Okay, I never jump on the bandwagon, but every single one of these that has crossed my dash has looked so fun—and oh my god it was. I can’t draw to save my life, but I can passably Frankenstein old pulp covers in Procreate. Just don’t ask me how many hours it took.
Nora: Queen of Spades, Survivor Queen
Ros: 10 of Spades, Surviving the Storm
Charlie: Ace of Spades, Point of No Return
Shrike: 6 of Spades, Earned Passage
More info on my Fallout OCs here.
Trend started by @meatgrinderminefield (if I recall correctly). This was a blast!
Most accurate Picrew (AKA a post with most of London’s character references in one place)
I’m not an artist. I can write descriptions to the best of my ability, but so far, when it comes to actually showing you my characters, I’ve been limited to making them in Picrew and avatar makers over and over again. Certain makers fit some characters better than others, so partly for your reference, mostly for my own, here are the best approximations of several OCs.
Lily
The Lady of Hera maker is honestly the closest I’ve come to achieving Lily. The face isn’t quite right (she’s not nearly that pretty), but the hair and body type aren’t too far off.
Mason
It’s a tie between this one (Character maker) and this one (Wervty’s). Neither are too far off. Left is more realistic. Right is closer to his body type.
Robin
Not a lot of options for Black characters in Picrew. Wervty’s and the HPHM creation screen of all things are the closest I could get to Robin.
Sam
Sam is gender goals for me, honestly. Left is closer, especially with regards to face and general vibe. She has a larger build though.
Kathy
Incredibly close. Glasses are a bit different but fully see Kathy.
Mrs. Byrne
Love this witch. The hints of brown should be spread out throughout more of her hair but otherwise close.
Bonus: Ros & Nora
Switching fandoms, but 100% how I picture these two.
Into the second week of this challenge and still trucking. Barely. I can do this, I can do this...
I've shared bits and pieces of this scene over the years as I've chipped away at it, but now you get the full thing: Ros slamming into rock bottom. Fun!
No. 8: “Oh horror, oh horror, what did you see?”| Held at Gunpoint
* * * *
The deadline to turn in her next article came and went. Ros watched it pass, staring at the clock on her Pip-Boy as the numbers ticked by. There was no fanfare to announce her failure, no skip in her pulse, no click in her brain. Nothing changed. She dimmed her screen and stared at the setting sun until she saw spots, legs dangling above that ground far, far below.
She climbed down the tower before the sun sank fully into twilight. Her legs walked her through the Diamond City gate automatically. Pure habit, rather than any strong inclination to return. It would be better to spend the night in a bed, she supposed, even if sleep lacked appeal.
Voices, too loud, smothered the squeak of the door hinges as Ros stepped into Publick Occurrences. A prick of annoyance twisted her mouth, the strongest sensation she had felt all day.
“I’m telling you,” Piper was saying, “it’s strange.”
“I believe you, Pipes,” Nora said. “But it’s a little soon to start worrying.”
“It’s not just today. It’s been the whole week. And every time I try to bring it up—”
Ros shoved the door shut. Piper jumped. Nora’s hand twitched towards her holster.
“There you are.” Piper attempted a smile. It was too off-kilter to be sincere. “And here I thought we were going to have to send a search party.”
“Lost track of time,” Ros mumbled.
Nora frowned. “Are you feeling all right, honey? You’re looking a little under the weather.”
“Fine. Just tired. I’m going to bed.” Ros waited for them to clear the way of the stairs. They didn’t.
“Before you go,” Piper said, prompting Ros to wince internally, “did you leave your article somewhere different? I can’t find it.”
“I didn’t do it. I’m done.”
“You’re done?”
“I’m leaving. Done. Gone.”
Piper and Nora exchanged a startled look. “A little warning would have been nice,” Piper said.
“It’s a recent development,” Ros said. “I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow.”
“What happened?” Nora asked.
“Nothing happened. I said I wasn’t sticking around. I’m not sticking around.”
“Something obviously happened,” Piper said. “Hon, you’ve been acting odd all week. Ever since you went out with Nick. I thought that went well?”
