, clenches and unclenches his hands while he thinks. He fidgets when he’s angry, you’ve noticed, in addition to all the yelling.

You watch from your mirrored makeup station as Buggy throws up his gloved hands. “Who the fuck is going to replace them this late? Can’t they just, I don’t know, power through it?”

Cabaji, clearly used to the temper tantrums, replies calmly, “Not unless you want them puking on stage. I heard Toro in the bathroom earlier - there’s no powering through that.”

“Fuck!” Buggy spits, and you turn back to the mirror. You’ve only just started your makeup for your performance, which gives you plenty of time to watch the continuing tantrum in the mirror’s reflection out of the corner of your eye. You’d had a feeling this was coming. Your cabin-mate was the rotation guest actor tonight for the third act, and you’d heard her vomiting half the day. He yells, and you glance over to that corner of the mirror, “We have a Marine lieutenant in the audience, and I need him to fuck off while we’re in his territory.”

He stops, and turns to you, shouting your name. “Congrats, you’re the rotation actor for the third act tonight.”

You blanche - you’ve never been part of the third act before. Act II is physically taxing, and you’re always exhausted afterward, so you’ve never volunteered. You don’t know the choreography, you’ve barely ever bothered to learn the lines - nothing.

You turn around in your seat. “Captain, I’ve never rehearsed-”

Buggy continues on, your objection ignored. “You know the basics, just improvise!” He waves his hand in your direction. “You’re good at that, that’s why I picked you! Pick a costume and figure it out - the gold ringmaster costume is nice, by the way - and be ready for your cue.”

Buggy stomps off at that, leaving you flabbergasted, staring in the mirror with a tube of lipstick halfway to your mouth. Cabaji glances at you pitifully before running behind the captain, clipboard clasped to his chest.

You apply your lipstick with a shaking hand. The captain always takes volunteers first for the third act before assigning it - though volunteers had never been a problem, therefore assignment had never actually occurred. The after-hours show is an exhibitionist show, after all; the crew members willing to perform in the after-hours show were always willing to volunteer for Act III. And while you’d never played one of the characters having sex on stage, you certainly don’t mind being naked on stage. You’d done that once a week, every week, since you’d joined the crew. 

You’re just surprised you were the captain’s first choice. He’d never given you much direction during rehearsal and rarely ever watched you perform, save for the day shows. 

You could improvise, surely. The third act is just a circus bit, after all, and that’s easy enough. It’s mostly improvised anyway. There’s a few specific lines at the beginning to go with the act, but the minutiae was dictated by the chemistry between the actors. You could handle that - you were friendly with everyone on the crew. Surely, surely, the captain would partner you with someone who already had a little stage chemistry with you.

Well, you’ll figure it out. You finish your makeup and head over to stand in the queue for the second act, clad in your robe. You’d grabbed the ringmaster costume the captain had pointed out and had it prepared for quick-change, but you didn’t have a costume for Act II, what with all the naked fire-breathing.

You take a deep breath and step out onto the floor.

Your routine is just rote memory, you've done it so often. Your muscles guide you, the imprint of hundreds of hours of practice and performance. The series of tricks and turns, the twirling of your blazing baton, the cheering of the crowd in your blood is ingrained in you so deeply, every twitch and motion, you could do this in your sleep. When the baton in your hand burns hot, threatening, warning you not to drop it, is when you twirl it, breathe it in, and blow.

You land in splits down center stage after a series of backflips with the baton in your mouth, breathing fire into the air like you'd bitten a Devil Fruit. The crowd, a mixture of pirates and marines and various esteemed, yet nefarious, guests, explodes into applause, whistles, and cheers. It's a rush that nothing else can touch, having the eyes of all these men and women on you.

Once you finish and the curtain comes down for intermission, you race backstage as quickly as you can, yank on your ringmaster costume, and stand behind the curtain stage left for the beginning of Act III. You can't see who's behind the curtain stage right, but that's part of the thrill of the third act - the mystery of your partner. Besides, the only cue you have to worry about now is the curtain coming up. You're in the ringmaster role, so you're the lead. You remind yourself, it’s mostly improv; the rest, surely, you remember well enough from having watched it at rehearsal. It’s improv and public sex, two things you can handle.

The curtain rises. You step forward into the ring on stage, under the spotlight, and begin.

You hold your baton aloft - an improvise - and set it alight. The crowd, now darkened beyond your sight, ooohs and ahhhs and whispers approval. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” you recite, stretching up into the air and pointing at the crowd with your baton. “Welcome to the Big Top's after-hours show! We hope you've enjoyed being toyed with and tantalized tonight.”

You toss your baton into the air and catch it with your opposite hand, earning a few gasps from the crowd. The spoken lines are cheesy, a little cringe, but you suppose the writing isn’t exactly the main draw for the after-hours show.

“We've certainly enjoyed you,” you say with a wink. “For our final act, we have a treat for you, a real show-stopper. But what else could it be? You're at the Big Top, aren't you?”

The crowd roars at that, delighted. You can’t see them, but just knowing there are other pirate captains, Marines, and dignitaries in the audience is thrilling.

“Then allow me to introduce you to the circus.”

This is it - the big reveal of your partner for the night. You turn and gesture with your baton to the opposite side of the stage, which, until that moment, had been completely dark. The fire from your baton offers little relief against the shadows, just enough for you to see another actor sitting in a chair. The spotlights spring to life, giving focus to the only other actor in the act tonight.

The crowd falls silent. You almost miss your next cue.

Your captain sits in the chair before you - your partner for the night's final act. He's resplendent in an exaggerated clown costume, all bells and whistles and stripes, his makeup fresh and hair left long down his back. He wears a jester’s hat, bells hanging and jingling from tricorn tips. One of the stage hands had tied his hands behind his back - that or he’d used his Devil Fruit powers to do it himself. 

The captain looks up at you from under his eyelashes like a puppy begging for attention, those crystalline blue-gray eyes piercing under the stage lights. You know, at that moment, the captain’s choice to perform is no lack-of-volunteers, last-minute, fill-in decision. You wouldn't have been lacking in volunteers for this act - none of the crew ever were. He'd volunteered himself. He might not have even asked the other actors. 

That, for whatever reason, sets your nerves alight like no performance ever has before. Consummate professional that you are, the beat you skip goes unnoticed by the crowd. Your captain, however, catches it and grins at you, the little twitch of his lips as imperceptible to the crowd as your pause. You catch it, though, just as he's caught you. This may be your first time performing in this act, but it's his first time performing in this act, too. You've never seen your captain's improv performance, but you suppose you're going to find out firsthand.

“And what's a circus without a clown?”

You're winging it now. This is beyond rehearsal - this is artistry now. This is sensation, desire, fantasy. You have a lot of talents, and though you've never seen this act with a partner tied up, you have a few attributes in your favor: you have vision and skill and a massive, massive crush on your captain. And a teeny, tiny penchant for being in charge.

You step behind his chair and lean forward around him. His role has no speaking parts (must be torture for him), so he'll need to make use of his mouth somehow. You place your lit baton between his teeth and instruct him, quietly, to hold it in place. He obeys, and that one simple act is enough to spur you on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce my co-star for the evening - Captain Buggy D. Clown.”

The crowd erupts in screams and cheers. For them, this must be the ultimate finale. Seeing the pain-in-the-ass clown pirate fucked stupid on stage? Tied up and silent? Mildly humiliated? It must be satisfying for them on so many levels. You're astounded Buggy is willing to do this.

“What shall I have him do?”

The crowd screams out suggestions, none of which you can actually catch with everyone shouting at once. You’re pretty sure you hear someone scream to kick him in the balls, though.

“All wonderful ideas!” you say, and drag your fingers slowly through Buggy’s loose hair. You remove the jester’s hat and toss it to the back of the stage, the bells jingling merrily through the air. Your scratch lightly at his scalp with the tips of your nails, trailing your fingers down his temples to the base of his neck. He shivers under your touch, your baton shaking in his mouth. “But I have a few of my own!”

You crouch behind the captain's chair and reach around to his throat, careful to avoid the fire from your baton in his mouth. You find the front zipper of his costume and slide it down slowly, revealing inch by inch his naked chest. You trail your fingers along his skin, through his chest hair, down the lines of muscle, right behind the zipper. You unzip more, farther, down his waist, until your hands are just above his pelvis. The zipper goes down further than his waistline, though, and you slide it down to expose his cock to the crowd. You can’t see it since you’re crouching behind him, but it brushes against the back of your hand when it springs free, and you feel he's hard already, the tip of his cock leaking where it lays against his naked waist.

The crowd hums in appreciation, in amusement, in enjoyment. You hear him whimper, too low for the crowd, but just loud enough for you. And you understand why he wanted to do this now, why he likes to perform at all. This turns him on like nothing else.

You stand and whisper in his ear, far beyond the voyeuristic ears of the crowd. “I get it now - you like being watched like I do, don't you, Captain?”

Buggy’s eyes flick up at you with a heat you've never seen before, cock twitching in his lap. The muscles in his thighs strain, the planes of his body rigid. You catch the bead of sweat dripping from his temple and know it’s not just from the heat.

You lick the shell of his ear, tracing your tongue lightly along his skin. “You just needed the right partner, hmm?”

Buggy can't respond with the baton in his mouth, but he doesn't need words. His eyes roll back, and he whimpers against the metal of the baton. His breathing is labored, nostrils flaring, escaping around the baton in what could only be described as panting.

You whisper into his ear, “Can you get on your knees with your hands tied back, captain?”

Buggy nods, imperceptible to the cheering crowd.

You stand up straight, hands buried in his hair on either side of his head, and shout, “Who wants to see your ringmaster fuck this clown?”

The crowd screams, and you swear you can feel the whole ship vibrating from the force. You grin and take the baton from Buggy's mouth, then bring the lighted tip to your lips and blow, flames shooting up and spiraling into the air until the flames die. 

With that, you toss your unlit baton into the air and step out from behind Buggy's chair. You catch the baton, twirling it between your fingers before you tap the back of his chair with it.

“On your knees,” you say sweetly, smiling as Buggy nearly falls out of the chair trying to obey. 

He sinks to his knees on the stage, costume flapping uselessly. The shoulders of the clown costume have drooped down around his wrists where they're tied behind his back, the front sagging down around his knees while his cock remains flushed and rigid under the stares of the crowd. He looks pathetic, you think, on his knees and exposed on stage, but he obviously likes it from the way he's panting under the heat of the stage lights. You can see his eyes search the crowd, see just that little hint of oh shit in his eyes as he realizes, oh no, all of these important people are watching. Your captain may have decent business sense and an eye for performance, but thinking more than a step or two ahead has never been his forte. 

You sit down in the chair behind Buggy, elbows on your knees, and lean forward to tap his chin with the tip of your baton. He leans his head back to look at you, long blue lashes fluttering under the spotlight's glare. You bury your hands in his hair and are struck by the desire to pull, and he moans when you do, too softly for your liking. 

You slide one hand up under his chin and mumble. “Louder, captain, we have an audience.”

Buggy blinks up at you and licks his lips. “Then give me a reason to get loud.”

You tilt your head in surprise, and he smiles at you like he's the one in control. Oh, you're going to have fun. You run a hand down his neck, down his chest, and pinch one of his nipples, which earns you a sharp gasp.

“Turn towards me,” you say, your cheek pressed to his, “and stay on your knees.”

Buggy shuffles until he’s turned on his knees facing you. You can get a good look at him now, the way his makeup is carefully placed, not greasy or fading or running halfway down his neck like usual. The exposed portion of his body is corded with muscle, and a smattering of soft, blue hair covers his chest and trails down the line of his stomach. It occurs to you that, while he’s seen you completely naked on stage at rehearsals, you’ve never so much as seen him with his shirt off. He is absolutely distracting. 

His eyes rake over your face like you've broken him with just a look, like you've earned his absolute devotion in less than five minutes on his stage. He’s not acting, you think - not the way he's looking at you. That's desire, that's fantasy. That’s months of wishing and watching, wanting. You lean towards his face like you're going to kiss him, hand tilting his chin up, but stop just shy of the tip of his nose. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, see his cock jump at your proximity alone. 

For his ears only, “Do you want me to fuck you, captain?”

The desperation in his eyes at your words get you wet like nothing else. He's panting, open mouth begging for your kiss. His hands behind his back twitch, aching to get his fingers on you. “Yes.”

You wind your fingers through his hair. “Can you lay back on the stage like this? Legs bent? Hands tied?”

He nods.

“Then lay back.”

Buggy lays back so that the top of his head is facing the crowd. He’s sprawled across center stage, hands tied behind his back underneath him, knees bent like he’s bracing his lap to be your chair. 

You stand, surveilling the crowd, and you shout, “Are you ready?”

The crowd cheers again, then peters down into a hushed quiet. As they watch, you drop the bottoms of your ringmaster costume and kick them over to the side. You leave the top - it doesn't leave much to the imagination anyway, being that it's just a corset. A whistle here and there cuts through the silence.

You drop to your knees and straddle Buggy's waist, naked cunt flush against his skin. He tilts his head up to watch you, struggles up onto his elbows to see, and the sight he's met with makes him groan, loud this time, so that the audience can hear. You crawl down his body on your hands and knees until you're sitting on his chest with your front facing the crowd. Your cunt is close to his face, just out of reach of his mouth. He's tempted to detach his head and get a taste, but he's deterred by your control. You’re the star here - he’s a willing prop for your performance.

You hover over his mouth, just out of reach of his tongue, and he huffs like you're depriving him. He turns his head and mouths at your thighs, biting at you in defiance, harder the longer you make him suffer. 

When you finally settle down onto Buggy’s mouth, he moans against your cunt like a starving man. You hear the collective sigh of the crowd as he licks at you. He swipes his nose against your clit, spearing you over and over with his tongue. His moans are muffled, but you can feel them against your skin, deep into your core. You shift your hips, grinding down against his tongue with every motion, your hands settled back onto his chest to give the crowd a good view. He may hate his nose - the whole crew is well aware - but the benefit is he can nose your clit without ever even using his hands.

Just as you start teetering close to the edge of release, you stop and shift back until you're sitting in Buggy’s lap, his legs bent behind you. His head drops back to the stage, and he whines at your absence. His mouth glistens with you, and so does the tip of his nose. The crowd snickers, pleased by his desperation.

You take Buggy’s cock in hand, stroking lightly, and he bucks his hips under you. His plea of, “please,” is downright pitiful, almost enough to make you feel bad for teasing him. Almost. You might feel guilty if you weren’t having so much fun.

You're at your limit, aching for your own relief, when you sink down onto him. His strangled moan when you bottom out, hips pressed flush to his, resonates through you. You shift slowly at first, hands reaching back to brace yourself against his thighs. You set the pace, though, riding him slowly and deliberately, forcing him to acclimate to your teasing. His muscles flex and strain, hips rocking up against yours. He's almost in tears, begging you to fuck him for the crowd to hear.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, and that's only for you to hear, “touch me, just kiss me, please.”

You lean over him, hands on the stage on either side of his head, and grind. He strains up to kiss you, but you pull away with a grin and shake your head, teasing, “Make me cum, and I might.”

“I’ll fuckin’ make you cum, alright-”

You've forgotten that your captain is actually quite flexible, so it’s quite a shock when he hooks his ankles around the backs of your calves and sits up, yanking you into his lap without ever touching you with his hands. You wrap your arms around his neck to keep steady, looking over his shoulder at the crowd, while he bites your shoulder and thrusts up into you. He buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, as you tighten your arms around him, nails scratching at his back, pulling at his hair. 

Buggy’s chatty enough on a daily basis, but you riding his cock for an audience takes it up a notch. Nothing he says is meant for the crowd to hear, though, not a single word of his stream-of-conscious babble. It’s all for you, a private moment in the midst of performance.

“If you let me do this again,” Buggy says, “I swear, I’ll keep you coming for hours. Just, just - just me and you. Ride my face until I can’t fuckin’ breathe - I’ll fuck you however you want me to just to feel you break me-”

You can’t help but smile. You wouldn’t even let him kiss you thirty seconds ago out of the basest desire to tease him, but he’s making promises on a hard, wooden stage floor in front of a host of other pirates and people watching. He’d done so well keeping it hidden, you’d had no idea your silly little crush was reciprocated.

“This is our act from now on,” he swears, “gonna fuck you for everyone on the Grand Line to see.”

Buggy’s close, and you are, too. His cock twitches inside you, pulsing with every movement, and he moans loud enough for the whole ship to hear the tighter you clench around him. 

You press your lips to his ear, “Ready?”

You feel him nod against your skin.

When you come, it hits you like a sack of hammers. Buggy bites down on your shoulder and comes, almost unseating you, and lets out a groan like nothing you've ever heard. It's broken, incoherent, and you think he's begging in your ear, but you can't quite concentrate well enough to catch what he’s saying. He fills you up, one stroke right after another, until his hips are stuttering and his cock twitches and he collapses against you with relief for just a moment. You can barely see the fuzzy outline of the dark crowd, but you can hear their gasps and moans, their whistles and applause.

Your sweaty face is pressed into Buggy’s hair, panting into his ear. “Want me to untie you?”

