#tommytonebender

Life was a series of adjustments for Preston. Always had been. Since childhood, since joining the Minutemen, since the collapse and then revival and... well, he didn’t foresee himself here of all places. Just over a month since a Vault Dweller unstuck in time rescued them from Concord and invited them back to their burnt-out suburb. Carefully laid plans had folded, but unexpected ones rose in their absence. Reclaiming the Castle was once a far off fairytale that now could easily come to fruition. After all, stranger things had happened right in front of his eyes. Til then, he was here, shivering. Staring across a river, winter holidays celebrated and their warmth seemingly millions of miles behind him. Night watch was a lonely place, a sea of pitch over the ruins of past civilization. A glorified graveyard filled with things that went bump in the night, sometimes with eviscerating claws and teeth, and even cannibals wielding RPGs. It could be challenging to keep one’s wits, not to let your mind succumb to the anxieties and inner demons that arose from playing chicken with the void. But most nights good ole Sturges was still up. Rattling around the neighborhood like a ghost with unfinished business, and as if the benefits of sleeping were lost on him. He maintained the cause was insomnia, but Preston couldn’t help speculating if the handyman was keeping one eye on him. Preston had once made the mistake of having a few too many sips of whiskey and maybe confessing a dark thought or two. He was grown, a leader of sorts, he didn’t need to be watched. It was almost-- “Evenin’” greeted the familiar drawl. Preston promptly glanced to his side and saw Sturges smiling at him with a log hoisted over his shoulder. In the act of consciously ignoring his presence, Sturges had somehow snuck up on him.

 “Hey,” Preston said.

 “You doin’ alright out here?”

 Suspicions possibly confirmed. “Fine. But a little cold.”

 “Yeah, thought you might need some stokin’,” Sturges said, setting the log down. “Your fire, I mean.”

 “Of-- sure,” Preston said clumsily.

 OK, there was another thing regarding Sturges that Preston resisted admitting, even to himself. He was... a piece of chiseled perfection. Not exactly what Preston had ever considered his type, or found so eye catching as he did now, but the man at work was more hypnotizing than watching a sunset. He attempted to explain it away as being the byproduct of shared trauma but, well, this wasn’t his first tango with events that scar you for life and Christ, look at him; it’s effortless, like cutting through butter.

 “There... that should hold us for a while,” Sturges said, neatly piling the wood. He lifted his arms and stretched, bare skin exposed from under his t-shirt, glistening just the slightest in the glow of the campfire. Preston's eyes tracked the man’s faded tattoos, morphing and changing as they moved along his muscles. The mesmerizing display slowed and then, to his chagrin, came to a halt.

 Shit.

 Preston’s gaze flew up to meet the handyman’s. Sturges raised his brow as if waiting for a confession.

 “How can you walk around like that?” Preston said sheepishly, deflecting the situation.

 “Hmm?”

 “Like there's no chill in the air. I've got three layers and a scarf and I'm still frozen to the damn bone.”

 Sturges gave a hearty chuckle that made Preston feel a burst of happiness. “Well, even if I couldn't stand the cold, I don't have much of a choice.”

 The group had left Quincy only with the clothes on their backs and whatever rations they could grab. They were slow to pick up the pieces, Sturges especially becoming so immersed in distractions, presumably to deal with the loss.

 “Guess not.” Preston’s leg was shaking with nerves, and he prayed if the other man noticed he’d merely write it off as a side-effect of the weather and not… Sturges himself.

 Preston blew between his hands and rubbed them together.

 “Guess you don't have gloves either, huh?” Sturges asked.

 “Ha, haven’t found time to go shopping yet.”

 Sturges took a few steps, then kneeled before Preston, like a knight pledging allegiance to his lord. Before Preston could react or even process what was happening, Sturges’ calloused hands enveloped his own.

 “Hoo, no kiddin’,” he said, in the same tone as if he were diagnosing a plumbing problem. “These suckers are as clammy as death-- no offense.”

 Preston let out a strangled laugh, half flustered by the touch and embarrassed that his crush found his hands to feel unpleasant. Now he was really trembling.

 “Probably circulation based, huh?” Sturges asked.

 “Probably,” Preston replied, cursing his voice for wavering in such a way.

 “Do you get cold at night too?” Sturges inquired, massaging his frozen palms. “I mean, when you’re tryin’ to sleep?”