“It did. Nick’s great. We brought Arlen home. Case closed. I’m going to bed.” Ros moved to squeeze by.
Piper caught her shoulder. “Ros, don’t—”
Ros jerked away, her lip curling. “Don’t touch me.”
Piper raised her hands. “No touching. Got it. But don’t run out on us just yet. Please. We need to make sure you’re okay.”
“Peachy.”
Nora’s hand was hooked on Piper’s belt, having drawn her a step back. “You really don’t look well. How about we put a pin in all rash decisions until the morning?”
“Sure. It won’t make a difference, but sure.”
“You’ve been here nearly two months,” Piper said. “I’m fine without the two weeks notice, but can’t we at least get an explanation? Because if it’s something I said, I say a lot of things—”
Ros groaned. “I want to leave. Why can’t you just let me leave?”
“Because it doesn’t make any sense. It would if something spooked you, but I can’t figure out what. I saw the pictures Nick took of the ghouls, and maybe that would shake a person, but—”
“Stop.”
Piper stopped. Ros didn’t.
“Stop. Always with the questions. The constant prying. I told you to leave me alone and you didn’t, so I’ve had it. I’ve had it, and I’m done. I’m leaving now.”
Piper spread her hands. “You chose to work for a journalist. You could’ve told me if I was being too much.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Ros.”
“Ros, please, wait until—”
“Get out of my way! I’ve had enough of you! I’ve had enough of all of you! With your questions and badgering and your fucking pretend militia and your stupid articles for your stupid fucking paper. So you better let me go because if you don’t I’m going to burn this place to the ground because I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!”
“Out of line!” Nora snapped. It was the first time Ros had heard her raise her voice. And it pushed exactly the wrong button.
Cracks spiderwebbing, spiderwebbing, spiderwebbing for weeks, months, years. Pressure building between her ribs, between her eyes, until she could no longer hold it. She didn’t want to hold it. She wanted it out.
“Fuck off.” In one fluid motion, Ros drew her pistol on Piper, the hammer clicking under her thumb.
Piper raised her hands alongside her head. “Easy! Easy!” she gasped. “No, keep that gun lowered, doll.” This second command wasn’t directed at Ros. It was directed at Nora, who had trained her Mag on Ros the heartbeat her hand had gone for her hip.
Nora didn’t take her eyes off Ros. Nor did she lower her gun. “Piper,” Nora warned.
Nora pointed her revolver at the floor, although she kept both hands firmly on it, maintaining a ready stance. “Easy, darling,” she told Ros, her voice low. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Piper said softly.
Ros’s grip on her gun was white-knuckled. Sweat gathered beneath her palm. Breathless, wild, she said, “I don’t have anything left to lose.”
“You have us,” Piper said.
“You can’t promise that.”
“What is hurting me going to accomplish?”
Ros couldn’t answer. She couldn’t drop Piper’s gaze either—she physically couldn’t. There was something fierce and earnest in that freckled face, behind those hazel green eyes. Something that burned Ros to look at. And, yet, if she looked away, Ros would shatter because of it.
“You’re safe here,” Nora said. “We’re friends.”
Ros scoffed, “Are you?”
“I’m not going to fight you,” Piper said. “Tell us how we can help you. Tell me how I can help you.”
“You can’t help me. No one can help me.” There was no backing out. No returning the gun to its holster. They couldn’t pretend this had never happened, so there was no way all of them would get out of this alive. Someone would have to pull a trigger, and Ros didn’t want it to be her.
Not while aiming at Piper, at least.
“Let me try,” Piper said. Her voice was shaking, just like her hands, which were still raised alongside her head. But she spoke so softly, as if Ros was no more than a frightened child.
“You can’t,” Ros hissed. “You can’t make it go away. It’s always there, empty and rotting.”
“What is, hon?”
Ros had no words for it. She didn’t need them. When she took her free hand and clawed her fingers across her chest, the pity in Piper’s face told her she had conveyed exactly what she had wanted to say.
Nora sucked in a breath. “Sweetie…”
A jolt rocked Ros’s entire body. She twitched the gun toward Nora. “Don’t call me that!”
“Easy!”