You can feel him mouthing at that space between your shoulder blade and neck, licking at you. His voice is muffled when he answers, “Perks of detachable hands - I'm already untied.”

Buggy wraps his arms around your back and stands, cradling you until you can get your legs to work properly enough to stand up. Your legs feel like jelly, but you turn back towards the crowd anyway, your hand in Buggy's, and take your bow. He clasps your hand and bows with you, gesturing towards the crowd. The applause is thunderous, the vibrations rocking the boards of the ship.

Buggy, apparently satisfied by the rapturous applause, for once doesn't linger on stage soaking it all in. He hauls you off your feet and over his shoulder, strutting backstage at the crowd whistles and oooh at your departure. 

“Curtain call, captain,” you remind him, peeking over his shoulder. You smack his ass to make him listen. “Captain.”

Buggy shifts you around in his arms and presses you up against a back wall, away from the cast and crew. It’s a testament to his strength, and something you’d never gotten to see for yourself before. Buggy’s jacked - he’d flipped you around in his arms like nothing, twisted you into his lap on stage with ease. 

He shoves his face into the hollow space under your ear. “Don't care.”

You laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, “Captain Buggy D. Clown doesn't care about curtain call? Since when?”

“Nope,” Buggy says, then proudly declares, “Since I made you cum, you owe me a kiss.”

You raise an eyebrow, pretending to think about it. “I think I said I might give you a kiss.”

Buggy pulls back away from you, eyes wide like a kicked puppy. “What-”

You roll your eyes, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. His lips are soft against yours, and he’s surprisingly gentle, almost sweet. Undeterred by the announcement of the final curtain call in the background, he unhooks the back of your costume corset and pulls you close so he can feel your tits pressed against his chest. He scoops his hands under your knees and hoists your legs up around his waist.

You can feel him pressed against you, and you’re completely aware that his costume is puddled around his feet now that his bound hands aren’t keeping it up. And that you don’t have any pants on. Good thing there’s no crew around - it’s one thing to perform in an exhibitionist show, it’s another thing to get caught dry-humping backstage. Not that Buggy cares. You can’t believe he’s already hard again. It’s got to be that damn Devil Fruit.

You pull back for just a moment. “Were you just waiting on me to volunteer for Act III so you could fuck me?”

“Uhhh…”

When he struts up onto your front porch, spurs clinking against the wood, he gives you what would almost, on any other face but his, be a sheepish grin. It hasn't been long since Filly - about a month. Actually, you expected him to be gone longer, but it’s been long enough for you. You don’t want to know what he’s been doing to be dragging the woman around with him, though.

You do, however, want to know why the woman with him looks like she's been through hell and back, though. She’s barely even standing up straight at this point and seems borderline shell-shocked, and you don't blame her. Even you don't want to know what your Ghoul gets up to during the day, but it seems like she's found out.

The Ghoul nods off back into the distance. “Radroach. Nasty fucker. Killed a couple of those roosters.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “You get it?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “Blew a hole right through it.”

The woman lets out a shaky breath, her already-wide doe eyes expanding even further. “It exploded.”

The Ghoul takes a step closer to you, boots clunking on the wooden porch. “Got room?”

You nod. “Always.”

You usher them inside as night finally falls, snuffing out the front porch lights as you pass.

The Ghoul walks upstairs without a word, every step of his boots and spurs echoing down the wooden staircase. He already knows where he’s sleeping.

The woman stares after them, then looks at you and sticks out her hand to shake yours. “I'm Lucy.”

It finally hits you that she's wearing a Vault-Tec jumpsuit. The Ghoul’s dragging around an honest-to-God vault dweller. You would have figured it out by her mannerisms even if you hadn't recognized the jumpsuit. Wastelanders don't shake hands and introduce themselves. 

You're not unfamiliar with the practice, though. You take Lucy’s hand and tell her your name. “I've got a room down here and a place you can wash up.”

Lucy looks like she might cry. “A shower?”

You grin with sympathy. “No, not quite. But there's a sink with clean water.”

“Please, thank you,” Lucy says, and with those doe eyes blinking at you, you get the distinct feeling you'd probably give her your kidney if she asked for it. She looks like she's been through the ringer. “Any water at all.”

“Whatever you need - just don't tell anyone it's here. We keep clean water a secret around here.”

Lucy nods enthusiastically, and you lead her off into the back washroom with the promise of finding her a pallet to sleep on. You drag a little cot in your backroom along with a flat pillow and threadbare blanket. It's not much better than sleeping on the floor, but you're quite sure it's better than anywhere else the poor girl has slept in a while.

You show her to the backroom. “It's not great.”

“It's just fine, thank you.”

You glance at her windburned cheeks and chapped lips. Her skin hasn’t toughened up against the elements up top yet. You can empathize. “I grew up in a vault, too. Topside was quite the shellshock.”

“Really?” Lucy asks, sitting down on the cot. “Why did you leave?”

“Well, my mom fell in love with a wastelander she found topside - she was a courier - and took me with her. I was 14,” you start, leaning against the door frame. “Nice guy. Bounty hunter. He killed her and left me outside a bounty agency.”

Lucy's mouth hangs open, and she starts to form the words I'm so sorry, but you wave your hand dismissively. It’s been a long time. That’s just the way the world works.

“I don't know what he's-” you motion behind you back towards the staircase, “put you through, but since you’re alive, I'm guessing you're not a bounty,” you say gently. “You'll be okay. We vaulties are tougher than we look.”

Lucy nods and sighs. “Thank you.”

You start to close the backroom door behind you, but pause and stick your head back in the doorway. “By the way, you're gonna want to keep this door shut tonight.”

She blinks in confusion, then blinks with realization, and nods profusely. “Got it.”

You shut the door with a click, then head upstairs.

You find your Ghoul reclining back on your bed, back resting against the creaky headboard. He'd discarded the duster and vest on the back of your single chair, bandolier and belt in the seat, and kicked off his boots next to your bed. His gloves and gun lay ready on your nightstand, never far from his hand. He'd found another crusty old paperback - a different one, newer but still decrepit - and taken to reading it.

When you approach, he holds out a hand for you to take and pulls you down into his lap, back to his chest, and situates you between his outstretched legs. He wraps an arm around your stomach and rests his chin on your shoulder as he reads, breathing slow and even. 

You let him read for a while in silence, enjoying the simple touch. You don't really want to break the silence, but eventually you do.

“Where'd you find the vaultie?”

The Ghoul hums next to your ear. “Filly first, right after you left. Then the New California Republic.”

You open your mouth, then shut it, then open it again. You haven't heard anything about the NCR in years, not since it was nuked. You’d seen smoke billowing up recently but would have never considered it was coming from the NCR. You want to ask why he’s been out that way, but you really, really don't want to know what he's been getting up to lately if that’s where he’s been. (You don’t want to admit to yourself it worries you where he’s been.)

“I don't want to know, do I?”

He chuckles. “Probably not.”

“Noted.”

The hand crossing your stomach moves to the hem of your shirt and dips just under the fabric to trace your skin. He continues reading the book over your shoulder, and you relax back into him.

“Didn't know you were a vaultie,” the Ghoul says slowly, carefully.

Ah, well, clearly he was listening. You didn’t think he’d be able to hear you all the way downstairs.

“Oh, yeah, a long, long time ago,” you reply. “Been topside longer than I was ever in a vault.”

His hand slides lower, fingertips just barely tickling the soft skin up under the waistband of your pants. It tickles something fierce, but his touch is so, so nice, you can’t bring yourself to swat his hand.

“Did you ever find that bounty hunter?”

“Sure did,” you reply, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “You know, they say revenge doesn't make you feel any better.”

His hand dips lower, past your underwear, the motion of his fingers languid as he trails his fingertips softly through coarse hair. Not wasting time tonight, it seems. You’re pleased.

“Did it?”

He slides a finger down your slit, catching on your clit, and rubs light circles with his fingertip.

You smile. “Never felt better.”

The Ghoul's mouth rests against the shell of your ear; you can feel him smirking against your skin. “That's my girl.”

He slips a finger into you as he reads, then a second, tortuously slowly, but it makes you sigh. It's not quite the feeling of fullness you want, but his fingers are so pleasantly heavy inside you, and his thumb pressing down on your clit makes you squirm.

You stop yourself from grabbing his wrist and relax back against him. This seems to garner his approval because he presses his fingers a little deeper, giving you more pressure against your clit. His breath in your ear is deceptively calm, like he's not pulling you apart with just a hand. 

“Hold it,” the Ghoul says, passing you the book. “This is the good part.”

The occupied hand, now free, makes quick work of unbuttoning just enough of your shirt to slip into. You close your eyes while he plays with your nipple, trailing a fingertip over it so lightly it makes you want to crawl out of your skin. His blunt nails scrape over your skin, and you can't stop the whimper that spills out of your mouth. You can feel him smirking against your ear, so smug,  but he continues on as if he's doing nothing but reading that stupid book.

You squeeze your thighs together, trapping his hand while his fingers are knuckle-deep, but he pinches your nipple as soon as you do.

“Nope. Spread ‘em.”

You spread ‘em, as instructed. He drapes a leg over your knee so you can't trap his hand again. You've come to learn he likes it when you open up for him.

“Next page.”

You oblige, and your reward is his third finger pushing past your entrance to join the others. He switches to your unattended breast, rolling your neglected nipple between his fingers. 

“Coop,” you warn, and your voice sounds broken even to your own ears. You can barely breathe, and the book shakes in your hands. 

He hums, and you can hear the satisfaction dripping from his words. “Next page.”

“Cooper,” you say, and he says your name in response, and his voice in your ear makes you feel fucking strung out. 

“Relax and focus,” he says softly. He thrusts his fingers, and you can hear every movement he makes. “Now, next page, or I’ll stop.”

You take a deep breath and turn the page, fully intending to relax back against his chest (when had you tensed up?), but he picks that moment to press his thumb down on your clit and roll it around the pad of his thumb. You hiss, and he laughs, and oh payback will be sweet.

The hand that’s been playing so diligently with your nipple abandons the task, and you almost whine, but you don’t want to give him any more satisfaction at the present moment. He runs his hand up your sternum and rests it against your chest just above your collarbone. He doesn’t move to wrap his hand around your throat, but it’s close by, just resting against your chest, and the weight is comforting. 

“I know you’re trying to be quiet,” he says, “but I’m sure Vaultie’s heard worse.”

You huff. “Warned her to keep the door shut anyway.”

“Well, then, don’t keep those pretty sounds all to yourself,” he replies, punctuating his words by pressing right on that spot inside you that’s absolutely made you scream before. “Or I’ll make you read the next page out loud for me.”

“You’re so in for it,” you gasp, and oh, he likes that. You can feel his cock twitch against your back, even through his pants and your shirt. “Your hand’s gonna get tired eventually, and then it’s my turn.”

“Threats like that, maybe I’ll stop and see what you do about it,” the Ghoul says. He makes you tilt your head back against his shoulder with the hand now actively around your throat and presses a kiss to your temple that’s a whole lot more teeth and tongue than lips. “Now, why don’t you be good and come for me? Then I’ll let you have your turn.”

“Can I put the book down? Sure would make things go quicker.”

“No,” he snorts. “Next page, babydoll.”

“Fuck, you’re mean sometimes.”

The threats to stop don’t matter much in the end. You come on his fingers, orgasm popping along your spine like static shock. He pumps his fingers slower, more gently, and lets go of your throat to wrap his arm around your waist, keeping you tight to him. You pant, struggling to catch your breath, and let him work you down through your high. 

His nose would be in your hair if he had one, so his forehead rests against the side of your head. You can feel him grinning smugly against your ear when he says, “Not so mean now, am I?”

You extricate yourself from his grip, turning around in his arms and kneeling between his outstretched legs before he can get a good hold on you. With his face in your hands, you kiss him hard enough to knock your teeth together. He fists his hands in your hair and holds you close, nails scraping at the back of your neck. You let go of his face, unwilling to break contact with his mouth (you don’t think he would have let you if you’d tried anyway), and yank open his belt and zipper.

When you do pull back, it’s only because you’ve all but run out of air. You take his heavy cock in hand and kiss him again because fuck he’s good at that. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

“Seems like it-”

He’s cut off when you wrap your lips around his shaft and take him all the way down to the hilt. It’s a strangled half-moan he makes that cuts off his words, and it goes straight down your spine like lightning. You’ve never heard him make that noise before - he’s usually pretty quiet at first. You aim to make him do it again.

You wrap your tongue around the head of his cock, licking along the slit, before taking him all the way back down and hollowing out your cheeks. That does the trick; he moans again, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from giving in and just jumping on him. That noise is worth it, though, and you busy yourself with a game of how many times you can get him to do it.

“Fuck - easy,” your Ghoul breathes, pushing your hair back away from your face. It’s not out of an attempt to be sweet - he doesn’t want to miss a second of watching your lips around his cock. “You only get one shot, sweetheart-”

You pull off of him with an audible pop. “Well, let’s see how long you can last, then.”

He grins, and you match him. You take him back in your mouth, all the way down until your nose hits smooth skin. The tip of him sits heavy in the back of your throat, pitted and raw-looking like the rest of him, but surprisingly smooth. You scrape your teeth lightly up the length of him. His head smacks audibly against your headboard, and you giggle around him, the vibration of which only makes him groan and buck up into your mouth.

The Ghoul tightens his grip on your hair, pulling you back just enough to give him some wiggle room. You take that as your clue to unclench your jaw, and he fucks your mouth with the same calculated intensity that he does everything else. Your eyes water, and you can feel sweat dripping down your cheek in the heat, but he swipes away both with his thumb.

Dry humping the mattress isn’t giving you any relief, so you slide your hand down to your cunt. There’s not much room pressed down against the mattress, but you make do as best you can, fingers circling your own clit desperate for any amount of stimulation. It’s what you need though, and between the slide of the Ghoul’s cock in your mouth and your fingers at your clit, you get yourself right there.

The Ghoul notices. He stops moving and taps your chin, half-laughing and half-breathless. “Come here, darlin’, I’ll take care of that.”

You scramble into his lap, legs bracketing his thighs, and sink down onto his cock while he holds himself steady. He scoots you closer, hands on your hips, and holds you down so your pelvis is flush to his. You think he likes the closeness and the feeling of you so full of him, but you don’t mention it. 

When you finally start to move, you don’t bother to keep quiet. The Ghoul cuts you off with a kiss. “Think we’ve traumatized Vaultie enough yet?”

“She’s an adult,” you shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Besides, do you know what Vaulties do to each other down there?”

He grimaces, “Ugh… Don’t want to.”

“Lotta weird shit, Coop.”

He closes his eyes and huffs. “Just kiss me.”

You kiss him, clasping his face in your hands while you grind down on him. His hands blaze a path up and down your back like he can’t make up his mind where to put them. He finally settles on your ass, mostly so he can get some leverage to control your pace. 

You don’t last long, and neither does your Ghoul. You come with his fingers at your clit and his face pressed into the crook of your neck. He comes right after you with a soft groan muffled by your skin, the heat of him filling you up somehow comforting.

When you finally choose to climb off of him, he doesn’t let you get far. You wind up in much the same position as when you first climbed into bed, with your back to his chest and his arms wrapped around your middle. You relax back against him, sticky and sweaty from the heat of the room and your combined body heat, but unwilling to move anywhere cooler.

The Ghoul rests his chin on top of your shoulder. You think, for a moment, he wants to say something, but he instead busies himself pressing his lips to your shoulder. He may be able to turn a phrase, but you suppose that doesn’t include talking about things.

You don’t want to ask because you already know the answer, but finally, you do. “Are you leaving in the morning?”

“Pillow talk isn't really your thing, is it?”

You give him a look out of the corner of your eye.

He bumps his chin against your shoulder. “Yeah.”

You don’t want him to leave - you really, really don’t. “Okay.”

He says your name softly. “Come with us.”

You don’t know what’s going on, why the Ghoul is dragging Lucy around behind him, why there’s constantly smoke filling the sky and Vertibirds tearing through the clouds, or why this all feels so fatalist, but you know there’s not much you can do other than shoot a gun or get in the way. What you can do is provide a place to come home to for a man who’s wandered the desert longer than anything else currently walking around.

“You want me to come with you, but you could make this your home,” you say. You turn around in his lap so you’re facing him and find him watching you with something in those hazel eyes. “I’ll be right here when you get back. Not if you get back, Cooper. When.”

You roll onto your back and pull him along with you so he's situated between your legs with his chin resting between your tits. His cheek is warm against your sticky skin. At least the heat coming off of him is comfortable, unlike the heat building in the room from the burgeoning daylight.

You relax back and close your eyes again, unwilling to get the day started. It occurs to you the Ghoul is still here despite the late morning hour, and for some reason, that doesn't sit well with you. He’s been gone before daylight every day previously. He’s not a man to waste time - he's waiting for something and spending that waiting time with you. Unfortunately, you have an idea that you know what he's waiting for, and it’s likely the reason he asked you to go back to being a bounty hunter with him (however serious that may have been).

It’s like he can tell what you’re thinking. (You don’t give him enough credit for being perceptive.)