 “Yes,” Preston breathed.

 Sturges seemed so casual about it, and practically unaware that he was a great buff slab of handsome behind a pair of thick frames. Preston had never been one to make the first move, in fact he repeatedly waited til it was too late and cursed his inability, but Sturges made it look so easy-- and thank God he took the initiative. Or else Preston would be staring, longing, forever... and with much colder fingers.

 “Who's got next shift?” Sturges asked.

 “Uh-- it’s uh-- Jun...”

 “How long til?”

 “Another half hour, maybe,” he replied, uncertain why Sturges was so curious.

 Sturges made a contemplative noise. His fingers slipped away as he stood up. “Well, I got a few things to, do but I’m gettin’ mighty sleepy, which is rare for me, y’know.” Preston nodded. “Gonna... finish things off and then hit the hay. If your bed’s too cold, you know where to find mine.”

 All words got caught in Preston’s throat. He gaped for a moment, trying to force out a sound. All he produced was a strained “mmhmm”. Sturges smiled, apparently satisfied, then wandered back into the darkness.

 ---

 Preston waited for a sign of life, or rather of consciousness, holding his breath and listening for Sturges’ own. A bulky form could be seen in the bed, wrapped in a quilt. Preston raised his knuckles to wrap on the doorframe-- then Sturges turned over.

 “Well... howdy,” he said, his voice thick, possibly with sleep. “You’re quiet as a mouse, huh? Wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

 “I went back to get bed clothes. Is... Is that OK?” Preston wasn’t entirely sure what connotations the bedroom invitation contained.

 “Yeah. Now it’s a proper sleepover. Wouldn’t want you to wrinkle up your dashing uniform, now.”

 Every word, every move made things clearer; reciprocation. And somehow that was more harrowing than rejection.

 “C’mon,” Sturges said, sitting up to shake out the blanket. “I warmed it up for ya.”

 He could tell Sturges was shirtless, even on a night this glacial, and considered it both a blessing and curse that there wasn’t enough moonlight to allow for ogling. Preston cautiously stepped out of his shoes and into the bed. Already he could sense the heat rising from it -- or maybe it was his own flushed cheeks.

 As he laid down, Sturges wrapped the blanket around both of them, but in a meticulous fashion, where Preston felt the other man’s hands in places he’d never felt them before.

 Preston’s nerves frenzied again. “Listen--”

 “I know,” Sturges replied lightly.

 “I... It’s not that I don’t--”

 “I know. I said come over; I’ll keep you warm. This is an... ice melter,” he said, then laughed at his own joke. Preston could feel it vibrate in the mattress, and he nearly swooned. “You don’t have to do or say anything. Just sleep. You're exhausted, you work too damn hard.”

 “I…”

 “There’s no reason for you to offer to take a night watch, you’re nuts. You’re stretched thin as it is.”

 “So are you,” Preston parried.

 “Yeah, but I’m restless. I like it. You’re... You do it out of obligation. I watch you. I know you.”

 “Yes. You do.” He was thankful for Sturges, even before the feelings started. Conceivably Sturges’ devotion to him was a beholden debt to the Minutemen; called to aid based on a mad woman’s premonition, only to be massacred. But either way, having a friend by his side after losing it all, a man so capable and so damn loyal… it was a life raft.

 “Now you get as close or far as you want,” Sturges said, flopping onto his back. “And I can get another blanket if you want that too.”

 Preston desired nothing more than to be as close to Sturges as possible, both to soak up all his body heat and to know how his muscles felt wrapped around him. But making a move… just the idea of making a move was paralyzing.

 “It’s not just the cold, isn’t it,” Sturges stated. “It’s your mind too. You’re like me, but your restlessness is in your head.”

 “I just… I have a lot of responsibility now,” Preston sighed into the pillow. “It’s not what I signed up for, but if I don’t do it maybe no one will.”

 There was a lengthy breadth of silence, and Preston blinked his eyes. They were heavy but still he felt the routine tremolo in his chest that trapped him in the waking world each night. Sturges seemed to have a system for sleeping, toiling his body into exhaustion until he apparently crashed. A damn clever way to fight a fidgety brain.

 “It’s OK to be sad about what happened, I’m sad too,” Sturges said suddenly, and it bristled through Preston’s body. “You don’t have to be sad alone. My strength doesn’t end at my muscles; I can carry some of the load you bear.”