“Careful, hon.”
“Stop it! Both of you!” She rotated her aim between them. “You’ve been acting like my mom. You’re not! My mom’s dead. You’re not her!”
They stared at her. Maybe they were stunned. Maybe they were waiting for her to say more. She didn’t have a choice. The rotting hole beneath her fingers was caving in.
“She’s dead,” she repeated. “My whole family—everyone I have ever loved is dead. I have nothing—nothing left to lose. Don’t make me pretend otherwise.”
“Ros—”
Ros turned her gun back on Piper, who broke off with a gasp. The fearful noise, Piper’s flinch—it brought Ros an odd satisfaction. It felt right. Far more right than her infuriating forced calm. “Haven’t you heard?” Ros laughed. “I’m the Grim Reaper. Death follows me wherever I go.”
“Ros.” Nora this time. Ros didn’t look away from Piper again, because the rational part of her brain that was still functioning said this would hurt Nora the most. The irrational part of her brain, the one that was running the show, found an odd satisfaction in that too. “Hey, Ros, tell me about your gun.”
“I’m not. This is relevant, I promise. What’s your gun’s story?”
A tremble ran through the weapon. Ros brought her left hand up to steady it, finally gripping it properly. Her fingertips rubbed against the nicks in its trigger guard. “It…it doesn’t have one. I traded for it, about a year ago. I lost the last one. Threw it at a raider’s head when I ran out of ammo.”
Nora laughed once. It was a breathless laugh, the kind formed when pressure intensified every emotion. “See, that’s a story. My gun has a story too.” Ros dared to watch her from the corner of her eye as she held up the modded Magnum for her to see. “This revolver,” Nora stated, “belonged to the man who murdered my husband and kidnapped my son. I took it from him when I killed him. I would’ve tossed it in the river years ago if it hadn’t kept me alive since then.”
More tremors ran through Ros’s gun, stronger. She couldn’t keep her aim straight, not long enough to react when Nora stepped in front of Piper. Piper’s hand grabbed her girlfriend’s arm from behind, but Nora elbowed her, forcing her back.
“Piper’s pistol has her own story,” Nora continued. “She inherited it from her dad after he was killed. Also murdered.”
“Blue,” Piper warned.
Nora ignored her. Slowly, she holstered the Mag and raised her empty hands, arms extended, palms upturned. She took a step forward.
Ros shifted her weight from foot to foot, rocked by a burst of adrenaline with nowhere to go. “Stay back!” she warned. Everything was shaking now—her voice, her breath, her hands, her legs. Even her vision wavered.
“I can’t comprehend what you’ve gone through, how much pain you’ve been in for a very long time. I only know what I feel right here.” Nora placed her left hand on her own chest, her fingers clawing into her shirt. “How empty and raw it is, like someone ripped out a part of me that can never be filled. Sometimes it burns so much I can’t breathe.”
“What’s the point?” Ros said hoarsely. Her throat was almost too tight to speak. “What’s the point of anything?”
“The point”—Nora reached behind her to squeeze Piper’s hand—“is that when I was lost, someone was waiting for me at the city gate. Locked out, actually. Waving her arms and yelling.” She gave a half-smile. “I found good people, kind people. People that were willing to love me if I let them. I have a family again.”
“You’re not my family.” There was no more anger behind Ros’s words. There was simply a tired, miserable grief.
Nora’s smile turned sad. “I know,” she said, and that was it. That was the trigger that had been pulled. Just not from a gun.
Ros closed her eyes. The hammer on her pistol clicked. She rotated it until the handle faced away from her. “Take it,” she whispered. “Before I do something.”
The cool metal left her fingers. Without it, she might as well have been drifting through air. She no longer had a weapon to protect herself from the rotten things in that hole in her chest. So, defenseless, she threw open the door and ran, ignoring the voices that called her back.
Last Fallout piece for Whumptober! Hanging on by a thread but still hanging on. Just a few more fics left.
Ros refers to herself as a problem child earlier in this chapter. She's not entirely wrong. Hancock doesn't exactly help though.