“You see that bounty that came through last night?” the Ghoul asks, knowing full well you would have seen the announcement right before you left the agency hub yesterday afternoon.

You open your eyes and find him searching your face. You nod. “Wilzig, right?”

"That's the one,” the Ghoul confirms.

“Hefty bounty on him,” you comment lightly, hoping to coax him into getting to the point. “Gonna be a lot of competition.”

The Ghoul agrees. “Heard some rumors he'll be coming through here ‘round noon.”

You hum. “Explains why you were back early last night. Are you going after it?”

“Mhm.”

“Explains the late start this morning, too, then.”

He smirks, but it’s half-hearted. “Could still come with me.”

You cup his cheek and trace below the exposed hollow of his eye socket with your thumb. “You told me you do this shit for the love of the game, but I just don't have that in me anymore, Coop.”

Reluctantly, he relents. “Well, you'll still be my favorite agent.”

“I fuckin’ better be,” you snort. You’ve become quite a full-service bounty agent, what with all the ghoul sex.

“Suppose you'll be heading back today?”

“If they give me the all-clear on the raiders, I am.”

“I don't think the raiders will be much of a problem anymore.”

And it dawns on you why he's stuck around town for as long as he has, and why he's disappeared during the day while you've been stuck in Filly. Of course, he’d be the one to take care of the problem. And of course he wouldn’t dare clue you in on that. You don't acknowledge it, and you have a suspicion he wouldn't outright admit to it if you did, but no, you won't have a problem with raiders anymore.

The Ghoul bumps his chin against the soft side of one of your breasts. “You can handle yourself just fine anyway.”

That’s… sweet. He’s not trying to be, but it is. It catches you off guard on the rare occasion he’s sweet.

You change the subject. (You don’t think your heart can take anymore.) If you’re going to be waiting around with him for a bounty to come through, you can think of a better way to spend the time.

“You said that bounty should be coming through around noon, right?”

“Should be.”

“What time do you reckon it is now?”

The Ghoul shrugs, now very distracted by the soft give of your flesh against his cheek. Clearly, his mind is on the same track as yours. “‘Round nine or so. Hard to tell with these dusty ass windows.”

“Well, I guess we should find a way to spend the time…”

He plants a kiss on the underside of your breast, biting gently. “Could go back to sleep.”

You slip your hand around to the back of his neck, fingernails scratching against his skin. “Could.”

His tongue flicks out and catches your nipple, and the coolness 0f his breath in the warm room makes your skin prickle. “Probably better if I fuck you or you'll be grabbing me in a minute anyway.”

You laugh. “Dick.”

“You ain't said no to it yet.”

The Ghoul props himself up on his elbows to give himself just enough leverage to latch back onto your nipple. His tongue laves at you, teeth chasing it with tiny nips and bites. You squirm, rolling your hips up against his abdomen in the hopes of finding friction, but he pins you down with his chest.

“Slow down, we’ve got time,” he mumbles, and his voice against your skin tingles. 

This newfound desire to fuck you slowly drives you crazy, like you want to come out of your skin. The way he drags a hand down your side like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin - all while propped up on an elbow so you don’t have any wiggle room - gives you the impression he’s trying to enjoy his last morning with you for a while. You hadn’t quite been expecting this outcome when you’d fucked him in your backroom a couple weeks earlier, but you can’t deny you’re enjoying it.

He nips the soft skin of your stomach with his teeth and proceeds downwards, trailing his tongue down to your slit. You’ve got barely enough room to arch your hips up, but he doesn’t seem to need any help getting access to your cunt. He slides his tongue between your lips, rolling your nub around his tongue. You can tell how thin his patience is despite his insistence on going slow by the way he keeps biting and nipping at you and soothing the sharpness over with his tongue.

This is usually the moment where your brain goes completely offline, but you grab the hand tickling your side so you can focus. You want to enjoy this, memorize the way his tongue splits you open, the intensity of his hazel eyes studying you like you’re a treasure map, exposed flesh odd and raw and red against yours but it’s so him you don’t care. He pins your hand down to the mattress, almost under you, and you can’t see it but you can feel his fingers interlaced between yours.

He seals his mouth over you and slides his tongue into your entrance, and this time when you move, he’s too focused on tongue-fucking you to catch you quick enough to stop you from moving. You wrap a leg around the back of his neck to keep him planted right up against you. His hum of surprise reverberates against you and shoots straight up your spine, the heat licking at you.

“Fuck, that’s good,” you groan, and despite your very best efforts to the contrary, you’re panting in the heat from the room and the Ghoul’s tongue situated securely in your cunt. You look down, and he’s watching you squirm, taking note of every bead of sweat dripping down your chest, and he’s smiling against your skin. “You look so fucking good down there.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that no matter how gruff and scary the Ghoul purports himself to be, he loves when you praise him. When you tease him. When you’re nice to him, even. You think it makes him feel human again, but you’ll never mention it (you’re certain you’d only be met with stonewalling if you tried). He’s still a man, after all, and he loves to hear he’s doing a good job.

He nudges your other leg over his back, and you press your heel up against his spine. You don’t know how he’s breathing right now, but that’s his problem (you’ll never fuck another man with a nose again, you swear). The only purpose your remaining free hand has is to keep you propped up so you can watch slick drip down his lips and chin.

You know you’re going to come, and you fight it as long as you can, but his tongue and teeth will always win that fight. Your leg tightens around the back of his neck, thighs squeezing his head, and he grunts when he feels you come all over his tongue.

The Ghoul disentangles himself from you in the truest sense of the word. The knot of limbs you’ve become is confusing, a question of where one person ends and the other begins only answered by the difference in texture. Your hand has gone numb from being squeezed tight, fingers tingling. He sits back on his knees, readjusting you around him. You marvel at tight muscles, no matter how many times you’ve seen him naked now. 

When he’s satisfied you’re in the position he wants you in, he plants his hands on either side of your head, his entire body pressing down on you. “You think your friend down the hall can hear what I’m doing to you?”

You grin. “I think the whole bar can hear, but I’ll be happy to make sure.”

“I oughta hang you out of that window over there so the whole town can hear,” he nods over to the dusty window, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t be cool with it. “Let ‘em know you’re mine, babydoll.”

“See, it’ll take about thirty seconds longer than I want to get that window open,” you say, and he laughs, dropping his forehead down against your shoulder. His cock is trapped up against your stomach, and you are far too distracted and far too desperate to willingly take longer than necessary for him to fuck you. “But I’ll make sure we’ve got an audience.”

“Lift up, then.”

You lift your hips as asked, and he reaches between you to guide his cock in. His cock stretches you perfectly, heavy inside you - a suitable replacement for the delight of his tongue. He doesn’t waste any time, pushing his hips into you hard, stretching you until it stings. You like the bite of pain - it balances out the slowness of his movements.

The Ghoul is determined to keep this pace, you find, so matter how hard you work to break his patience. He pins your hands over your head so you can’t grab him and fists a hand in your hair to keep you from stretching up to kiss him. The smirk never leaves his face, not for a second, while he drinks in the desperation he causes you, while he enjoys the grip of you around his cock. He yanks on your hair to expose your neck and latches onto your skin with lips and teeth. Usually, he’s not one to mark you up where anyone else could see, but he’s got no reservations about that now. You’re his, and everyone’s going to see it.

A particularly sharp whine from you cracks his patience, and he thrusts up into you harder to get you to just make that sound again.

“That’s what I wanna hear,” he grunts in your ear, licking a stripe up the shell of your ear. He’s trying to keep his breathing under control and failing soundly. “Come on, darlin’, just like that.”

You manage to turn your head quick enough to slam your lips down on his, biting down on his bottom lip. He loves that sting of pain, and it finally breaks his patience. He lets go of your hands so you’re no longer pinned down, and you grab him immediately, nails raking down his back. He barely bothers to prop himself up, more interested in feeling every inch of your skin against his while he ruts into you.

You don’t bother to fight it when you come this time. It drips down your spine like liquid gold, like the worst relief, and you’re quite sure your friend down the hall definitely knows what the Ghoul is doing to you now. He doesn’t slow down, and you wouldn’t have let him if he’d tried. 

You wrap your legs around his waist and hold him close so that he has to grind down on you while he thrusts. You catch his chin in your hand. “Let me see you come, Cooper.”

He licks his lips and kisses you with a desperation that leaves you licking into his mouth. His rhythm stutters, and he comes deep in you without any other thought. There’s rad-away somewhere in this room (not that either of you care at the moment). 

The Ghoul collapses down against your chest, right back where he started at the beginning of the morning with his head between your breasts. You scratch the back of his neck softly, as has become your habit once he’s done. He really is quite handsome in his own way, you think, and you wonder what he’d looked like before he’d become a ghoul. The eyes would have been enough for you no matter what he’d looked like, really.

You don’t let yourself linger too long in the moment. Any longer and you’ll be packing up to ride off into the sunset with him like the idiot you are. “You better not forget where I live.”

He huffs. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

With that, the Ghoul drags himself off of you and out of bed. He takes his time putting his clothes back on so you can watch (and even then, that outfit takes a while to get situated). He’s quiet as he does it, just letting you watch him until he’s dressed and pulling on his boots.

He smacks your knee. “As much as I hate to see you get dressed, I got a feelin’ this bounty’s gonna put up a fight. Might not be much left of Filly when I’m done.”

“What a gentleman you are, not wanting to see me shot full of holes,” you grin, hopping out of bed with absolutely zero willingness.

You pull your clothes on slowly, letting him watch you the same way he let you watch him. When you’re done, you grab an inhaler and the usual dosage of rad-away because God forbid you make him pull out when he comes.

The Ghoul pulls you in for a final kiss, letting this one linger. He strokes your cheek with his thumb while he admires the welts he left all over your throat and down your collarbone.

You’ve never let your heart ache for anyone the way you’ve started to let it ache for this ghoul. You really could kick yourself, but it was just so easy to do. “Come back in one piece, please. And not feral. That’d be a waste.”

Divorce is a dirty business in Hollywood, so you understand where Cooper’s coming from. Plenty of other big names in the industry have had their secrets sold for hard cash, lives and reputations ruined for an under-the-table payout. And as squeaky-clean as Cooper Howard is, you’re sure there are plenty of people out there who would pay top dollar to find something scandalous about him. You wouldn’t trust a career divorce attorney in this town as far as you could throw them, not knowing how many of them have thrown their clients under the media bus in the interest of the almighty dollar.

“I understand that, Coop,” you start, “and I understand why you want me to do it, but you’re gonna have to level with me here. Why do you want a divorce?”

Cooper’s answer is simple. “Irreconcilable differences.”

The problem is, Cooper’s simple answer is born out of an incredibly complicated question. You want to bite your tongue, but if you do this, you’re going to have to know everything. You know Cooper well, but if you’re going to handle his divorce, you’re going to learn things as his attorney and friend you’ve never wanted to know.

“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” you say, searching his face. He’s long since bothered to keep up his public facade when he walks into your office. You’ve never seen him so despondent - not even when he lost out on his last movie role over those damn advertisements. “Do you really want to do this?”

“I have to,” he replies, clasping his well-manicured hands in his lap.

It breaks your heart. You like Cooper. You’ve been friends for years, attorney and client even longer. You’ve been to his wrap parties. You went to his wedding to Barb ten years ago - he was part of the bridal party at your second wedding. You’re in his will as Janey's legal guardian if Cooper dies, for God’s sake. 

You rub your temples. This is why you don’t handle divorces. “Have you asked Barb yet?”

Cooper shakes his head. “No, not yet. I’ve been trying to decide how to ask.”

“Okay, so, Barb doesn’t know yet,” you reply. It’s not a question. You’re trying to get your thoughts organized - that’s what Cooper Howard pays you good money to do. “Alright, game plan, we’re going to call Stacey and loop her in, and then once you tell Barb, you and I are going to go over assets, money management, contracts… everything.”

Cooper’s nose wrinkles when he hears Stacey. “Do we have to call in Stacey?”

Stacey is your law firm’s in-house publicist. Stacey is not well-liked, but she’s the Hollywood publicist. She’s worked for Mayfair and Mayfair longer than you have, longer than even your father. Your law firm has been the family-run Hollywood entertainment firm for the better part of a century, and you’re convinced Stacey was probably lurking around in the basement of the building when your grandfather founded the firm. And she certainly doesn’t mind being the boogeyman when she needs to be.

“Divorces can get nasty. I can play nasty just as well as any other Hollywood attorney, but divorce nasty is something else entirely,” you say. “You’re the man of the hour in Hollywood, Cooper. We want to keep your image as clean as we can, and we need Stacey for that.”

“It just seems a little much…”

“Look, Coop, I know there’s no love lost between Barb and I, and this isn’t meant to be disparaging against her,” you reply, “but the fact of the matter is, the Barb you know in marriage is not going to be the Barb you know in divorce. That’s just the nature of these things. Trust me, I’ve been divorced twice.”

You can see the wheels turning in his head. “I don’t want this to be some wild, drawn-out legal battle.”

“You may not want that, but there’s nothing to say that Barb won’t try,” you reply, “That’s why we’re calling Stacey.”

“What-”

You like Cooper, you really, really do (sometimes a little more than you should), but sometimes he’s too good. “I’m guessing she’s going to want to frame this as you not wanting to do the Vault-Tec adverts anymore and Barb pushing you to do it, which means admitting they’ve hurt your career… Anyway, Stacey will handle that - that’s not your concern. You and I have a lot of work to do.”

“I-I don’t even know where to start,” Cooper says. He shifts in your plush office chair like he’s thinking about walking out. “Maybe this is a bad idea…”

“At the end of the day, it’s your choice,” you reply, studying him from your desk. “But clearly whatever’s going on is enough for you to be here.”

Cooper knows you’re right. You can see it in his eyes, the way he searches your face for any hint of doubt. He doesn’t want you to be right, but that’s why he pays you the big bucks. 

He rubs his temples. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

“Nothing you’ve ever said to me has left this room,” you assure him, “and nothing ever will.”

(Besides, if you ever thought about losing your moral compass, whatever any tabloid or paparazzo could offer you to spill Cooper Howard’s secrets couldn’t touch what he and his agency pay to retain you anyway.)

Cooper seems to be chewing on his words, contemplating how he wants to phrase things. That’s not a good sign. He’s a straight-shooter - he’s never had trouble telling you exactly what’s on his mind or what he thinks of something.

“I overheard Barb in a meeting at work,” he says finally. “I did not like what I heard.”

You raise an eyebrow, thinking the worst. The unthinkable, really. “She’s not… having an affair, is she?”

“No, it was a work meeting,” Cooper responds, waving his hand. “She proposed some ideas that I don’t agree with.”

Right, right, not an affair… Boy, that got your hopes up a little bit, for all the wrong reasons. Now’s not the time for that - you have to be sympathetic.

You wait expectantly for him to expound. “Okay.”

“Like dropping bombs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” 

Barb talking about dropping bombs at a Vault-Tec work meeting is decidedly, incredibly, very not good. Especially when she has the resources to do it.

You take a breath because that's a lot to process. “Well, I’ll get the paperwork drawn up tonight so you can have it when you’re ready to start this show. Once Barb signs the paperwork, we’ll work on a proposal for division of assets.”

Cooper nods. “Thanks.”

“I can’t make this completely painless, Coop, but I’ll do what I can.”

“You always do,” he says softly.

You hate it when he does that - when he speaks to you softly like that. His vulnerability makes your heart ache, and it always has. You know better than to fall in love with a client (even if that client is also your friend), but that ship sailed a long time ago.

“I’ll call you when the paperwork is ready.”

Cooper leaves, shutting your office door gently behind him. You watch him go, rubbing your temples. You can't handle his fucking divorce. You should have referred him to someone else, maybe your dad, but you know he wouldn't have gone forward with this if you had. Cooper's only ever let you deal with his legal business, and he's too stubborn to trust anyone else. God, this is such a bad idea.

From outside your closed door, you hear a hearty laugh and what sounds like someone being clapped on the shoulder. That laugh is unmistakable - you know it's your grandfather outside. Camden Mayfair is a force of his own caliber, and his laugh has always reflected it. Despite his advanced age, he's never quite managed to officially retire from the firm he'd founded with his own father. Be it a sense of duty or just a love of meddling, he spends his days doddering around the office rubbing elbows with the clientele who roam in and out. He never misses a chance to hobnob with the Hollywood elite (it's part of what's kept him in business so long), and he very well may be Cooper Howard's biggest fan (something about always wanting to be a cowboy). In fact, he made you a partner long before you earned that honor the moment he found out Cooper retained you fifteen years ago at the beginning of his (and your) career.

And God, it's like he can sense when Cooper's in the building. He's done his damnedest for years to try to set you up with him.

Camden hustles into your office with his usual swagger and shuts the door behind you, plopping himself down in one of your expensive office chairs. He's still a handsome old man, all sharp angles, well-taken care of his entire life and unwilling to let age set in. He somehow still has a full head of hair (even if it's snow white) and a full beard. You can tell by the look in his dark eyes - the same dark eyes you have - he's guessed what's going on. Clever old bastard.