 “Sturges…” Preston generally considered his compassions taken advantage of, though endured it willingly in fear of being seen as fragile. For too often he feared if he didn’t believe he was strong as stone, he would crumble to dust. But Sturges was all about fixing things, never seeing anything as too far in disrepair, even when it laid in a hundred pieces at his feet.

 Preston realized right then he could break, and not lose any value in the other man's eyes.

 “I just wanna see you smile again. A real one, where I see it in your eyes too. When you smile and when you mean it, feels like everything is right in the world.”

“I thought it was self explanatory,” Daisy said with a shrug, though she knew damn well Fahrenheit had never dabbled in yuletide cheer-- or any type of cheer, for that matter, that didn’t involve violence or heavy intoxication.

 “I thought you were throwing down the gauntlet, Daisy, you better take more care.”

 “No, no, I would never. I think you’d break me.” She smirked, then tilted her head. “How do you know what that means, but you’ve never heard of Christmas.”

 “Gauntlets get thrown down every damn day, and I’ve picked up my fair share.” She lifted her chin as if asking Daisy to dare her.

 “Oh I don’t doubt you do, but settle the hell down, it’s much more gay than that.”

 “Is it...” She wrinkled her nose. “Are you coming onto me?”

 Daisy cackled louder, making Fahrenheit start to fume. Being laughed at ranked high on her endless list of hair-triggers. “Daisy, you tell me what’s going on right now or--”

 “Or what? Punch me out before you even get to try the dessert I’ve been slaving over to perfect?” Daisy said dramatically.

 The lines in Fahrenheit’s brow vanished. “Dessert?”

 “Ooh, I learned the magic word.”

 “Shut up,” she muttered, but didn’t exactly protest, to Daisy’s mirth.

 “Christmas is part of a series of winter holiday--, you know pre-war holidays right?”

 “Like that day mid-summer where we blow shit up?”

 “Sort of, yes. Winter does have a designated blow-shit-up day, but that’s after Christmas.”

 “I think that first one sounds much more fun than whatever Christmas is.”

 “Fun, maybe but not as rewarding.”

 “Bullshit, there is nothing more rewarding than explosives.”

 “Fine, fine, if you’re just going to blackball something deeply meaningful to a pre-war gal like me maybe I don’t want to spend Christmas with you.”

 There was a beat of silence and Fahrenheit’s armor creaked as she shifted her weight in uncharacteristic awkwardness. “So, what... Like, what is it then?” she said, trying to hide her interest behind a deadpan.

 Daisy waved a hand. “Oh no, it’s silly--”

 “No, like... Out of curiosity, I’m just curious,” she deflected, but her darting gaze said otherwise.

 “Oh... well, on Christmas in particular we used to give gifts to our friends and our loved ones... share a meal and spend time with people we cared about. But, of course, I haven’t had loved ones in ages.”

 “So then why me?”

 “Why not you?”

 In a twist of Daisy’s expectations, Fahrenheit gave a honest, though slightly confused, laugh.

 Fahrenheit’s youth saddled her with more inexperience than she’d ever admit. Daisy, on the other hand, was wise and unnaturally long-lived. She read people well, and Fahrenheit could be painfully transparent. The tough and disinterested exterior that she wore was as obvious as a Halloween mask. She lingered far too long around the shop during her rounds with the Neighborhood Watch, under the excuse that there were ‘rumors’ of a possible robbery. Daisy assured her the old ghoul could take care of herself, but Fahrenheit ignored each and every protest. And yet the only thing she seemed to watch was... the shopkeeper herself.

 Daisy had no definitive answer on what Fahrenheit’s relationship with Hancock even was, or where the loyalty derived from, but whatever the case the scrappy young woman had some penchant for ghoulkind. It was novel, in a sense, and Fahrenheit was quite a dish in her own rough way. Daisy always enjoyed the kick of ginger.

 “People...” Fahrenheit started, “don’t... invite me to ‘things’,” she ended with skepticism.

 “Well my goodness, I wonder why?” Daisy asked. Fahrenheit again bristled. “If your reaction to RSVPs is to barge in demanding an explanation I’m sure you’ve scared off many a party host. But I don’t scare, dear, I survived nuclear fire and then some.”