No. 19: “You’re on your own, lost in the wild.” | Living Weapon
No. 20: Symptomatic | Resignation
No. 21: “Sold my soul, broke my bones.”
* * * *
“I don’t feel too different.”
“Give it a minute to take full effect. In the meantime…” Hancock swept his hands dramatically towards the stairs. “Your world awaits.”
Ros didn’t know whether to thank him or not, so she awkwardly made her way to the exit. It was only after she made it down the stairs and out onto the streets of Goodneighbor that the voice of reason reappeared to thunk her on the forehead. Metaphorically.
She looked at her arm. The tiny dark spot of a fresh bruise, the little crust of dried blood. Her pulse quickened, her heart beginning to pound, though whether it was panic or the Psycho setting in she couldn’t tell.
What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t, that much was clear. Why had Nick and Nora left her unsupervised? They’d left her alone in a strange city, so of course she’d gone and done something stupid. She couldn’t be trusted.
She gnashed her teeth as a hot spike of anger rushed through her blood. Her breath grew shallow, and she let it. What was the point of being calm? She didn’t want to be calm. This was so much easier, this rush. They knew she was dangerous, and they’d left her alone. That was on them.
Nora knew all about consequences. Well, here was Ros. Another consequence.
Grim Reaper. Pale Rider. They called her that. They’d called her that before they’d even known her. Someone scary. Someone deadly. Invincible. That’s the effect she had wanted with her helmet, wasn’t it? To drive the world away?
She didn’t have her helmet with her now. It had been a while since she had worn it—since she had needed it. She craved it suddenly, alone on the street. Eyes tracked her as she stalked along the filthy gutters—the gaunt-faced hunger of the drifters, the watchful distrust of the men in suspenders. She was an unknown quantity, no obvious place on the scale from target to trouble. Her helmet would have placed her solidly in the middle. She wanted to see what she could achieve without it.
[Something something Ros ends up in the Third Rail. Cait is where Ros had left her guarding the lounge—Nick and Nora are in a meeting that neither Cait nor Ros are allowed into. Cait is tense. Ros is high. They grate on each other’s nerves. Cait cracks a tasteless joke. Ros snaps and throws a punch.]
Cait caught her fist. “Big mistake, love.”
[Insert short and mildly unhinged bar fight.]
“Take it outside!” the bouncer roared. “Outside!”
Solid metal dug into Ros’s wrist, and then her arm was twisted behind her back, followed by the other one. She thrashed, furious. She wasn’t done, she wasn’t done. Let her get one more hit in. Just one more—
“Enough,” Nick growled in her ear.
Cait threw her hands up before someone could grab her too. Blood dripped from her nose. “I’m calm! Jesus, I’m calm!”
“Cait,” the bouncer scolded. “You know the rules about fighting in the Third Rail.”
“Don’t blame me!” Cait exclaimed. “I’m sober.”
“I can vouch for her, Ham,” the Mr. Handy bartender said. “It was self-defense. The kid started it.”
Nick didn’t wait to see how the rest of that conversation would play out. He forced her up the stairs. She fought him the whole way out the door, thrashing, kicking, spitting. She only succeeded in getting her arms twisted more painfully when he lifted her off the ground, half-carrying, half-dragging her down the street.
Around the side of the State House, he cuffed her upside the head. Not hard enough to hurt, but still a solid enough hit to stun her, if only out of surprise. “Knock it off!” he ordered, his voice harsh and dangerous.
She stopped wrestling with him, but she kept her teeth bared. “Let me go,” she hissed. “You dragged me out of there. I’m not gonna kill anyone, so let me go.”
“What’s gotten into you?” He roughly grabbed her jaw, holding her head still so that his luminescent eyes could study her face. His own jaw tightened. “Your pupils are pinpricks.”
She tore her head free with a jerk of her chin. He snagged her by the scruff. “Get your hands off me,” she snarled.
“Let me see your arm.” His hand shot for her sleeve. She yanked it away.
“Let go of me!”
“I’ll let go when you show me your arm.”
“No! Nick, let go!”
