Work Text:
All she wanted was a quiet moment to take a smoke break, maybe listen to the waves crashing over the concrete foundation. Instead, she stared to the northeast, cigarette dropping from an opened mouth, as a plume of mushroom-shaped smoke grew sky high in the distance. Even so far out, the rumblings of the explosion could be heard over the startled exclamations of the Warwicks and their farmhands, everyone clamoring to know what the hell happened.
She didn’t want to think about it. Even when she received her confirmation a week later, as a familiar face stepped out of the gloom one night.
He looked as awful as she felt, uniform torn and muddy, his laser long since discarded for a pipe pistol he could actually reload. With no Insitute to go back to, there was no resupplying, no chance of picking up another uniform. Just making do in the Commonwealth.
It wasn’t hard to come up with a story for him. An old friend, down on his luck. Roger knew just by looking who (what) he was, and was quick to smooth over any issues with the others. He was as lost as they were, after all. Having another like her around could turn to a good thing.
She took him back to the little building by the water tanks, the spot she had claimed for home. A fresh change of clothes, something to eat, and together, they sank into the ancient couch, her with her feet propped up on the steamer trunk, him with his ankles neatly crossed, his fingers laced together on his stomach. He told her everything, or everything he knew.
She closed her eyes as he spoke, counting her breaths. One, two. The Director’s mother. Three, four. Allied with one of the Institute’s enemies. Five, six. No known survivors. Seven, eight. Everything gone. Destroyed completely.
Nine, ten.
She opened her eyes, staring at the mounted brahmin head on the wall across from the old couch, and slowly got to her feet. He followed after her, stopping at her side by the edge of the homestead’s grounds. Their hands brushed against the other briefly, before pulling back into their own space.
The waves crashed against the concrete outside, and she itched for a cigarette.