"That Cooper Howard," he starts, and you fight the instinct to roll your eyes, "he's a great actor, isn't he?"

"Best of the best, Pops."

"Shame those acting skills can't hide a broken heart," Camden comments carefully. "Pain is in the eyes, you know. Hard to hide if you know what you're looking at. I assume you'll be handling the divorce?"

You huff. "Do you have my office bugged?"

"No, sweet pea, I have fifty years of experience with clients, four ex-wives, and one current wife who I intend to spend my final years with," Camden replies with an easy grin. "All men have that same look in their eyes during that first divorce. Has he asked Barb yet?"

"No, he hasn't," you reply. "I'm drafting the paperwork tonight."

"Well, I'm sure you'll have this whole business over and done with in no time," he says. "He's a handsome man. Won't take long to get a twinkle back in his eyes, especially not when you come in and save the day."

This again. He never gives up. The man never called either of your former partners by their names, not even when you were married - it was always "that soft-brained man" and "that bimbo woman." Oh, but Cooper Howard - now, he would always have a name to Camden Mayfair.

"Whatever you're planning, stop it," you say. "I'll tell Grandma you're not minding your own business if you don't."

Your grandmother, Camden's fifth wife, is not your biological grandmother, but she's the one you claim to be yours. A formidable woman in her own right, she'd been an attorney for forty-odd years and only finally retired when she could no longer walk up the steps to her office. Coincidentally, she's lasted the longest of the five wives and somehow is the only person to have ever gotten your grandfather's meddling somewhat under control.

"Oh, posh," he waves his hand dismissively at you. "I never meddle. I assume you'll let Stacey handle the PR?"

"Obviously."

Camden gets up to leave, "Well, I'm sure Stacey will come up with something."

You've been spending your days at the agency hub taking down telegrams for contracts and sending out bids. It's mind numbing work when you're used to dealing with bounty hunters all day, but you've got to do something while you wait for the agency to give you the okay to go back home. You need money, and you’ll probably go nuts if you don’t keep yourself busy.

At least you've got the chance to see some old acquaintances at the agency hub. A couple of former bounty hunters who'd come through your office were now agents at the hub. They're alright, as far as wastelanders go; you hang around with them when you take breaks.

Today’s smoke break has more or less turned into gossip time. You’re happy to listen in on any and all gossip (it’s part of your job, after all) - it’s less enjoyable when the questions turn to you.

One of them, a woman whose teeth were file-sharpened into fangs (creatively named Fang), lives above the bar down the hall from you. She's good natured, if quite terrifying. She leans against the crumbling concrete wall of the hub, taking a drag on a little paper cylinder that smells suspiciously like burning catnip. “I saw that ghoul you came into town with last night. Is he staying with you?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

You’re not inclined to expound upon her question, but she lives down the hall from you. She’s obviously seen the Ghoul creeping into your room at night (he’s not exactly quiet, either), hence the question.

The other, an individual with - conversely - no teeth to speak of (again, creatively named Gums - fuckin’ wastelanders), chimes in. “You're staying with a ghoul?”

“Yeah-”

Fang interrupts you. “And not just a ghoul. The Ghoul.”

“The Ghoul? As in…” Gums raises a sparse, flakey eyebrow. You nod, and they whistle. “Nice. How'd you bag that?”

“Longtime client,” you reply simply. You don’t know Gums as well as you do Fang, but they seem harmless enough. “He got caught in the gunfight when the raiders showed up at my office.”

You neglect to tell them he'd started the gunfight. The less they know, the better.

“Not bad. You could do worse,” Fang observes. “Does his dick look like the rest of him?”

You nod. “Yep.”

Gums grins. “Cool.”

Your break turns into playing hooky the rest of the day, mostly because you don’t want to field any more questions from anyone who’d seen you walking around with the Ghoul. You make yourself scarce for the rest of the day, choosing to wander around town. You haven't been to Filly in years, not since you were a kid. It hasn't changed much. There's still the same derelict bars, saloons, and stores. There's more than one bounty agency here, too, though you don't know which ones. You're only concerned with yours.

Sundown slides over the town by the time you head back over to the bar for the night. Everyone’s locked down and boarded up their places of business, the street vendors have all scattered. You know that Filly after sundown is not a great place to be, but you can hold your own if the need arises.

You're in the mood for a drink tonight, and frankly, there's nothing else to do in Filly after dark that won’t get you shot. When you step into the dingy bar, you make your way up to the bartender and grab a beer. It’s watery and gross-looking, but it smells like beer and you can’t be picky out here in the wasteland.

When you turn around to find somewhere to sit, you spot the Ghoul watching you from a back corner of the bar. You're surprised he’s back by sundown - he’d been rolling in late into the night, long after the moon had risen into the sky. You take your beer and skirt around the chairs and tables littering the bar. 

He cocks his head and watches you approach. He's got a half-full beer mug in one hand - evidence he's been back for a while. He doesn't give you a chance to grab another chair when you reach him. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you down into his lap. 

If you didn't know how much booze it takes to affect a ghoul, you'd assume your Ghoul was drunk, but he's not. He just doesn't seem to care that the few patrons of the bar have their eyes trained on the two of you. Of all the things you expect him to be, possessive is not one - or maybe he is possessive, and this is his warning to the other patrons. You don't care which, and you’re not inclined to give it further thought. Rather, you're distracted by his hand squeezing the top of your thigh.

The Ghoul takes a drink of his beer and rests the glass on your knee. “Any word on the raiders?”

“Other than, it's being handled, no,” you reply. You force your brain to focus away from his hand on your thigh. You don’t want to admit to yourself that’s all it takes for him to get you going. “My agency isn't exactly forthcoming about what goes on behind the scenes.”

“No, they're quiet about how dangerous they are, and they like to keep it that way,” he agrees. He pauses, and grins slightly. “Kind of like you. You're a hell of shot with that rifle.”

Compliments from him are few and far-between - forward compliments at least. He’s far more show than tell. You’re… flattered, actually, that he’s paid attention to you beyond just physically. You know he has, but it’s nice to hear it.

Again, you suspect you may actually like the Ghoul.

“Can't be a bounty agent if you haven't been a bounty hunter before,” you shrug. “I've had plenty of practice.”

He takes a drink of his beer, and says, so, so quietly, “Ditch the agency and come with me. Be a bounty hunter again.”

You raise an eyebrow. He's not serious, surely. 

“I like what I do now, Cooper,” you reply softly. “But my door's always open.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

The Ghoul returns to people-watching in silence, sipping on his beer and continuously making you more and more nervous with his hand on your thigh. He's taken to rubbing circles into your thigh with his thumb, and he keeps getting closer and closer to the space between your legs. He's not being even remotely inconspicuous, either. More than one person in the bar has caught on to what’s going on in the back corner, if the odd looks you’re getting tell you anything.

You don't try to make him stop (you don’t think you’re capable of asking him to stop), but you do lean back against his shoulder and press your lips to his ear. “You're gonna do this here?”

He looks you dead in the eye. “I'll fuck you right here in this chair with every single person watchin’.”

Yeah, no, he's serious on that one. You can see it in his eyes. Actually, you can feel his dick pressed against the back of your leg, too. 

You blink. “We should probably go upstairs now.”

He chugs the rest of his beer, then pats your leg, motioning for you to stand up. “Should have already gone upstairs.”

You don't disagree. In fact, you don't think you could have stood up any faster. 

The Ghoul looks you up and down with that grin on his face before following you up the stairs. You don't quite make it back to your room before he’s grabbing at you by the waist and pulling you close. He traps you against the wall, body pressing down on you, completely irreverent of anyone walking down the hallway behind you. You grab his face and kiss him; his raw skin is chapped, but soft and cool against yours. The brim of his hat knocks against the top of your head, but you don’t care. 

You scramble to find your door key in your back pocket and only just manage to get your hands on it. You can’t quite manage to get the key in the lock, so he takes a break from what he’s doing (grabbing your tits under your shirt) to take it from you and jam it into the door.

The Ghoul kicks the doors closed behind him with the heel of his boot. The force shakes dust from the walls and kicks dirt up from the floor. With a single-mindedness that takes your breath away, he backs you up to the tiny bed shoved up against the back wall and drops down to his knees.

He strips your pants and underwear down your legs, then prompts you to sit down with a hand on your stomach. As much as you like when he tries to have a little patience, you like it this way more - sloppy, breathless, a little desperate for you. A starving man eating his first meal in days. 

With a tug, he drags your hips over to the edge of the bed and sets to work with his tongue. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch and busy yourself picking open the buttons of your shirt with shaking fingers. You shrug out of your shirt, leaving yourself completely exposed. He hasn't even taken off his hat yet, but you take care of that for him and drop it onto your head.

The Ghoul looks up at you and pauses his ministrations, licking his lips in thought. 

You shrug. “The hat was in the way.”

He doesn't respond, choosing to set his mouth back to better purposes, but he keeps his eyes trained up on your face while he sticks his tongue in your cunt. He's sloppy about it, spreading your lips with his gloved thumbs so he can get better access to you. You buck up against his face, and he doesn't stop you - no, he buries his tongue deeper between your legs and lets you ride his face, all the while still looking up at you with those bright hazel eyes.

Finally, it hits you, and you grin like you've won the damn lottery. “You like me wearing your hat, Cooper?”

He nips your inner thigh with his teeth, making you jump, and sets back to sucking your clit. You take that as a warning not to tease him, but it's so much more fun to know his mouth is too full of you to tease you back.

You don't stop teasing him, knowing full well it's just going to rile him up. “Why don't you come up here so I can ride your face properly, cowboy? I've got the hat to fit the part.”

The Ghoul has had enough of the gloves obstructing his ability to feel your skin. He stops long enough to strip them off, stick a finger in his mouth to coat it with his spit, and press his finger deep into your entrance. You choke on the fullness, the sensation rough but not unwelcome.

“Well, don't get quiet on me now,” he says. 

You stutter, but he can absolutely understand you when you say, “I like riding your face when you're on your knees, too.”

He spreads you apart and licks you, slow and deep, chasing the path of his fingers. He watches you while he does it, eyes never leaving yours. “Is that right?”

You nod. “Sure is.”

You lean over where you sit, where he's still on his knees on the floor, and unbutton his shirt. You expect him to tell you to stop - there's more light in the room this time, after all - but he doesn't. He shrugs his duster and shirt down over his shoulders and lets them hit the floor. This time, you can really see what he looks like. Raw, pitted skin, mostly red but pink-white in places where old scars have healed over time and again, build slight but still muscular. He seems to be waiting for you to pull back, recoil away - stop in your tracks. You grab his face and kiss him, then pull him to his feet.

 You pull him closer by his belt before that comes off, too. Boots and pants next, dropped carelessly to the floor. You take a minute to look and touch, run your hands over exposed skin, and he sighs softly at your touch.

“Look at you, Cooper,” you say. “Aren’t you a sight?”

“You are fuckin’ strange,” the Ghoul comments, but it’s with affection. His version of affection, anyway.

“Yeah,” you shoot back with a grin, “but I don't hear you complaining.”

You take his cock in hand and run your tongue along the vein underneath, making him twitch. You swallow him down, fisting what doesn’t fit in your mouth, until he’s threading his fingers through your hair and pulling you off of him.

The Ghoul deems that to be the extent of what he can take from you. You’re on your back with him crawling over you before your brain registers that he’s moved. He smashes his lips down over yours while his hands creep up along your sides. He wastes no time reaching between your legs and running the head of his cock along your slit. Not for the first time, you marvel at how much you prefer the roughness over his attempts to be patient.

You’ve teased him long enough, you decide, so you wrap your legs around his waist and arch up against him. “Come on, Coop -”

He obliges and thrusts into you, planting one hand next to your head for leverage. The other hand catches your chin and holds you steady while he fucks you. You meet his eyes, and the way he watches you - like it’s a privilege to touch you - makes you ache.

You nudge him with your hip until he rolls on his back. You slide him back inside, hissing at the returning fullness, and grind down on him with your hands on his chest. He wraps his hands around your thighs, squeezing so hard you're sure you'll find new bruises come morning.

You like watching him from up here. The way his jaw clenches, when his head lolls back in response to whatever you're doing, the way his mouth parts in a semi-attempt to say your name or give you direction - it captivates you. You like when he’s speechless - when he can’t pull himself together long enough to tease you.

The Ghoul can feel your hips stutter when you move, grinding down harder each time for any little extra bit of friction. His thumb finds you clit and presses circles into you relentlessly, letting you use the palm of his hand to find the friction you need.

“Go ahead,” he says, breathless, “come on my cock, babydoll.”

You do, with a hand on his chest and the other hand on his wrist, holding him close and steady. It rolls down your back, down your thighs, all the way out to your fingertips, like the wasteland air burning underneath your skin. Your nails bite into his wrist, and that makes him smile - a real grin, not the smug skeleton grin you’re used to getting from him. You return it.

When the Ghoul comes, he wraps an arm around your back to keep you steady and holds you flush against his chest. You sigh at the touch of his skin against yours, his chest pressed against yours, your nipples prickling against him. You take it as he comes, grinding down on him when he fills you up. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his shoulder, teeth grazing his raw skin. 

The usual question of radaway? doesn't come this time. You’re not concerned, and neither is he; the dose you took that morning would still be enough.

The Ghoul scoops you up into his side when he’s come back to his senses and rolls you onto your back. You wrap your arms around him and trail a finger down the back of his neck, just barely scratching at his skin with your nails. He burrows his face into your soft chest (the lack of nose is helpful in this regard) and closes his eyes.

After a few minutes, you say, “You know, I’ve liked you since the first time you walked into my office.”

The Ghoul glances up at you before closing his eyes again. “Can’t imagine why.”

“You were all business,” you reply. “I respect that.”

The Ghoul is quiet for a while, long enough you think he’s gone to sleep, but he answers. “Weird way to tell someone you like ‘em.”

You snort. “I’m trying to be nice, dickhead.”

You can feel him grinning against your skin. “Well, baby, that’s on you.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “I’ll kick your ass out of this bed.”

You climb up from behind the desk and set your rifle to the side. “What the hell? Why?”

The Ghoul doesn’t answer for a beat. Rather, he grabs the closest bag of yours he can locate and starts shoveling shit into it (since you don’t appear to be listening to his orders).

“Because they were comin’ after you,” he finally replies, rifling through your desk drawers. He pulls out cases of chems and all the caps he can get his hands on, then looks up at you expectantly. “I said, go get your shit.”

“They couldn’t be coming after me. I’m a bounty agent,” you reply, cocking your head. “I’m off-limits”

“Well, they didn’t seem to think so,” the Ghoul replies, slinging his shoulder bag over his shoulder and tossing your pack over to you. “I’m not gonna tell you again, darlin’.”

You can’t imagine why anyone would be coming after you. Even if the plan was to rob the office and take the bounties on hand, it’s generally understood killing a bounty agent is more trouble than it’s worth. And no one, bounty hunter or otherwise, wants an agency coming down on their head for killing an agent over a few caps. 

You sigh. “I guess I’ll have to contact the agency in Filly. They won’t take kindly to this - this town is under their protection.”

“That’s just a couple days' walk,” the Ghoul says. He grabs you by the shoulder and guides you out the backdoor. “Let’s go.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“Didn’t you just hear me say we’re leavin’?”

You don’t have time to elaborate. Gunfire rings out in the distance, closer than you’d like for it to be.

“Just surprised is all…”

--- --- --- --- ---

The sun is just setting down beyond the horizon when you find a lean-to to stop at for the night. It’s just a rickety, wooden shack, riddled with holes and falling in like most everything in the wastelands, but it’ll serve its purpose just fine. There’s no way to build a fire in the lean-to, but you’d gotten your hands on a Vault-Tec contraption that gives off a queasy, dim greenish glow when you press a button

When you’ve settled in, you all but inhale one of the powdery ration packs you’d brought with you. The Ghoul takes a pull off of his inhaler and produces something unidentifiable from his shoulder back that he proceeds to eat. You do not have the capacity, nor the desire, to ask him what he just ate.

You sit cross-legged, crumple up your ration pack, and toss it into a corner of the shack. “Do you want to take the first watch?”

He grunts his acquiescence and pulls a liquor bottle out of his backpack, chasing whatever he just ate with a swig of moonshine. You’ve never seen him eat before - nor any ghoul, actually. It never occurred to you they could.

You spread your jacket out on the ground as a makeshift blanket. You curl into yourself, arm tucked under your chin, trying to stave off the impending chill of the night. It’s not the worst place you’ve ever slept, nor the worst company in whose presence you’ve slept, but you can tell that sleep won’t be coming anytime soon.

The Ghoul’s thick drawl splits the silence. “Quit fidgetin’.”

You roll over and look up at him. “I’m trying.”

“Could just fuck instead. Might help you sleep.”

You can barely see the Ghoul in the dim lamplight, but you know he’s smirking. “Here?”

He shrugs. “Got nothin’ else to do.”

“Except keep a lookout?”

He pats his thigh. “Well, if you come up here, I can still keep a lookout.”