She struggled uselessly. He was bigger and stronger and frustratingly inorganic. All she achieved was delaying the moment he forced up her sleeve, revealing the tiny bruise, nearly invisible in the shadow of the building. She swung a feeble punch. He knocked it away effortlessly.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Get what?”
“Don’t play dumb. The Psycho. Who gave it to you?”
“What does it matter?”
“What matters is you’re high and you’re going to get your skull smashed in if you don’t knock it off.” Swiping her next punch to the side, he grabbed the collar of her jacket and slammed her against the wall, pinning her to the bricks. “For god’s sake, calm down!”
She kicked blindly at his shins. “Calm down!” she exclaimed incredulously. “Get off me, you lunatic!”
“Kid—Ros, I don’t want to hurt you. Ros. I’ll let you go if—quit kicking me. Ros, I’m going to let you go, but you have to stop swinging at me. Ros—ow! Kid, stop!”
He was repeating her name deliberately. She didn’t know what technique he was using on her—or trying to use on her, and she didn’t care for it. “Let go, let go, let go, let go—”
“Hey, breathe. Ros, inhale. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I don’t like this,” she whined.
Her heart was pounding so hard. She couldn’t calm down. She didn’t want to calm down, but he was mad at her, and she didn’t want him to be mad at her.
Her chest was painfully tight. Was she having a heart attack? It was so hard to breathe.
“You’re fine,” he said. “You’re fine.” Which made her think that she absolutely was not fine.
“I can’t make it stop,” she said. “I want to kill someone.”
“That’s what happens when you dampen your higher brain functions. It’ll wear off in a minute. Just breathe.”
“I can’t.”
A sharp whistle turned Nick’s head. Cait appeared in her peripheral vision, slightly less bloody than before. Nora followed behind, stone-faced. Ros’s stomach sank.
“Cait,” Nick said. “It’s—”
“Already clocked it, Nicky.” Cait shook a small red object in her hand. It gave a plasticky rattle. “Move.”
Nick released Ros, stepping out of the way. She kept her back to the bricks, shoulders curling as Cait loomed in front of her. Then the red object was shoved against Ros’s mouth. An inhaler.
“Breathe in and hold,” Cait said, gripping her shoulder. Too terrified to disobey, Ros parted her lips to breathe in. The inhaler puffed. “Hold, hold, hold…”
The puff of moist air tasted horrible. She nearly coughed, but she held it in her lungs until Cait let her exhale. Ros took several deep breaths—before she realized she was once again capable of taking deep breaths. Her heart rate slowed, as did her thoughts. Cait eased into sharper focus.
“Better?” she asked, as Ros’s shoulders relaxed beneath her hand. Ros nodded. “Good.” Cait flicked her forehead. “Don’t mess with that shite unless you wanna die puking blood. Trust me, that’s the best case scenario.”
Nora touched Ros’s other shoulder. “Have you been using Psycho this whole time?”
“No,” Ros said, suddenly feeling very small. “I don’t… I never…”
She was so stupid. So, so stupid.
A raspy laugh rang out down the street. “Addictol after one dose? Since when are you a buzzkill, Cait?”
Cait whipped around with a scowl. “It only takes one, ya eejit.”
“Sorry for assuming they could hold their shit.” Hancock grinned at Ros. “Sister, when I said take on the world, I didn’t mean trash my bar, but hey, you know what? I can dig it.”
Nora’s touch vanished. It reappeared in the form of a resounding thud as she punched Hancock clean across the jaw, sending him reeling. “Not that one,” she snapped. She jabbed a finger towards Ros. “You hear me? Not that one.”
Two nearby men in suspenders raised their semiautos. Hancock waved them off, clutching his cheek with his other hand. “Leave her be. Where would we be if we didn’t let folks speak their minds, huh?” He worked his jaw with a wince. “Yeah, sunshine, I heard you loud and clear. Your kid’s off limits. Except they’re not actually a kid. You know that, right?”
“Off. Limits.”
“Jesus, Delaney. All right.” He straightened his hat. “Word of advice? Wrap up your business quick. Folks around here get antsy when outsiders make a scene.”
[Cue awkward exit. The walking disaster party leaves Goodneighbor and begins the mile-walk back to Diamond City.]