 Fahrenheit’s eyes almost glittered, as if Daisy recounted something glorious. She wouldn’t take offense; the girl was... bellicose, a little dissolute, but that’s what made her appealing. Also those damned freckles.

 “So if I do this thing,” Fahrenheit said like she was accepting a hit job. “I have to get you a gift.”

 “You don’t have to. They just say ‘to give is better than to receive’.”

 “That sounds like more bullshit to me.”

 “Yeah?” Daisy asked with a hint of combativeness.

 “Sorry,” Fahrenheit promptly responded.

 “Ha!” The girl’s swift submission was too comical to internalize. Fahrenheit frowned. “No need to be sorry.”

 “I’ll do it. I’ll get you a thing,” she replied with averted eyes.

 “Fine, fine. Don’t act as if it’s a chore, though, defeats the purpose.”

 Fahrenheit flipped the invitation around in her hand, and jutted her jaw, nodding at nothing. “Right. Then. See ya, I guess.”

 Daisy stood watching with crossed arms as Fahrenheit ambled away. Holding her breath til the other woman was out of ear shot before she let out another laugh; again surprised she’d pulled it off. It was a shot in the dark, and somehow it hit a weak spot in Fahrenheit’s seemingly solid armor.

 “Daisy, you still got it,” she congratulated.

 Haggling, flirting, was there really much of a difference?

 ---

 The Christmas record, like everything in this world, was warped. Nostalgia that couldn’t quite be experienced in its pristine state. But instead of being a depressing aspect, the warbling tone lightened the mood, a smirk crossing Daisy’s withered lips whenever the singer was particularly distorted. And also because Fahrenheit presumably considered the ghoul positively mad by now.

 She turned from the stove where she was braising a shepherd’s pie made of Cram and instant potatoes. “Oh, take that armor off, what are you doing?”

 Fahrenheit stared back, with her chin tucked in and a death grip on a beer as she sat rigidly on the scrappy loveseat. “I need it.”

 “From what? Am I gonna kill you with my spatula?” She brandished it menacingly. “Christ.”

 “Not you, I...” She trailed off and then made an odd strained sound, before unfastening her armor. There was a good girl. Daisy had never actually seen Fahrenheit without it.

 “Fascinating; you still have a human body under there. I would’ve thought you’d have molded to its shape by now.”

 Fahrenheit’s mouth quivered and she gave a soft ‘hmpf’, which Daisy accepted as stifled laugh. She was softer than expected; sure, her arms were taught from hoisting such a weapon all day, but her middle was a bit more... pillowy. All in all, it gave her a sturdy frame. No wind would knock her over.

 “Don’t ogle me,” Fahrenheit said, though it wasn’t exactly in ire.

 “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m making a mental picture for comparison's sake, I’m about to ruin your figure with all these carbohydrates.”

 “Is that what you’re cooking? A carbon... Uh--”

 Daisy laughed, “I swear to God, you wastelanders would do well to read an encyclopedia.”

 ---

 Ghoul physiology was slight, wispy. A small stomach came along with it, which was fortuitous tonight, as Fahrenheit ravenously consumed three quarters of the entire pan.

 “Well?” Daisy asked rhetorically.

 “It’s weird,” Fahrenheit replied, wiping sauce from her chin.

 “And Merry Christmas to you too,” she snorted.

 “Oh. Right.” Fahrenheit said with vacant realization. “I got you a book.”

 “A book?”

 “Yeah.”

 “What kind of book?”

 “Just... I dunno you were talking to that Vault Dweller about libraries and I don’t read, I just look at the pictures and stuff,” Fahrenheit grabbed it from her canvas bag and handed it to Daisy. “Hancock told me to wrap it in something. So I just put it in bandages, I wasn’t sure.”

 Underneath the layers of gauze was a well-worn edition of The Wind in the Willows. Daisy let out a sharp laugh, and Fahrenheit frowned.

 “No-- I--” She chortled again. “It’s funny because I recognize this one, is all.”

 “Oh. Do... Do you have it already?”

 “Well, not anymore. It burned up two-hundred years ago,” she sighed. Fahrenheit straightened up a bit. “Where’d you get this? This... Is this yours?”

 “It’s not mine, I just look at it sometimes,” Fahrenheit replied, with near defensiveness. “It’s not like I’d miss it or anything.”