It might be the fact that you can just barely make out the Ghoul’s face in the dim light, but he looks at you with what suspiciously appears to be genuine affection. He strips his gloves off and tosses them to the floor, right next to the gun he keeps close to his side. He takes your outstretched hand and guides you to climb up into his lap and straddle his thighs, then grabs your hips and scoots you closer to him. 

You half expect him to just yank your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t. He’s oddly gentle with you when he strips your shirt over your head and unbuttons your pants. It never fails to confuse you when he’s gentle with you, because gentle is simply not in his nature.

You decide to see how far you can push it.

You unbutton the top button of his shirt, waiting for him to tell you no, but he doesn’t. You unbutton a second, then a third, waiting for the inevitable that’s enough, but it doesn’t come. You assume he probably thinks you can’t see him well enough in the lamplight to see what his bare skin looks like, but you can. His chest and stomach are red and raw like the rest of him, build slight but still muscular under his pitted skin. You run your hands down his chest, down his stomach, and unbutton his pants. 

He sighs when you wrap your hand around his half-hard cock. He lets you palm him a good couple of times before he's pulling you closer by your hips so that your still-clothed cunt is pressing down on him. You steady yourself with hands on his chest and grind down on him.

The Ghoul’s touches are never patient, but when he wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in for a kiss that's all teeth and tongue, you get the sense he may be trying to be patient. That’s different than the last couple of times - he didn’t exactly bother to take his time when he was shoving his dick down your throat or fucking you stupid. There’s nothing else to do out here in the wasteland in the dark though, so he can take all the time he wants. You just don’t know why he wants to take his time. It doesn’t really matter, you suppose, as long as you’re both enjoying it (and you are).

The Ghoul breaks contact with you long enough to tug at the band of your unbuttoned pants. “Take these off.”

You fumble around, crawling out of his lap long enough to strip off one leg of your pants and underwear. At the same time, he lifts his hips up so he can jerk his pants down and almost completely unseats you. You’re held steady by his hands on your hips and unceremoniously yanked back down into his lap.

You can’t resist teasing him. “Oh, you want to pick up the pace now?”

“I told you last time you’re gonna ride me sundown to sunup,” the Ghoul says. He slides his fingers between your legs and spreads your lips apart, trailing a finger lightly through your folds. “I meant that.”

“I - oh - I see,” you manage. You take his heavy cock in hand, stroking him while he slides a finger into you. “Guess we’ve got plenty of - ah - of time.”

His eyes glint in the dim light, and you can just barely see him grin. “If you can hold out that long.”

It’s half challenge, half teasing, and it makes you lean forward and smash your lips against his. His unoccupied hand grabs your chin, forcing you to slow the ferocity of your kiss. 

You’re still not sure how to handle the Ghoul’s patience, but he makes that decision for you. He pulls back and presses his thumb to your lips, pushing between your teeth. You wrap your tongue around his thumb and suck, grinning when he hisses through his teeth. His cock twitches in your hand.

“You’ve got a real talent for that,” the Ghoul says, chuckling. You hum, and he pulls his thumb from your mouth. He swipes the wet digit across your nipple, then pats your hip. “Come on, sugar, climb on.”

You gladly oblige, holding him steady in your hand and sinking down onto him. It’s a stretch, but it satisfies a deep ache you didn’t realize was burning inside you. You roll your hips, lifting up and sliding back down onto him agonizingly slowly. You have every intention of doing this as slowly as you possibly can, but the feeling of you hot and wet, clenching around his cock, finally breaks the Ghoul’s patience.

The Ghoul grips your hips and thrusts up into you. Your hips come down to meet his, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself steady. You wrap your arms around his neck, and he pulls you flush against his chest. 

It's physically the closest you've ever been to him, you think. The past couple of times, you've only been able to get his pants down over his hips. He even kept wearing the duster the first time. Now, though, you feel his skin pressed to yours, and it’s warm and somehow comforting, especially here in the dark. 

When you cum, it's sharp and heavy and almost without warning. You'd gotten lost in the feeling of him slamming his hips against yours, of his skin sliding over yours, of his face pressed into your neck and teeth scraping over your flesh. It had become as familiar as your own heartbeat, his touch. Although, in the end, it's the soft grunts and groans the Ghoul makes, just loud enough for you to hear but soft enough to tell you he’s still trying to keep himself in check, that tips you soundly over the edge.

The Ghoul groans your name, hips stuttering as you clench around him. He wraps his arms around your waist, trying to hold you down flush against him. You don’t give him a break, though, and keep grinding down on his cock until he’s damn near howling in your ear. That only makes you fuck him harder, and you cum again, still riding the high of the first one. 

That’s what tips him over the edge - the feeling of you coming twice from just his fingers and his cock - and he cums deep in you, thrusting up into you until he’s spent. He sighs and pulls you off his cock, but he holds you in his lap while he comes down from his high. 

Even after you’ve both relaxed, the Ghoul holds you against him. His spend drips out of you; it runs down the back of your thigh, and you’re sure he can feel it in his lap. He doesn’t seem to care. He only moves to clean you up with the edge of his duster and wipe himself off, then grabs his inhaler and a vial of what you presume is rad-away and holds it to your lips for you to take a breath.

When he’s satisfied you’re taken care of, he gathers you up close to him and rests his chin on top of your head. “Go to sleep.”

“Thought you wanted me to ride you ‘till sunup?” you ask, face squished against his chest. “It’s still dark out.”

“We’ll give it another shot when it’s your turn to take watch.”

“Cooper?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. You don’t lower the gun, but you nudge him with the tip of your boot. “Cooper? You ain’t turning, are you?”

The Ghoul gives a hacking cough, wheezing like he’s fighting not to give up the ghost. With whatever breath is left in him, he answers. “Chems…”

You take that as an indication that he’s not turning yet, but you don’t want to press your luck. You do, actually, kind of like the Ghoul, enough that you don’t mind keeping him alive and sane. Besides, you’ve got plenty of vials you can spare if it keeps him from turning feral. 

“Shit,” you huff.

You run behind your desk, yanking open every drawer as you go. You’ll have to scrounge around down in the bottom drawers since you’ve already locked up everything valuable in the big safe for the night. Luckily, though, you find a set of chems shoved into the back of one of the drawers. 

The Ghoul manages to fish his inhaler out of his shoulder bag while you search for chems. You grab the inhaler from his gloved hand and load it with a vial, roll him over on his back, and press the inhaler to his raw lips.

“Breathe,” you order. You press the plunger and vapor releases into his mouth. You give him a minute to inhale before pressing the plunger a second time. “Again.” 

The Ghoul gives another hacking cough, but the wheezing stops. He shuts his eyes, sighing with relief. 

“The fuck are you doing, walking around without chems?” you snap. You check his eyes, his vitals, and give him a once over to make sure he’s not been shot full of holes. He appears fine at first glance - particularly when he starts grumbling. “Have you lost your mind?”

He grunts. “Can you gimme a minute?”

You don’t give him a minute. Instead, you haul him up into a sitting position (fuck, he’s heavier than he looks). You manage to pull him up onto his feet and drag him over to your desk chair, depositing him there so he won’t be sprawled out on your floor.

“Stop hovering,” he grumbles, coughing. He leans his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes. “You’re acting like some old biddy.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. You press the inhaler to his lips again. “And you sound like a dead man walking. Breathe.”

The Ghoul grunts deep in the back of his throat, but he does as you ask and breathes deep when you push the plunger. Another coughing fit, but his breathing finally evens out.

You drop your hand to your side, turning his inhaler over and over in your palm. “You good now?”

“Mhm.”

While he collects himself, you grab his shoulder bag and drop the rest of the chems into one of the pockets. “That’s all I have until morning. Big safe’s on a time lock, so it won’t open for six hours.”

“It’s fine.”

You toss his shoulder bag onto your desk, then sit down on the desk across from him. “How’d you get in here anyway?”

“Broke the lock.”

“Thanks, Coop,” you roll your eyes. That explains the crunching, metallic sounds.

“A lock’s not gonna stop someone from gettin’ to you if they want to,” he replies, opening one eye.

“No, that’s what the gun is for,” you say. “The lock is for clients.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t reply. He closes his open eye again and relaxes back into the chair. You don’t know him well enough to keep hovering over him, but a part of you wants to, and you can’t explain it. Unfortunately for you, you’ve come to the realization you like the Ghoul - you expect this will become a problem for you sometime in the future.

You stand, wanting to keep monitoring him but knowing, for many reasons, that you shouldn’t. “Alright, I’m not strong enough to haul your ass up a flight of stairs. You can come up when you get it together. Or not - your choice. Just don’t break anything else.”

You leave the Ghoul where he sits and climb the stairs up to your home above your office. It’s not much - barely a kitchenette and a bedroom with a tiny bathroom off to the side, but it’s enough for you. 

You undress and climb into bed, pulling your threadbare comforter around you. It gets cold in the wasteland at night, but your room retains a good majority of the heat from the day. You’ll be tossing the sheets on the floor in short order.

You’re half-asleep, just toeing the edge of consciousness, when you hear footsteps shuffling up the stairs. You assume it’s the Ghoul, but you have your gun ready just in case.

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but you can hear him drop his bag onto the chair in the corner of your room, along with his duster, bandolier, hat, and shoes.

“Scoot over.”

The Ghoul climbs into bed next to you, and you promptly drift off to sleep.

+++++

You expect the Ghoul to be long gone when you wake up, but he's not. When you wake up, he's sitting up next to you, reading an old paperback he'd found in your bedside table. 

The few times you'd drifted in and out of sleep, you'd convinced yourself you were dreaming. You're not used to someone being in bed with you, and you hadn’t really expected him to come upstairs with you once he’d recovered the night before. You halfway remember waking up at one point to find his arm slung around your waist. Another time, you'd woken up to find you’d shoved your face into the crook of his shoulder, and he'd just… let you do it.

Odd.

“I fixed the lock.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed and semi-confused. “Huh?”

“The lock?” he snorts. But, despite his gruff nature, he talks to you a little more gently. “Last night. I fixed it before I came up here.”

Right, he’d broken the lock on your front door when he broke in. You suppose that’s about as close as you’re going to get to thank you for saving my ass from the Ghoul, but it works for you.

You nod and sink back down into your pillow.

The Ghoul holds up the derelict, crumbling paperback he'd been reading. “Louis L'Amour? Where the hell did you even get this?”

“There's a…” you trail off. You're trying to force yourself to become coherent, but you're not used to conversation this early. “A wandering trader. Comes through with old books sometimes. Don't know where he gets them, but he'll trade for whatever's handy.”

The Ghoul is silent for a beat. “I'll trade you for this one if you're finished with it.”

“You can borrow it, Coop. Just bring it back when you're done,” you offer. You stretch out, trying to work out some of the kinks in your shoulders from dragging around a grown man the night before. “Not gonna lie, I'm surprised you're still here.”

There's an unspoken me too hanging in the air on the Ghoul's part. He sets the book gently on your bedside table. You find it strange anytime he’s gentle - it's just not him - but you suppose the capability is there. In fact, you suspect there may even be some tenderness left in him, but you like the Ghoul as he is and take him just the same, viciousness and venom included.

“Well, I figured I'd give you a proper thank you for last night, if you're interested. Morning person that you are.”

You smirk up at him. “Better be a good thank you if you're waking me up.”

He climbs up on his knees and smacks your thigh. “Spread ‘em and find out.”

You gladly oblige and shift so he’s got room to do what you hope he plans on doing. You'd kept your underwear on during the night, but that was it - it just gets way too hot upstairs to sleep in clothes, despite the coolness of the wasteland night. 

The Ghoul sees fit to remedy that and strips your underwear off of you, tossing them to the floor. He settles between your legs, still on his knees, and places an ungloved hand on your thigh. Under his gaze, you almost feel a little shy. You don’t know why - you've never been shy a day in your life. He trails his hand down and runs a finger up your slit, slowly, and almost reverently. It would tickle if it didn't give you goosebumps.

He reaches over you and grabs his unused pillow, then stuffs it under your hips to give him some leverage. He doesn't break eye contact as he shuffles down onto his elbows and hooks your legs over his shoulders. 

Not for the first time, you’re struck by how pretty his eyes are in stark contrast to the rest of him. Your brain summarily switches off because, as you're remarking to yourself that the Ghoul has pretty eyes (you dork), he chooses that moment to lick you from slit to clit. You jump - you're not sure why, you were clearly expecting it - and that makes him smirk up at you. He does it again, slower this time, spreading you open with his fingers to give himself better access. 

You’re not sure where this level of patience is coming from considering how quick he was to slam his dick down your throat last time, but you’re definitely enjoying it. And, of course, just as you’re enjoying how thoroughly slow he’s going, he takes the opportunity to seal his mouth over your clit and suck. 

He tightens his grip on your thighs and drags you closer. You can’t stop yourself from grinding up against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop you. No, he slides two fingers into you and chases them with his tongue, spreading you open and licking you deep. You’re so, so close, and just when you’re right there, he stops.

Your head hits your pillow. “Fuck, Coop - don’t stop-”

And then he’s on you. 

The Ghoul hovers over you, hands on either side of your head, and smashes his lips down on yours. He hikes your legs up around his waist, grinding down on you. You match his pace, and you know you’re soaking the front of his pants.

“Now, what was that you were tellin’ me to do?” he asks. He slides a hand down your chest, down your stomach, and back down to your cunt before stuffing his fingers back into you. “Hm?”

“Take off your fucking pants, Cooper.”

“Givin’ orders now?” he smirks, but he unzips his pants in a hurry. “Greedy, greedy.”

“Fuck me and I’ll quit giving orders,” you reply.

“Keep runnin’ your mouth and I’ll put it to work,” he threatens, but it’s half-hearted. He’s just as ready as you, and no matter how tough he makes himself out to be, he can’t hide how breathless he is.

You tilt your hips up to give the Ghoul a better angle, and he drives into you just as roughly as he did the first time in your downstairs backroom. You clutch the back of his shirt, scrambling to get a good grip on him, and succeed in yanking it up enough to dig your nails into his skin. That lick of pain makes him thrust into you harder, scooting you an inch up closer to the head of the bed. He clearly likes the bite of pain, and you clearly like giving it to him. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and scrapes his teeth over your skin. 

The Ghoul, for just a moment, has the wherewithal to pull out and flip you over onto your stomach. You’re on your knees now, on all fours in front of him - he flips you so quickly, you almost don’t realize he’s done it until he’s pushing back into you. He grips your hips and all but pulls you onto his cock.

You were already close before he climbed on top of you. You’re so close now - the heat curls up in your belly and at the base of your spine, and it feels so good to just succumb to the heat. 

You reach behind your back to grab at one of his hands, but he just takes the opportunity to pin your arm behind your back. He wraps his other arm around your chest and guides you up onto just your knees. The angle is precarious, but his grip on you is iron, and you know he’s not going to let you tip forward. 

The Ghoul grabs one of your tits and squeezes. “Come on, babydoll. I can feel how close you are.”

He drops a hand down to your clit, toying with you in short, quick circles. Your whole body tenses, and you come so hard it feels like lightning down your spine. He keeps you pinned flush to his chest until your head drops back onto his shoulder and you can breathe again.

“You got radaway close by?” the Ghoul rasps in your ear. He sounds about as fucked out as you are.

You shake your head. “It’s downstairs in the safe.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Where do you want it, then?”

“Back, front, I don’t care,” you say. You clench down around him in response to his thrusts, still wet despite being overstimulated. “Wherever.”

The Ghoul lets you fall forward onto your hands. His grip on your hips tightens as he thrusts into you, and you know you’ll have bruises in a few hours. Finally, he pulls out and paints your lower back with his cum.

You don’t see what he uses to clean you up, but you suspect it’s the edge of his shirt. You collapse down onto the bed and roll over onto your back, watching as he zips himself up and tucks his shirt back in. The fleeting glimpse you get of his skin underneath his shirt tells you his stomach is as raw and red as his face.

The Ghoul looks down at you on the bed, clearly amused watching you stretch and spread out. “Was that enough of a thank you?”

You grin and spread your legs, smirking at him when he glances down. “It’ll do for now.”

He shakes his head. “Next time, I’m gonna make you ride me sundown to sunup.”

“Too tired from doing all the work, Coop?” you tease, laughing when he fixes you with a patent glare. You pat the open spot between your legs on the bed. “You could always stick around another next time.”

The Ghoul pauses for a moment, seems to be almost tempted, but he shakes his head. “Better be heading out.”

You shrug. “Too bad. Bed’s comfortable.”

The Ghoul pulls his duster on, slides his bandolier over his shoulders alongside his shoulder bag, and pulls his shoes on, all while you watch in silence. You can hear him wheezing gently, but you don’t mention it. You’d repacked his inhaler in his shoulder bag the night before along with a case of chems to keep him in check - he’d find them soon enough if he didn’t remember they were there.

Despite the urge to just go back to sleep, you figure you might as well get set up downstairs for the day’s bounties to come in. You grab a shirt and pants and pull them on, all but tumbling out of bed. You’re already sore, and the Ghoul can clearly tell from the way he’s raising his non-existent eyebrows.