Nora flexed her fingers with a wince, the skin around her knuckles broken.
“You shoulda let me do that,” Cait said. “No use blooding your fancy reputation.”
“It means more coming from me.” Nora jerked her chin. Cait dropped back with a nod. Ros was so baffled by the silent command that she was unprepared when Nora pinned her with a glare. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
Ros bristled. “Well, I’m not. You shouldn’t have brought me.”
“You’re right.” No hesitation. No denial. No pulling her punches. Ros cringed. Nora pinched the bridge of her nose. “What did Hancock even say to convince you?”
“I don’t know. He said a lot of things. He just kept talking.”
“He does that.”
“He said you used to do chems too. And sell them. And that’s how the Minutemen are funded.”
Nora slowed her pace. Nick and Cait each picked a different spot on the horizon to direct their gaze. “That’s…not exactly true.”
Ros crossed her arms. “Which part?”
“It’s not how the Minutemen are funded now. And they were never completely…I mean, it wasn’t like…” Nora dug her nails into her palm, frustrated. “Look, things are different now. Do as I say, not as I do—did. All right?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Are you mad at me? Is that why you did it?”
“No. I don’t know.”
Nora’s expression softened. “It’s not like I don’t get it. I was a desperate person. I took a lot of shortcuts. Made a lot of hard choices. It’s no excuse. It doesn’t change anything I did, but that’s how it was.”
“Not how it is?”
Nora didn’t answer, which was fine. She had said enough earlier.
Not that one. As if there were exceptions.
“Have you ever wondered how many deaths you contributed to?” Ros asked. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a tired, unfeeling question.
“At some point I lost count,” Nora said. “Does that change your perspective of me?”
Ros shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“I…” Nora trailed off, losing steam. She shook her head. “We can talk about it later. I just can’t do this right now.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
[Ros retreats from Nora. She ends up walking beside Nick.]
“Did you know?” Ros asked. “About Nora?”
Nick chose his words carefully. “I don’t always ask for the fine print. Old versions of people aren’t really my business.”
“Aren’t you working a case where a girl overdo—”
“Don’t,” Nick said with surprising force. “Don’t.”
Ros shrunk away from his anger, such an alien thing. Any irritation he’d shown before, any grumpiness, was so trivial compared to this condensed fury.
He rubbed his brow, appearing more world-weary than she had ever seen. “There have been too many disappointments today,” he said. “I’d rather not have old ones piled on top.”
He could have shoved her against the bricks again and it would have hurt her lungs less. Throat tight, she shrunk further away. It was probably good, then, that he didn’t say another word to her for the rest of the walk home.
Thanks to @x688plsloveme for the tag! I think most folks have been included, but if I missed you, just say I tagged you and I’ll make sure to tag you in future games.
Ros
(Art commission by IPB.) Ros has two playlists: one with songs in order of plot, one just for vibes. I picked songs from both (YouTube link for all 10, for simplicity).
“Ain’t No Devil” - Andrea Wasse: Blood in the river / Blood in the sky
“White Rider (Guitar Version)” - Ryan Ike
“Trigger Finger” - Coyote Kid: I know how to improvise / To stay alive / It’s not my time to die
“Again Again” - Power-Haus, DITONE
“Carolina Reaper” - Amélie Farren: Those fool enough to bother me / Strangely end up dead
“Barking Dog” - Dizzy: And no amount of loving / can stop this dog from barking / cause she’s in pain
“Wolves (Acoustic Version)” - Aviators: I, the messenger of loss / Have traveled at a cost / To save their legacies
“A Matter of Time” - Marcus Warner
“Above the Clouds of Pompeii” - Bear’s Den: Please, just don’t cry / Hold your head up high / She would want you to
“Free” - Florence + The Machine: Is this how it is? Is this how it’s always been? / To exist in the face of suffering and death / And somehow still keep singing
Nora
I have a playlist for Nora, but I need to redo it. Here’s a handful of songs that still fit though (YouTube link).