 Something clicked in Daisy’s mind. “Would you like me to read this to you sometime?”

 “I dunno. I guess. That’d be kind of cool. Just to know what it’s really about.”

 The grin she suppressed danced on her lips and Fahrenheit’s pinkening cheeks told Daisy everything.

 The kitchen timer rang.

 “Oh, good. Just in time then.” Daisy slapped her knees and stood up. “It’s not truly a successful Christmas until you have dessert.”

 Fahrenheit seemed nearly mortified, which was not a face she wore often, despite how cute it looked on her.

 Daisy pulled out her gingerbread loaf from the oven and began heating a glaze. Bing Crosby started his turn on the distorted vinyl. And then it all smacked her like a shockwave. Images she hadn’t seen in centuries raced in her mind like a slideshow. Her stirring stopped.

 “Heh. This is strange,” she said hoarsely.

 “Yeah. It's bizarre,” Fahrenheit razzed.

 “No, not that. I… I haven’t made this in...” Daisy trailed off, the words too much to say. She looked over her shoulder. “You know sound and scent bring back such memories, for a second I... I thought I was somewhere else.”

 Fahrenheit stood up, surprising her. “You, uh... You ok?” she asked.

 “Yeah.” Daisy smiled, genuinely struck by her concern yet, feeling foolish for almost losing her composure. “Our minds are funny that way. They play tricks on us, don’t they?”

 Fahrenheit nodded, a somberness both in her eyes and gentle movement. There was unquestionably something deep in her too, that she protected behind a metal breastplate and gatling gun.

 Daisy turned back to her dessert, and as she poured the glaze she allowed herself one tear to fall as well.

 ---

 It verged on absurdity, a virtual zombie reading aloud a tale of talking woodland creatures to a woman so brutish, but Fahrenheit seemed to hang on every word. After the first chapter was complete Daisy slammed the book shut, making the other woman jump.

 “Why’d you--”

 “Cake should be cool by now. Have some,” she offered. To be frank, the smell was getting to her. Not because it was unpleasant, but it made her crave more than just dessert. Fahrenheit sliced herself a generous piece, and Daisy reclined back in her chair with a small exhale.

 “It must really suck,” Fahrenheit said abruptly.

 “What? The cake?”

 “N-No,” she said hastily, her shoulders stiffening. “Everything you’ve been through. You’re... you’re a tough lady, I can admire that.”

 “Thanks,” Daisy said with utmost sincerity. It may have been the only compliment she’d ever heard from the other woman and, knowing Fahrenheit’s values, a weighty one at that.

 She ungracefully stuffed the dessert in her mouth. “This is good,” she said humbly with some crumbs falling down onto her shirt.

 Daisy smiled. “Thank you, I had to improvise. I’m glad it’s not shit.”

 She snorted. “No it’s good,” Fahrenheit said, again gently as if believing her volume possessed tangible power, and she wanted her words to caress for once instead of punch. What a funny girl.

 Dessert was eaten quickly, and in profound yet comfortable silence. After chugging one last beer, Fahrenheit’s eyes blinked in a tell-tale fashion.

 “You need to go home and sleep,” Daisy said, picking up the dishes. “You’ve stuffed yourself enough for winter hibernation.”

 “Thanks for the food,” Fahrenheit said as she pulled her armor back on in a lumbering fashion. “And the weird Christmas bullshit. Cake was good. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

 “A ginger who’s never tasted ginger,” Daisy teased. “What’s that, poetic irony?”

 Fahrenheit said nothing but almost seemed… tickled. Daisy walked her down the stairs and to the front door.

 “Hey. Uh,” Fahrenheit turned to her. “You said there were more winter holidays, right?”

 “New Years is next, but I’m sure you know that one.”

 “Right. Do... Is there a pre-war way to celebrate?”

 “Yes. You get absolutely wasted and then blow shit up.”

 She cracked a smile. “Well I know that.”

 “But when the clock strikes midnight, you’re supposed to kiss someone for good luck.”

 “S... Sounds stupid.”

 “Yes, well... I can be superstitious,” she sighed.

 There was awkward silence.

 “Me too,” Fahrenheit said suddenly, making Daisy’s eyes snap upwards. “I... S-See you then.”

 The fire-haired girl bolted out of the shop, and this time Daisy didn’t try to hold back her laughter.