This time when the Ghoul struts through your door, he’s dusty from the wasteland outside and carrying a grimy, drippy leather bag in hand. The leather bag squelches faintly as whatever's inside shifts around, dripping brownish liquid on the scrubbed wooden floor. He greets you in his usual way, with a howdy and a sugary darlin’, and plonks the bag down on your desk, goo oozing out from the seams. 

“Howdy, Coop,” you greet, eying the bag with glee. As you drag it over to you, it leaves a snail-trail of ick on the wood, staining it further. You peer into the bag and confirm it's the correct bounty in your contract.

“One mutant heart, as requested,” the Ghoul says. He watches you with a faint amused smile. “Never brought the bounty straight to the agent before.”

You dump the faintly-pulsing mutant heart out on the desk. It’s overly large - much larger than a normal human’s - and gray-brown, and it spurts little gushes of blood when you poke it, so you know it’s still fresh. You’re surprised it’s still working, but that’s why you paid for the Ghoul: he gets things done quickly. 

“That's because I'm the client this time.”

“Aw, you asked for me?” the Ghoul teases, only a little derisively, grinning at you. “That’s sweet.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn't ask for you - I gave the contract straight to you.”

“Straight to little ol’ me, huh?” he grins, resting his elbows on top of your desk.

Anyone else would have been shot for getting this close to you and your contract book, but you’ve always had a little bit of a soft spot for this Ghoul. It might be the flirting swaying your judgment. It might be that he’s actually fairly polite when he comes in - for a bounty hunter anyway. Regardless, you can’t deny you let him get away with more than you let the others who come in for payout.

“That’s what I said, Cooper,” you say as you duck down under your desk to retrieve a sack of caps from the safe and a case stocked with chems and rad-away. “You’re expensive, but you’re worth it. And I needed that done quickly.”

The Ghoul gestures down at the faintly thumping heart. “What’d you want with that guy anyway?”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“Explains why you wanted his heart in a bag,” the Ghoul comments. He sounds vaguely impressed. “Your ex-boyfriend was a mutant with two heads.”

“Four heads if you count the two below the belt,” you reply. You hand the Ghoul the bag of caps first and the case full of chems second. “Here's your payout and a bonus for quick work.”

The Ghoul opens the case slightly and snaps it shut, apparently pleased by the way his non-existent eyebrows raise. He shoves the bag of caps and case into his shoulder bag and slings it back over his shoulder. “Much appreciated. You got anything else for me to do?”

“Plenty. Let me check the contract log.”

You reach for your book to check, but he stops you by dragging the book over to him. Truly, anyone else would have been shot. Not him. He flips open a page and runs a gloved finger down the crease in the spine, pretending to read whatever’s on the page.

The Ghoul glances up at you. “Are you in the contract log?”

You meet his gaze, eyebrows raised. “Are you telling me you want to do me, Cooper?”

“Sure am, darlin’.”

You lean back in your chair, eyeing the Ghoul where he stands. You’ve always liked his eyes. It’s the only part of him left that looks like there’s still humanity to him.

The Ghoul steps back. “But, if a ghoul’s not really your thing…”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then what do you say?”

You pause, pretending to think, but you don’t really have to think about it. “Sure, why not?”

“You got a backroom or somethin’ or we just movin’ your book out of the way?”

You nod towards the door behind you, not that you’d be opposed to just fucking him here in the middle of your office. “Yeah, I got a backroom.”

Said backroom constitutes little more than a spare desk and chair with a window, but that’s really all you’ll need. There are no curtains for the window, so whoever walks by is going to get an eyeful of what’s going on if they peek in at the wrong time. You don’t particularly care, and the Ghoul surely doesn’t.

The hat and duster stay put as the Ghoul backs you up against the desk. He’s only a bit taller than you, but his presence takes up the remainder of the tiny, boiling hot room. The hollow, pitted flesh of his face appears raw and red, but his eyes are pretty and alert. His lips are dry and smooth against yours, raw like the rest of his skin. You don’t mind - there’s no room to be picky out in this wasteland town. 

You’re not sure how he’s not miserable in the heat of the tiny room, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. In any case, you drag him closer by his belt, fisting your hand in his duster.

The Ghoul kisses you again, then strips off one of his leather gloves with his teeth and tosses it on the desk behind you. “Guess a ghoul is a step up from a mutant, at least?”

You yank his belt open and shimmy his pants down over his hips - he doesn’t let you get them down any farther. “I like ghouls.”

“Well, then, you’re a fuckin’ weirdo, ain’t ya?”

You slide down the side of the desk and hit your knees, your back pressed against the creaking wood. “Works out well for you, doesn’t it, Coop?”

His still-gloved hand wraps around the back of your neck, the leather sticking to your skin in the heat. “Sure does, darlin’.”

You take his exposed cock in hand and lick him root to tip, grinning at the hiss he gives you. His hand tightens around the back of your neck, catching in your hair. He looms over you, his unoccupied hand planted on the desk, blacking out the sides of your vision with his duster. You slide your hand down around the base of his cock and inch your lips down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks out, and he groans, low and slow, hips twitching like he's fighting the urge to just bury himself in your throat. You look up at him, wrapping your tongue around the tip of his cock, and his eyes are dark deep in the hollows of his eye sockets. 

He doesn't tolerate your teasing long. No, he tangles his hand in your hair and presses himself deep down your throat until your nose is flush with his skin. You gag around him, and he grins, pulling out and thrusting back in so you'll gag on him again.

“That's it,” the Ghoul says, teetering right on the edge of breathlessness, “you take it so well.”

You punctuate his words by scraping your teeth down his shaft, which he seems to like by the way he slams himself down your throat. Your eyes water, and you can feel the tears rolling down your face as surely as you can feel sweat snaking through your hair.

“Look so good on your knees for me,” he says, threading his fingers through your hair. He catches your chin with his ungloved hand, tilting your face up with his cock still in your mouth. His thumb swipes through the tears staining your face. “Pretty as a picture.”

The backroom is only getting hotter the longer you're stuck on your knees, clothed and trapped underneath the Ghoul’s duster with him. You're sure you're soaking through your clothes by now. Your hand snakes down to undo your top and pants so you can get some relief from the heat. It doesn’t help much, but it’s enough to keep your head from swimming.

The Ghoul takes that as an indication you’re itching to take your clothes off (you are). He hauls you to your feet, picks you up, and deposits you on top of the desk, looming over you with a grin. You let him strip the rest of your shirt off and help him get your pants off of one leg. You squeeze his hips between your thighs and hook your foot around his back, pulling him flush against you. 

“Take off the duster, Coop,” you say, moving to tug it down his shoulder. “It’s too hot in here for that.”

He takes the hand clutching his duster and pins it down to the desk. “I think you just want me to get naked.”

You smirk. “That, too.”

He strips off the other glove with his teeth and grips your hip. “Maybe next time, doll.”

“Aw, you wanna fuck me again - oh, fuck-”

The Ghoul doesn’t let you finish teasing him, instead thrusting into you with a rough stroke. The words get caught in your mouth, and he loves that. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Dick,” you say, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him into a breathless kiss. “Just come here.”

The Ghoul yanks you closer by the hip and wastes no time rutting into you. He can’t decide where to put his hands and runs them up your hips, your sides, grabs at your tits, before finally settling one hand around the back of your neck (seems to be his favorite place to grab you) and the other hand down in your lap so he can press his thumb to your clit. You clench around him, and that just makes him thrust into you harder, rubbing tight circles into your clit.

You’re not gonna last long - not like this. It’s hot, and he feels so good, thick and heavy in your cunt, and the way he groans in your ear and licks at your neck makes you whine.

You can tell the Ghoul is getting close to from the way his hips start to stutter, pressing deeper into you, pace quickening. He yanks your head back by your hair and latches onto your neck, sucking a bruise into your skin.

He presses his lips to your ear, “Where do you want it, doll?”

“Inside,” you reply, tightening your legs around him. “Less cleanup. And I’ve got extra radaway.”

The Ghoul takes that to heart, pounding into you until you cum with a sharp whine. It doesn’t take him long to finish after you, spilling himself deep inside you. He pulls out, cock soaked and softening slowly, but he’s not done with you. He stuffs his fingers into your cunt to keep you full, pumping in and out, and keeps pressing down on your clit with his thumb. It’s teetering violently on the edge of too much, overstimulating you, but you cum again anyway, this time harder and louder from the aftershocks ripping through you.

You drop bonelessly to the desk when he pulls his fingers out, and you watch him idly through your comedown as he licks his own fingers clean.

After a beat, you clamber up onto your elbows. “You still want another contract?”

The Ghoul adjusts himself and zips up his pants, chuckling lowly. “I just fucked you stupid and you’re talking about work.”

You grab your shirt and pull it down over your head, climb down off the desk, and set to work pulling up your pants. “Gets boring around here - gotta keep you coming back somehow.”

He snorts. “Oh, babydoll, you’ll be begging to get rid of me if you keep that up.”

“Try me.”

--- --- ---

Present Day

Thanks to Michael, Jen had been in a bad mood all weekend.

Saturday had been little more than a nuisance - a formality of time enforced by the sheer ticking of a clock. Jen had given up calling or texting Michael not long after he'd bolted Friday night, leaving Saturday an open wound. She passed the irritable hours by sticking her nose in her laptop and coming up for air for coffee, and coffee alone.

Sunday was just another twenty-four hours of blind irritation stemming from hurt and confusion. Sunday was spent on the couch watching reruns of old mafia movies and nursing a bottle of wine.

Monday, well… Monday was not a good day to be this angry. It was a status hearing for Jen’s serial killer trial - the trial that would last at least a month. The hearing was a formality - little more than standing up to tell the judge that, yes, the State is ready for trial, and, yes, half the LSPD and FIB are witnesses on said trial, and, yes, it will take at least a month to try.

And, while Jen prided herself on etiquette and professionalism within the courtroom, that Monday was not her finest day. Jen was seething, and everyone could tell. Therefore, no one would talk to her, nothing was getting worked out, and nothing was getting done - at least, not for her cases.

When Jen’s case was called, she stood in her tall, tall heels, the spiky ones she wore specifically on days like today, and stood at the podium in front of the judge. "The State is ready to proceed with trial."

The judge, a curmudgeonly woman in her late sixties, similarly, and perhaps impossibly, was in a worse mood because a month-long trial wasn’t going to be enjoyable for anyone. The judges - especially this one in particular - did not like it when Jen announced that a trial would take place, as Jen's trials generally took a week or more.

The judge sighed. "How long do you expect this to take, Ms. Dixon?"

"Three weeks, maybe four. There's eight counts of murder in the first degree and nearly forty witnesses."

The judge, deadpan, asked, "Seriously?"

Jen nodded, tapping her pen against the podium. "Serious as a heart attack, Judge. This is the serial killer the FIB arrested last year."

The judge looked as if she'd like to retire immediately. "Alright, we'll set it down for trial. I'll send out the scheduling order this afternoon."

Jen stepped away from the podium, click-clacking back to the State's table. The other attorneys hastily made room for her, careful not to scoot too close. With the exception of MaryAnn, they all seemed to be mightily preoccupied with the files in their hands. MaryAnn, on the other hand, stared her down with every step.

Leave it to MaryAnn to be the only person unafraid to ask. She leaned over to whisper in Jen’s ear. "What crawled up your ass?"

Despite Jen’s irritation, she almost smiled. "Nothing."

MaryAnn rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, I haven't seen you this angry at work since the morning after you went on that date with Haines."

That had been an exceptionally bad day, after an exceptionally bad date. They did not speak of that date. Nor the day that followed.

"We agreed never to talk about that." Jen crossed her arms and watched another lawyer stand up for his case. "Mike's being a dick."

"Did you have a fight?" MaryAnn asked. She watched the judge out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her next case to be called while she chatted with Jen.

"More like he fucked me seven ways to Sunday and ran out of my apartment before he'd even zipped up his pants. And didn’t bother to answer the phone."

"Ouch," MaryAnn winced. "Want me to cover for you so you can go home?"

Jen shook her head. "No, I've got too much to do, and we need to keep prepping for trial. I'll take care of it tonight."

"I feel sorry for him…"

"I wouldn't if I were you."

As Jen sat at the table monitoring the goings-on of the courtroom, her phone vibrated. She frowned down at it when Michael’s name flashed across the screen. 

Michael: dinner @ natalias @ 6

How eloquent. Michael wasn't known for his hip-and-happening texting skills. 

Jen: okay

She received no further reply, which wasn't unexpected even on a good day. Nevertheless, she spent a few too many seconds glaring down at the screen. Two of her employees (who had been watching carefully to make sure a blow-up wasn’t imminent) vacated their seats and scurried away, pretending to discuss a case they were working together. She rolled her eyes at their retreating backs, but she could admit it wasn’t their worst idea to go run and hide.

Jen chewed on her lip, deep in thought, until she tasted the rust of blood. Dinner could go one of several ways. Michael could ignore the problem - that was the most likely possibility. He could bring presents and buy her dinner and expect that to fix things. Or, equally possible, he could finally run the other way. That… also wouldn’t be entirely unexpected. Whatever method Michael decided to try, Jen had already determined a conversation needed to be had. 

Once court had adjourned, Jen grabbed MaryAnn and led her back to her office.

“We have to call Haines and Norton,” Jen said. “They worked the last of the murders before his arrest, so we need to start working on their testimony.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want to take your anger out on your favorite punching bags?” MaryAnn asked, curling up on her favorite chair in Jen’s office. She stared up at the whiteboard where Jen had drawn out their trial plan. “You’re not going to have one of them sit with us, are you?”

“I was planning on Haines sitting at the table with us. He has public appeal with that dumbass TV show,” Jen replied, tapping out a message on her phone. She usually tried to warn Haines before she called him. She dialed after she sent the message. “As much as I don’t want him there, he has good ratings - might help with the jury's perception of us.”

Both Jen and MaryAnn were well-known for being rather… contentious during trial.

“I hate it when you’re right… sometimes,” MaryAnn said. She quieted when Haines answered the phone on the third ring.

Haines’s voice rang loud and clear over the speaker. “How can I help you, Jenny?”

Jen’s eye twitched. “That serial killer you and Norton arrested last year is electing to exercise his constitutional right to a trial. Clear your schedule - you’re sitting at the table with us.”

“I guess you need a pretty face for when the camera’s come rolling in,” Haines commented loftily. “I don’t know… I’ll have to check my filming schedule.”

“Well, when I serve you your subpoena and you don’t show up,” Jen started as MaryAnn snickered quietly in her seat, “I can have you arrested on your own TV show. How's that for ratings?”

“Eh, I guess I could use some more screen time,” he corrected quickly. He wouldn’t put it past her to actually do it. “I’ll make sure to let my makeup artist know.”

“If you fuck up this testimony and this guy walks, don’t forget your home address is public…”

Haines scoffed quietly. “Calm down, Jenny. When have I ever fucked up testimony?”

Irritatingly, the answer was never. Haines, for all his flaws and despite his patriarchal athleisure wear, was actually fairly good on the stand. He was somehow able to charm a jury, despite the glaring surface flaws and deep-seated jackassery.

“Just be prepared. You’ll be on the stand for a couple of days,” Jen said, "And wear a fucking suit. I don't want you up there looking like you're going out for a round of golf."

“Yeah, fine.”

Jen hung up. MaryAnn was still snickering quietly in her chair.

“Well, if all goes poorly with your old man boyfriend, there’s always Steve Haines.”

“I would genuinely rather die, MaryAnn.”

--- --- ---

Michael was late. Of course, he was late. Even neutral ground for a conversation wouldn’t make that man deal with the consequences of his actions in a timely fashion.

Jen took a sip of her wine. It was good wine, she determined. She’d already asked the hostess (a woman she’d become incredibly friendly with over the years of being a steady and dedicated patron) to bag up an extra bottle to take home. She had a feeling she was going to need a tall, stiff drink when she got home. 

Jen already knew where this date was going just by virtue of Michael being late, and Michael was clearly having trouble getting himself together to do it.

She could tell him that it was okay, that she was expecting it. She could tell him she'd always known it would end like this - that they'd had a good ride together. She could be kind and make this easier for him, just get up and grab her bags and forget that he existed. And make him pay for the meal, obviously. 

But Jen certainly wasn’t known for being kind. If Michael was going to do this, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

Michael finally arrived, dressed in his usual suit and tie. Judging by the pink flush on his cheeks, he’d had a couple of drinks before he’d walked in - a little liquid courage. Jen watched him idly as he sat down and adjusted his tie, though it didn’t need to be adjusted. He was looking anywhere but at Jen, though she’d fixed him with a cool, even stare. 

Finally, Jen spoke, tone flat. "Explain."

"I don't really know what to say…"

She cocked her head to the side. "Take your time."

"I- uh," Michael trailed off as though words had entirely escaped him. He paused, trying to hold himself firm against Jen's colder-than-death stare. "I'm- well, I'm- fuck - I'm sorry for runnin' out the other night-"

"I didn't ask for an apology, Mike. I said explain."

Michael knew his choices were limited. He could take what he determined was the chicken-shit way out: apologize and keep on doing this with Jen. Or, he could do what he figured was the right thing to do if he wanted Amanda back - break it off right here and now.