“Fallout” - UNSECRET, Neoni: Blood red skies / Burn in the wake / Of a world left behind
“The World Ender” - Lord Huron: They took my life but this isn’t the end
“Who Will Save You Now” - Les Friction: Go tell the world I’m still alive
“Sirens” - Imagine Dragons: Get run over by heaven knows what / Weary solider
“Desolation” - Tommee Profitt, Fleurie
“Begin Again” - Avalon Zero, David Chappell
“The Horror” - Ursine Vulpine, Annaca: I’ve been dragging crowns and castles on my back
“Guilty” - Karmina: Now you got my heart, don’t break it
“Not Dead Yet” - Lord Huron: I ain’t dead yet / And I got something to say
“Feels Like Family” - Layup: I got a real good crew and I'm tellin’ you / I wouldn’t change a single thing
She at least deserves to snap at Nick sometimes, as a treat. And at Ros too.
Or: It’s hard when your boss-slash-kinda-sorta-father and your coworker-slash-kinda-sorta-sister too often demonstrate a concerning lack of self-preservation.
* * * *
“That was out of line,” Nick said.
“You don’t get it,” Ellie spat. “You never get it. If you die, what happens to me?”
He cleared his throat. “Well…I won’t pretend it won’t be…inconvenient, but if you talk to Mayor Garza, they are more than prepared to help you find another job. It would be unfair to leave you in a mess, so I—”
She struck him. She slammed her hand upon his chest. He was too stunned to move out of the way. “I don’t give a damn about the job! This job is the best thing to ever happen to me, but it sure as hell isn’t because of the pay. You have some nerve, Nick Valentine, calling your death inconvenient. You plate-headed walking junk heap, broken toaster bastard, sorry excuse for a private dick—” She had balled up the front of his coat in her hands and was shaking him with every word.
“Ellie—Ellie! Stop—hey, stop-stop-stop!” He grabbed her hands, but while the shaking slowed, he couldn’t pry them off him. He would hurt her if he tried.
He looked at her flushed face and wished he hadn’t, because there lived the tragedy, crumpling before him in slow motion. Her fingers curled tighter into his coat, scraping against the plastic underneath. “What happens to…me,” she repeated, as her anger unraveled into something worse, “if I…lose…you?”
* * * *
[Literally like a month later.]
Of all people, it was Ellie’s reaction that broke her. Maybe it was because Ros had prepared herself for the others. She had expected Nick and Nora, Chloe and Danny. What Ros hadn’t expected was the look on Ellie’s face when she pushed open the door.
When Ellie raised her head, she bore the expression of someone who’d had a dagger driven through their lungs. “I’m still asleep,” she whispered.
“No,” Ros said. “It’s me.”
Ellie launched out of her chair—towards the opposite end of the room. “No,” she said, shaking out her hands. The file cabinets rattled as she paced erratically. “No, no, no, no, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to copy Nick—to go out and convince me that you’re dead and then just show up.”
She broke off with a shuddering gasp as Ros wrapped her arms around her. She stood frozen. Then she fell to her knees, dragging Ros down with her.
Ellie thoughts consumed me while I was at work today, so here’s a Reaper snippet to show I haven’t let this fic die.
It’s business worse than usual at the Valentine Detective Agency…and the bar was low to start with.
* * * *
The client curled in on himself, grief so heavy Nick could feel it clog his own throat. Ros remained frozen.
Now was the opportune moment for Nick to intervene. Ros was out of their depth. The case needed a far steadier and more experienced hand.
Nick’s hands weren’t working. His wrists had tightened with a hot ache, as if someone had twisted a screwdriver until his joints jammed. Only in memory—not in this existence—had he inhaled for a reason beyond speech or placebo. An erratic current sparked through his limbs as, for the first time in decades, he felt panic that he couldn’t breathe.
The curtain fluttered. In stepped Ellie. Pale-faced and barefoot, with her hair held in a bun by a pencil, she looked far less put together than usual, but she was standing upright, her back straight, even if her jaw was clenched.
“El,” Nick said. “You shouldn’t—”
She flicked her wrist at him in a shooing motion. Instinct more than his better judgment prompted him to step out of the way. She leaned over the back of Ros’s chair (Ellie’s chair) and placed her hands on their shoulders.