Begrudgingly, Michael admitted Trevor was right - he had to let one of them go. And he'd chosen Jen.

Time to pony up.

"Jen, I can't keep doing this," Michael said, his voice hollow. It's like he couldn't hear the words coming out of his mouth - like he was trapped in an icy bubble. "I mean, we had a good ride. It's been a good six years-"

"Seven years."

Michael coughed. Right. "Seven years. But we knew we'd have to move on from this eventually."

Jen crossed her arms. "Uh-huh."

"Look, you deserve someone who can give you a good life."

"I have a good life as it is, but keep talking if you’d like,” Jen said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I'm still married, Jen.”

That, despite Michael's attempt at a hushed whimper, caught the attention of the table next to them. Two blondes, one tall and statuesque even sitting, the other squat and muscular, ducked their heads together and traded sideways looks.

“Oh, I'm aware, but did it ever cross your mind that you’re married when you were getting your dick wet?” Jen asked, tone getting icier by the minute. “Or when you dragged me into your new bank-robbing 80's movie reboot?"

Michael struggled to keep his temper in check. If he raised his voice, which he knew he shouldn’t do, she’d lose her shit on him (which was not something he ever wanted to experience and would ultimately make things worse). And then he’d lose his shit on her (again, not something he'd ever done nor wanted to experience). He didn’t want to have a screaming match or some knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of this restaurant. He’d wanted this to be as quick and painless as possible, but he had a short temper and a bad mouth.

"Yeah, I’m sure you really hated the money you got from those jobs. You're really gonna pull the morality card on me right now?" Michael snapped. “You knew I was married from the get-go. I never hid that from you.”

And with that, quick and painless fell out resolutely out of reach.

Jen sneered. “Morality got thrown out the window seven years ago when I fucked you on my couch. You don't give a shit about me or Amanda. You just want your idyllic little life back, with your white picket fence and wife and two-point-five kids and all that shit."

Jen had never spoken to him like this before - not this icy, toneless clip. Screaming was one thing, yelling and cussing another, but this emotionless, icicle tone was downright terrifying. Michael thought he might prefer yelling.

"We never agreed on anything more than strictly casual and you know it!” Michael snapped. He wanted to disengage, he really did, but he was notoriously terrible at backing down. 

The neighboring table was outright staring now, more out of the Los Santos love for drama than any real concern.

"Doesn't matter what we agreed to at this point, especially considering the past few months. This arrangement is no longer strictly casual, Michael,” Jen said. “Whose bed did you sleep in when Amanda left you, huh? Who’d you come running to?"

Michael leaned in, trying to keep his voice down, and failing. "Why are you making this harder than it has to be?"

Jen pointed at him, her long, tapered nail ending in a point. "Because you know how I feel, and you know how you feel, and you’re just blindly fucking ignoring it."

"I've got to take care of my family."

"I’m not telling you not to take care of your family,” Jen hissed, “I’m telling you not to go back to someone who made you miserable for twenty years, and who, I’m sure, you made equally as miserable.” 

Michael didn’t have an answer, because Jen wasn’t wrong.

"The fact of the matter is, you want this to be easy for you. This is not easy for me, and I am not going to make this easy for you, Michael," Jen snapped. This was an absolute promise. “You’ve always walked away from everything you’ve done scott-free - not this time."

"Well, don't worry, you'll get your wish. I gotta carry this with me every fucking day."

"And I hope you carry it with pride."

With that, Michael stopped and took a deep breath. He cared, he really did. And Michael, in his infinite capacity to make everything worse, went for the final blow. "Look, I care about you, Jen. I lov-"

"Don't." She uncrossed her arms and stood up. "Don’t say another fucking word - I don’t want to hear it. You are such an asshole."

"Jen, come on-"

Jen grabbed her bag and coat, retrieved her bottle of wine from the hostess station, and left, the restaurant door swinging shut behind her. Michael could pay for the fucking waters and the bottle of whiskey he was probably about to order - Jen was out of there. The valet, taking a quick look at the expression on her face, wasted no time retrieving her car.

Of course, Michael would pull that card. Jen wasn't stupid - and neither was Michael. Both emotionally stunted, stubborn fools - but not stupid. That had manifested years ago, but, of course, the end would be the moment Michael decided to pull it out.

Asshole. 

Jen revved her car and turned out into Los Santos traffic. God, it would be weeks before she’d be able to go back to Natalia’s after that blowout. She couldn’t stop herself from letting it get out of hand, and there was no way Michael wasn’t going to make a scene. How embarrassing. She’d have to leave an extra tip next time.

She didn't want to go home yet, not after that. She needed someplace to cool down, get a clear head. Some catharsis. 

Tequi-la-la’s would be a good place to cool down. Have a couple of drinks, grab some bar food since she’d never actually ordered at the restaurant. Find someone to take home with her. Yep, that was the best plan. Alcohol, food, and a quick fuck. Mends broken hearts, does the trick every time. Well, probably not this time, but self-destruction was the only option Jen would consider right now.

Yet, rather than taking the exit for Tequi-la-la’s, Jen found herself turning right onto the Strawberry exit. A short drive later, and the glow of the Vanilla Unicorn sign flooded the dark streets. She’d driven around aimlessly until she’d seen the giant neon sign and cut into the parking lot. 

Catharsis. She could get catharsis here, too. She cut the engine on her Jester and sat staring up at the flashing lights.

“Fuck.”

Jen slammed the Jester door behind her and locked the car. She was greeted at the door by the bouncers by name, asked if she wanted her usual table by the hostess. She declined and headed straight up to the bar.

Tiffany, blonde Tiffany - one of Jen's favorite girls at the Unicorn - was bartending tonight. Jen didn't prefer blondes, but Tiffany was undeniably gorgeous and surprisingly quite sweet. And she made a great cocktail. And gave great head. 

Jen leaned against the bar and waved Tiffany over. “You busy?”

“Kind of,” Tiffany snorted. She looked around and saw that she was not, in fact, all that busy, so she shook her head. “Actually, not really. Mondays are slow. Speaking of which, why are you here?”

“Bad day,” Jen responded. “Came in for a drink and… to say hi. Take a break?”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow and called over her shoulder. “Jill, I’m going on break. Be back… eventually.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jen grinned. “Hey, have you seen Trevor tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, I think he’s in the office. Why?”

“Got a problem with using the office?”

“With him in it?”

“Maybe, if he’s lucky.”

Tiffany shook her head. “No problem at all.”

“Good girl,” Jen said with a wink. “Let’s go.”

Tiffany ducked out from behind the bar and led Jen back towards the office, pulling her by the hand past the private rooms where thudding music filled the dark hallway. Bouncers lined the wall, standing guard past the curtains in case customers got too rough with the girls. Judging by the soft sound of panting, some of the bouncers had been paid extra to look the other way.

Trevor's office was down at the end of the hall, but the girls didn't quite make it there before Jen pulled Tiffany into a heated kiss. One of the bouncers gave them a look, more out of curiosity than concern, then went back to monitoring the couple past the curtains. It wasn't like the bouncers didn't know what was going on - they'd all seen Jen with a girl or two before - but what happened at the Unicorn, stayed at the Unicorn.

Jen shoved a hand up Tiffany's cropped shirt, finding no bra to impede her in her goal, and busied herself playing with Tiffany's nipple. Tiffany wound her hand into Jen's hair and shoved her back against the wall.

“How do you want to do this?” Tiffany asked, panting in Jen's ear.

Jen tweaked her nipple until she moaned, thumb circling the nub relentlessly. “Whatever happens, happens. You okay with Trevor joining in?”

Tiffany nodded. “Fine with me. You give the word.”

“Safe word is pineapple if you get uncomfortable,” Jen said. “Now, come on, I want to stick my tongue in your pussy.”

They didn’t bother knocking on the door - it was unlocked anyway. Cue Trevor doing whatever it is that Trevor does in this vacant office (currently, snorting coke off the desk). ‘

He looked up and broke out into a grin. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Shut up,” Jen said as she backed Tiffany up against the desk. “You can stay as long as you’re quiet.”

Trevor mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

Jen nudged Tiffany onto her elbows on the desk and sank down to her knees in front of her. She hiked Tiffany's skirt up her thighs and peeled her underwear down before sealing her lips over her slit.

Tiffany's hand gripped the roots of her hair. “Ah - getting right to it, babe?”

“Mhm,” was as much of a response as Jen could give with her mouth full. She flicked her tongue along her slit, pausing to suck at her clit, before spreading her open with her fingers and sinking two digits in. She pumped her fingers in and out, tonguing the space in between with reverence, until her mouth was soaked and fingers were dripping.

Tiffany grabbed Jen’s shoulders and arched up into her mouth, thighs shaking. “Fuck, Jen - right there -”

Jen could just barely hear Trevor unzip his pants over the sound of Tiffany panting, but hear it she did. She stopped sucking Tiffany's clit and stood up, leaning over the girl on the desk so she could kiss her.

“Okay so far?” Jen asked softly, mumbling against Tiffany's mouth. Her black lipstick was smeared down her chin, and Jen could only imagine what her own face looked like.

The breathless yes made Jen smile.

“Do something for me?” Jen asked. “Go fuck Trevor. If he doesn’t finish you, I will.”

Tiffany nodded and stood shakily up from the desk. She crossed over to where Trevor sat and climbed into his lap. He moved to grab her ass, but stopped when Jen told him no.

“You don't touch. I touch, you be quiet and take what we give you. Understood?”

He stared over Tiffany’s shoulder at Jen and nodded. To his credit, he followed orders and didn’t speak, likely because he thought Jen would tell Tiffany to stop if he did. (She wouldn’t have, not this time. This was a night for catharsis, not discipline.) 

Jen stood behind Tiffany and held her hips steady as she slid down onto Trevor's fat cock. She reached up and tucked Tiffany’s hair away so she could trail kisses down her neck as Tiffany grinded down on Trevor’s lap.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Trevor?” Jen said, reaching around to play with Tiffany’s nipples while Trevor watched. “Tiffany’s so fun to play with. Too bad you can’t touch.”

He leaned his head back against the top of the chair and groaned, eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles had turned white from the force of clutching the arms of his chair, the pulse point in his neck fluttering, tendons tight.

“Open your eyes and watch, Trevor,” Jen said, teasing one of Tiffany’s nipples before reaching down to play with her clit. “If you’re a good boy and make Tiffany come first, I’ll fuck you, too.”

Another groan, but it makes him buck up into Tiffany, matching her pace. Tiffany moaned in turn, one hand gripping Trevor's forearm, the other hand wrapped around Jen's hand while she played with her clit.

Jen grinned, spreading the slick over Tiffany's clit. She reached further, massaging the place where Trevor's cock plunged into her. “How’s that feel, Tiff?”

“Good - so good-”

“Gonna come for us?”

A high-pitched, breathy yeah. 

Jen grabbed Tiffany's chin and turned her head so she could kiss her. She felt the tremor wrack Tiffany's body as she came, the sharp moan spilling from her lips muffled by Jen's mouth. 

Beneath them, Trevor was absolutely wrecked, hips stuttering as he rode out Tiffany's orgasm without succumbing to the one threatening to slam through him. His bottom lip was caught between his wolfish teeth, eyes wild, knuckles so white from the strain that Jen could almost see the veins running through his hands. He still didn't speak, but he stared a hole through Jen's forehead, silently begging to come.

Jen held onto Tiffany's hips as she climbed off of Trevor's cock, keeping her steady. Trevor's hand immediately fisted around his shaft, pumping viciously to keep his high going.

Jen kissed Tiffany again, this time gently. “You okay, Tiff?”

“I'm great, sugar,” Tiffany replied. “Do you want me to stick around?”

“Yeah, I like when you watch,” Jen replied. “Besides, someone should watch Trevor get fucked like a good boy.”

Jen turned back towards Trevor, watching him beg silently as he fisted himself. “You can talk if you're good.”

Trevor nodded furiously, groaning. “I'll be good - I'll be so good, Jen, please -”

“I know you will, baby boy,” Jen said, lifting the hem of her dress out of the way as she straddled Trevor's lap. “You always do such a good job for your Princess Jen.”

His hands latched onto her thighs immediately, fingertips digging into her skin as she moved her underwear to the side and sank down on his cock. It was an easy slide, made easier by the mix of Tiffany's come coating his shaft and the precum dripping from his flushed tip. Her hand found his throat, thumbs teasing the prominent veins bulging under his skin, and forced his head against the back of the chair. 

Jen's name, at that moment, was the closest thing to a prayer to have ever come out of Trevor's mouth, followed closely by fuck and please. She gripped his shoulder with the hand not currently wrapped around his throat. When she moved in his lap, it was slow and torturous, not quite enough to push Trevor over the edge with the explosive force he'd started to feel with Tiffany. No, this was worse - this was a wave lapping at his skin, teasing him, pushing him closer and closer -

“You can come now, Trevor,” Jen said, permission like music to his ears. “Be a good boy and come on yourself.”

And he does. He bounced Jen up to the tip of his cock and slammed up into her before pulling her soundly off his cock and coming all over the bottom of his shirt. She kept his head pinned to the back of the chair, the edges of his vision starry and fuzzy, forcing him to keep eye contact until his cock softened against his stomach.

From the desk behind them, Tiffany made herself come again, the sound of her moans bubbling up underneath Trevor's. Jen climbed off of Trevor's lap to help Tiffany clean herself up before waving Tiffany out with another kiss. 

Jen sat on the edge of the desk and offered Trevor Tiffany's forgotten underwear to clean himself up. She watched idly as he stuffed the used underwear into his back pocket.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Trevor said, “but what was that?”

“What do you mean, what was that? You got fucked by two women. Don't think that needs an explanation.”

“But why?”

“Why not?”

Trevor, unfortunately, was a lot more perceptive than Jen gave him credit for sometimes. “What happened?”

Jen, wholly unwilling to relive the events of the night prior to her arrival at the Unicorn, climbed down off the desk and smoothed out her dress. “Why don't you call Michael? He'll explain.”

 Traffic lights change from red to green and back without a single car moving more than a couple of feet. Maria honks her horn, joining the cacophony of other cars laying on the horn. More than a few people have gotten out of their cars to yell at others on the street.

 Maria lays on the horn again as the traffic light makes another round of red-green-red. “What the fuck is going on? The light’s green!”

 “I’m sure the cops have got the roads blocked off if there are bomb threats,” Lucy comments.

 “You’d think someone at the police department would call me back and tell me what’s going on…”

 Lucy reaches to turn the radio on, hoping it will calm Maria’s nerves. Despite wanting music, Lucy knows the news is the better choice at the moment - maybe there’s something about why traffic is so heavy.

 The radio fizzles in and out as Lucy keeps twisting the tuning knob. She turns the radio off and back on, but is met with nothing more than the same fizzing static. “No signal? What the hell? This is Atlanta. I’ve never not had a signal here.”

 She twists the knob left and right until something resembling news bleeds through the static. “‘There we go…”

 …military has been authorized to respond to widespread attacks along with all law enforcement. At this time, no cause has been determined….  

 Maria smacks Lucy’s arm. “Lou, look up!”

 The man in the car in front of them falls out of the driver-side door, convulsing on the pavement in front of them. He’s frothing at the mouth, twitching and scratching at his throat thoughtlessly.

 Maria moves to get out of the car, but Lucy grabs her and yanks her back. “Do not get out of this car.”

 “We have to help-”

 “Look at him, Maria.”

 The man on the ground finally stops convulsing and, somehow in spite of the convulsions, rises to his feet. His skin had turned a yellow-ish gray, eyes bloodshot and feverish. He twitches, his neck turned at an odd angle. From his mouth, a wad of what appears to be yellowish vines drapes out, twitching and moving seemingly of their own volition. And then he bolts, twitching and stumbling, over to the car in front him.

 "What the fuck is he doing-"

 Lucy and Maria watch, stunned, as the man beats on the car window next to them, then yanks the passenger from the car, descends down on him, and bites. He pulls chunks of flesh away from bone and chews, mindless and sloppy. Blood drips from his chin as the passenger on the ground crawls along, screaming and bleeding, desperate to get away.

 The passenger squirms and squirms, punching and kicking and scratching, but there’s too much blood. The man descends again, ripping into the passenger’s neck, and finally, the passenger on the ground just stops. The man who bit him turns to look at Maria and Lucy, bolting over to them.

 Lucy slams her hand down on the door locks, checking the back passenger seat locks. “Drive, drive, drive!”

 Maria guns the engine, but there's nowhere to go as the man races towards their car. "Where am I gonna fucking go-"

 Lucy points. “Turn down that alley - it’ll take us two blocks over and we’ll be right at the CDC.”

 "There’s too many cars in the way!"

 Cars blocked the turn, and people lined the streets. The first man wasn't the only person acting strange. There were more than a few people climbing out of their cars, gasping for air or grabbing at someone in the next car over.

 “We’re not getting out of this - we’re gonna have to run-”

 “Are you insane? I’m not leaving this car!”

 “And wait for that psycho to bust the car windows and eat us for lunch, too? Come on, I have a badge to get into the CDC building. We can hunker down there until we figure out what’s going on!”

 Maria grasps the door handle, the original man having gotten distracted by easier prey - a man who’d gotten out of his car to help the downed passenger - and twists the lock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… on three, we run.”

 They bail out of the car, sprinting down the side alleys. In the open air, outside of the deadened noise of the car, the sounds of screaming split the morning. Crying, begging, gunshots. Honking horns and the sounds of metal crunching and tires screaming. It escalates as they run, the gunshots getting more and more frequent, the screams getting louder.

 Lucy leads them down through the back parking deck of the building to the rear entrance, fumbling with her key card until the swipe pad blinks green. They burst through the door and are met with the barrel end of the security guard’s gun.

 Lucy starts, throwing her hands up in the air, and Maria follows suit. “What the hell, Mac? Put the gun down!”

 “Lucy - Jesus Christ, you scared me,” Mac said, but he didn’t lower his gun. “Who is this with you?”

 “My sister, Mac - she’s my sister! Put the fucking gun down, dude.”

 “Are you sick? Feeling weak? Nauseous?” Mac asked, the gun still trained on the two of them. “What have you had to eat today? Anything with gluten? Wheat?”

 “Nothing - coffee. Why the fuck does that matter?”

 “What about her?”

 Maria backs up a step. “An apple? Coffee? What the hell is going on?”

 Mac lowers his gun with a sigh, ushering the pair in before making sure the security door behind the girls is barricaded.

 “Get in here,” he says, swiping his card and keying in a code on the keypad. The key blinked green, then red, and stayed red from then on, as bright as vicious as a little light could be. “You’re lucky you made it here just in time. The building is on lockdown until we get the all clear. I’ll have to take you up to an observation room to make sure you’re clean.”

 Lucy stepped in line behind him when he motioned for them to follow. “What do you mean by clean?”

 “There are reports of widespread hysteria and mass attacks. Government thinks it might be something in the food - some kind of contamination from the flour and wheat products coming from overseas.”

 Lucy sighed. “We’re both gluten-sensitive and I’m vegan, so I’m pretty sure we’re in the clear.”

 “The hospitals are overrun, apparently. It’s bad. Everything is blocked off, but there’s no official news story yet.”

 Lucy glances over at Maria. “Good thing you took me to work this morning.”

 Maria nodded. “Good thing you work for the government.”

 “They’re not sure what the time frame for onset of symptoms is, but escalation is quick.”

 “We noticed,” Lucy replied. “We saw a guy have a seizure, wake up, and chew on another guy for lunch. Then we ran here.”

 Mac swiped them through another section of the building into an area with stark-white walls and people scurrying around in lab coats and clean suits. He pointed them down the hall. “All employees are being taken to a contamination room for observation. They’re letting families in, too, so your sister is allowed in.”

 Once Mac left them at the check-in point and was out of earshot, Maria nudged Lucy’s arm. “Good thing you told him I’m your sister.”

 “Something crazy like this going on - I figured it was safer. They won’t ask if you’re really my sister.”

 Maria watched as a woman in a white lab coat ushered another pair of employees through the hallway and into separate rooms. “I hope not.”

--- --- --- --- ---

October 2036 - Jackson, Wyoming  

 Ellie had finally been allowed to go on patrol with Lucy for the first time, and they were making the most of it. They were only supposed to be a short patrol - barely even half-day, but they were both excited.

 Ellie had talked nonstop most of the way, which was a far cry from the mood she’d been in since her party the week before. The questions had been coming nonstop.

 "So, that was Outbreak Day for you?” Ellie asked, trekking alongside Lucy. The girl was now several inches taller than Lucy - it seemed like she’d sprouted up out of nowhere in the past few months.

 "Yeah. Maria and I were under lockdown there for a couple of weeks," Lucy said. "I worked there, so at least I had something to do. 'Ree was stuck sitting around."

 "You were stuck there like that for weeks?"

 "Weeks. Honestly, at that point, we had nowhere else to go. Atlanta was on fire, the city was being raided. Our building got hit pretty hard,” Lucy replied, a little softer than she’d meant to. She and Maria both lost most of their personal effects in a fire that had taken out the whole city block. “FEDRA wasn’t FEDRA back then - we were under martial law by the military - but they had to keep the CDC on lockdown."

 "Why?"

 "Research. Try to figure out how to contain it quickly. We failed, obviously."

 “What about the Fireflies?”

 “The Firefly faction in Atlanta wasn’t a resistance group - not like Marlene’s faction in Boston. They were terrorists.”

 “I thought Atlanta was one of the research groups…”

 “Did Marlene tell you that?” Lucy snorted. She stopped upon catching Ellie’s dejected look. “Marlene did tell you that. Okay. Shit. Uh, the Atlanta faction didn’t start as bioterrorists - they were just resisting martial law at first. They convinced a lot of the workers at the CDC to join them. Said they were working on a cure, that they had resources. All a lie, of course. But FEDRA yanked our funding after a few years, so I guess that looked attractive to some of them who made it their life’s work.”

 “Did you join the Fireflies? Back then?”

 “No, not me. I worked for the government right up until FEDRA bombed the city.”

 “Why do the Fireflies keep showing up here, Lou?”

 “We're trying to figure that out.”

 After that, Ellie was silent. Lucy didn’t quite know how to follow up. The Fireflies had been such a sore subject for the girl for so long… And if Lucy was right, it was because Ellie already knew - or at least suspected - what Joel had done to get her out of that Firefly hospital.

 Either way, Joel and Lucy had collectively decided they needed to have a sit-down with Ellie. It would be easier that way - just get everything out in the open all at once. In fact, part of the reason Ellie had been allowed out on patrol with Lucy that day was so Lucy could get the ball rolling and gently begin to clue Ellie in. Or, at the very least, get the girl in a good mood.

 “You wouldn’t lie to me, right?” Ellie asked.

 Lucy had a feeling she knew where Ellie was going with this. “No, baby, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

 “Do you promise?”

 “I promise.”

 “Then what do you know about the Fireflies that you’re not telling me?”

 “I will make you a deal,” Lucy said. “I’m still figuring out a few things. I promise you, I will tell you everything I know about the Fireflies if you give me a little time. Okay?”

 Ellie was quiet for a long moment. She said, in that very teenager way, “Okay.”

 “Look, I’ll even tell you a secret to show you how much I trust you,” Lucy said, “but you have to promise not to tell anyone, not even Joel.”

 Ellie perked up at that. “I promise.”

 “I know who's sending the scouts to spy on us, and I think I know where he's at and what he wants."

 Ellie's eyes went wide. "You do?"

 "I don't know for certain, but I’m pretty sure I'm right."

 "Who is it?" Ellie asked, excitement rising in her voice. Ah, yeah, that was the right way to go about it. Ellie loves secrets, especially secrets she gets to keep from Joel.

 "If I’m right, it’s someone I knew a long time ago. He was good friends with Marlene. If he's still alive, then he's the one sending people to spy on Jackson."

 Ellie only knew Marlene, not any of Marlene’s friends. "Will you tell me when you find out?"

 “Yes.”

 Ellie got quiet, meandering along next to Lucy. Ellie sometimes asked Lucy what pre-Outbreak was like for her, and Lucy didn't mind telling her, but this was awfully bleak for such a beautiful morning.

 Finally, Ellie changed the subject. "I can’t believe Tommy let me go with you on patrol."

 “Honestly, me either,” Lucy replied, though patrol had been a set-up. “He probably thinks we’re gonna run off and go fishing.”

 “I mean…” Ellie shrugged and looked up at Lucy with puppy-dog eyes.

 “I’ll take you fishing another day, kid,” Lucy chuckled. “Gotta be responsible today.”

 “Bummer.”

 “Did you see Joel visibly clenching when we left?"

 “He must have checked my gun ten times,” Ellie groaned. "It's like he forgot we basically lived in the wilderness for a year."

 "He knows you can handle yourself. He just doesn't want you to have to," Lucy said. "And he's a worrier. It's a dad thing, I guess."

 "Wouldn't know. I never met my dad,” Ellie said, clearly not bothered by the fact she’d never met her dad. "Did you have a dad?"

 "Yeah. I tried to find out what happened to him years ago, but the raids were so bad in Atlanta, and they spread so fast… Everything from Atlanta to Miami was burnt to the ground,” Lucy replied. “So, I never found out.”

 Ellie, clearly just a little embarrassed now, looked at the ground and didn’t reply.

 Lucy wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "But hey, come on, on a happier note - it's a beautiful day and we get to be on patrol together. And next week, I get to start taking you down to the dam for guard training."

 "So, how did you swing that?"

 Lucy scratched the back of her head. "Uh…"

 "You didn't tell Tommy and Joel, did you, Lou?"

 "I'm going to,” Lucy huffed. "Look, sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Besides, Maria signed off on it, so you're clear."

 "They're gonna lose it."

 "Probably…" Lucy agreed. "But, I'll talk to Joel about it tonight. You’re coming to dinner, right? It's gonna be a special dinner."

 Said special dinner was, of course, when Lucy and Joel were planning on giving Ellie the run-down about the Fireflies.

 "A special dinner?" Ellie asked. She looked Lucy up and down. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

 "Absolutely not," Lucy snorted. "Joel would freak."

 Ellie laughed. “Yeah, he would.”

 No need to tell Ellie that wasn’t an option for Lucy in the first place. The conversation that morning had been bleak enough already.

 “So, are you coming to dinner or what?”

 “No, um, I’m having a sleepover with Dina.”

 “Ah…” Lucy nodded sagely. “Are you doing anything fun at your sleepover?”

 Ellie’s cheeks burned pink. “It’s not… like that.”

 “I didn’t say it was like anything.”

 “Jesus, Lou-”

 Lucy rolled her eyes. “All I’m saying is that if you just tell her how you feel, you’ll feel better. Dina’s been a good friend to you. You can have an honest conversation with her.”

 “She’s dating Jesse!”

 “It’s just a conversation, Ellie. You don’t have to marry the girl,” Lucy said. “If you don’t tell her, it’s going to bother you until you do. Take it from me.”

 “I don’t even know if she...”

 “Likes girls?”

 “Yeah.”

 “It’s Dina, Ellie. She knows you like girls, right?”

 “Well, yeah...”

 “It probably won’t even be a surprise.”

 “Was it a surprise that Joel liked you back?”

 “This isn’t about me,” Lucy replied. She relented at Ellie’s glare. “Fine. And, actually, no, because Tommy kept telling me he did. I just never thought he’d do anything about it… Anyway, don’t make the same mistake I did. It’s going to bother you until you say something.”

 “Right.”

 “Look, if you can’t come to dinner tonight, how about Joel and I take you fishing this weekend?”

 Ellie nodded. “Okay.”

--- --- --- --- ---

October 2036 - Jackson, Wyoming  

 Joel had been on guard duty at the watchtower all day. It wasn’t his favorite job - not by a long shot. Most of the time, there was nothing to do. Sure, there may be a stranger passing through every now and then he’d have to go meet, maybe a few infected to pick off from the safety of the tower, but it was usually nothing more than sitting around and twiddling his thumbs. He took it seriously, as he did with every job he’d ever had, but it did leave him a lot of opportunity to get lost in his thoughts.

 After several long conversations, some including Tommy and Maria, he and Lucy had agreed to talk to Ellie together rather than separately. Tommy and Maria agreed to be there as well to add context where needed. As reluctant as Joel was to admit what he did to get Ellie out of the Firefly hospital, and as stubborn as Lucy still was about talking about any potential cure for the cordyceps infection, they could at least agree that a conversation needed to happen.

 As Lucy maintained, and Joel finally came around, Ellie deserved to know.

 Joel couldn’t anticipate what Ellie would say. She’d probably be angry, might not understand - but she’d already been through so much… He hoped she’d come around.

 While Joel was lost in his thoughts, still practicing what he was going to say that night, Tommy arrived at the watchtower. Tommy usually came around whenever he could if he wasn’t busy - his patrol detail must have finished early.

 Tommy plopped down in the chair next to Joel. “Bad news.”

 “Great,” Joel sighed. “What now?”

 “There’s a scout camp out past that crop of deadwoods where the old sewage leads into,” Tommy said, wrinkling his nose. “The camp looked pretty fresh, and it looks like they might have gone down into the sewage tunnel to see if they can find a way in.”

 “Jesus.” Joel couldn’t think of much worse than going down into those old tunnels. On the wrong day, when the breeze came from just the right direction, one could smell the remnants of the old sewage system. “At least it’s blocked off down there and they can’t get in.”

 “Right,” Tommy replied. “It’s a good place to flush them out if they’re down there.”

 Flush them out indeed.

 “Tomorrow then?”

 “Bright and early. John and Dave are posted down there in case they come crawling out during the night,” Tommy said. He tipped his chair back, rocking aimlessly on the heels of his boots. “I’m thinking we take Lucy with us on detail.”

 Joel grimaced.

 “She may know who they are, Joel.”

 Finally, Joel nodded. “I know.”

 “You want to tell her?”

 “Not particularly,” Joel replied. But, reluctantly, he agreed. “But I’ll tell her when I get home.”

 Sensing that his brother would hear no more, Tommy changed the subject. “Are we still talking to Ellie tonight?”

 “Far as I know, yeah.”

 “How do you think she’s going to take it?”

 “Uh…” Joel shrugged. “Not well, I imagine.”

 “No, suppose not.”

 They lapsed into silence until the next watch shift came in. Joel bid Tommy goodbye for the afternoon with the promise that they’d see each other again shortly.

 Joel returned home to find Lucy standing over the stove in their now-shared home, sweating in the heat. She’d offered to cook for the night since Joel had been at the watchtower all day despite it being Joel’s night to cook. She’d chosen to wear the dress he liked - the green one with the shoulder straps - and not for the first time, Joel remarked to himself how nice it was to come home to someone who cared about him.

 Joel leaned over her shoulder to kiss her cheek. “How was patrol?”

 “Good, no problems,” Lucy said, “but Ellie’s not coming tonight. She’s having a sleepover with Dina. We’re taking her fishing this weekend instead.”

 “Damn,” Joel said. He sat down at the kitchen table. “Been practicing what I’m gonna say all day.”

 “Well, it’ll give you more time to practice.”

 “I wanted to get it over with,” he observed. “Tommy and Maria are still coming tonight, right?”

 “Yeah, they should be here shortly,” Lucy said. Having been with Joel for the better part of two years at this point, she knew when his questions were pointed. “You know I know Tommy comes to hang out at the watchtower whenever you have guard duty, so whatever you’re      not    telling me that you’re afraid Tommy will mention, I suggest you just go ahead and tell me.”

 Lucy caught the grimace that passed over his face, just briefly, and smiled smugly out of Joel’s line of sight. Joel was a smart man, but Lucy had his number. It never failed to make her smile.

 Joel, reluctantly, said, “We found another Firefly scout camp.”

 “Fuck - where is this one?”

 “Out past that old outcrop of deadwood,” Joel replied. “Near the old sewage tunnel.”

 “Joel, that’s damn near inside the gate.”

 “Tommy left a couple guards down there to keep watch.” Joel, being Joel, remarked in his pointed way, “Tommy and I are going down there tomorrow to see if we can flush them out.”

 Lucy put her hands on her hips. “And I’m going with you.”

 Joel sighed a long, calculated sigh. “Okay.”

 She narrowed her eyes in return. Again, she was very much accustomed - damn near an expert - at picking apart Joel’s pointed questions and sighs. “...you already planned on taking me with you, didn’t you?”

 “Honestly, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” Joel admitted. “But yeah, I kind of already prepared for that.”

 “Crafty, crafty man,” Lucy said, tilting her head. “I came up with a pitch on the spot just then.”

 “No, by all means, make your pitch. Shame it should go to waste,” Joel said, grinning his sly little grin. “I’m sure you weren’t going to tell me you might eventually recognize one of the scouts if we find them. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell you Tommy and I agree with you.”

 “...well, now I’m not gonna give you the jug of moonshine I made special for you,” Lucy hummed. “It’s apple. Your favorite.”

 Joel leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He replied, almost sweetly (it’s apple moonshine, after all), “I re-shoed Linnea for you this morning while y’all were gone.”

 Lucy rolled her eyes. “Well, if you wanted a blowjob, you could have just asked.”

 "That wasn't quite the point," Joel laughs at that, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling. “But I’m not tellin’ you no…”

 She crossed the few steps over to the table where Joel sat and placed her hands on his knees, bending to meet him at eye level.

“Ask nicely and I might blow you right now before they get here.”

Joel’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything. Lucy, being Lucy, loved when Joel was speechless.

And, of course, at that moment, a knock sounded from the front door. 

Lucy snickered and swatted his knee. “Bad luck, cowboy. Looks like you’ll have to wait."

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You can’t keep doing that before we have company over.” 

“It’s fun to watch you squirm. Plus, that means you’ll kick Tommy out faster.” Lucy leaned down to kiss his cheek before shoving a glass mason jar into his hands. “You can have the moonshine, though. I’m sure you’ll need something to distract you from that massive boner you’ve got right now.”

“You’re awful sometimes.”