Ros twisted her neck towards her, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“You did just fine, honey,” Ellie murmured by her ear. “Let me take it from here, okay?”
Ros nodded. She vacated the chair with a speed just shy of desperation, fleeing the room.
Ellie dragged the chair around the desk. She lightly touched the client’s shoulder. “Mr. Campbell,” she said gently. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit?”
He stared at her blearily, uncomprehending.
She crouched to his level, not taking the chair without permission. “We don’t have to talk, if you don’t want. But you don’t have to be alone right now either.”
“I have nothing left. It’s all gone. She’s gone.”
“It sounds like you carry her very close. Do you want to tell me about her?”
His lips curled in a biteless, agonized sneer. He shook his head with a sniffle.
“That’s okay, honey. May I?” When he gestured vaguely at the chair, she finally sat. “I’m Ellie,” she said, extending a hand, palm up.
Hesitant, he took it. “Tom.”
She cradled his hand between both of hers. “Should we sit here together, Tom?”
He nodded, face crumpling. Ellie clasped his hand tight.
Nick eased over to his desk, as was routine in these kinds of moments. Ellie handled the consoling. He handled the hiding in the corner—pardon, finishing the report.
It was a necessary task, in a dishonest sort of way. He added the notes needed to close out the case, both listening and not as Ellie spoke in hushed tones. When the client started sobbing against her shoulder, he pretended it was coincidence that he draped his coat over his arm and went upstairs.
Ros was on the roof, knees hugged to their chest. She turned her head so he couldn’t see her face. The sheetmetal flexed as he dropped to a knee. She stiffened in surprise when he tossed his coat around her shoulders.
“Sorry,” she said, congested.
“You got thrown off the deep end. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” He hadn’t done much better himself.
“It’s just…it’s just sad.”
“There’s more than one way to bring a person home,” he said. “Don’t discount the closure.”
She wrapped the coat tighter around herself. For no explicable reason, he ruffled her hair. Before either of them could react to that bizarre gesture, he left her there alone on the roof.
* * * *
Mr. Campbell left sometime in the next hour. Nick escorted him to the inn. While he hadn’t successfully refused the man’s caps, he did use those caps to rent him a room. Before he took off, Nick provided him with a map to Sanctuary, as well as recommendations for people to talk to. He couldn’t give him his life back, but he could give him a direction to head. It was the best he could do.
Ellie was still seated when Nick returned. Her straight posture had curled into a slouch.
Stepping behind her chair, Nick laid a hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own, rubbing her thumb over his metal knuckles, though he couldn’t feel it. She closed her eyes and kept them closed, breathing in the deafening silence that came in the wake of cases like these.
He didn’t withdraw until she released his hand. It was then that he lightly tapped her chin with his forefinger. She lifted it with a gentle smile. There’s my girl.
“Feel like eating?” he asked.
Her smile slipped. “I could try. Has Ros eaten yet?”
“No. She needs to.”
“Poor thing. I’ll see if we have any leftover soup.”
He stepped back to clear a path to the bedroom. As the curtain swished shut behind her, he glanced down at the photograph on her desk. He gave it one last long look—blue lips, sunken cheeks, sightless eyes—before he tucked the Goodneighbor girl (Iris. He wrote her name underneath the photo: Iris Campbell.) in her file and shut her in the drawer labeled “CLOSED.” Not truly closed. Never truly closed. Simply the best he could do.
Ellie hummed tunelessly in the next room. Ros’s footsteps thudded across the ceiling, moving towards the stairs to join her. The kettle whistled as it rose to a boil, drowning their voices out.
One of the radstag photos was crooked. He straightened it, granting the lonely bachelor a clear view of their little office.
Things were always a mess. Some days he felt like a Mr. Handy attempting to polish a rusted car, but today…
“Nick?” He turned. Ros held his coat out.
He accepted it. “Sure you don’t want to get it fitted? We might just make a gumshoe out of you yet.”
“Funny,” she said, albeit uncertainly, like she wasn’t sure if he had told a joke. He realized with a mild bewilderment that he wasn’t sure either. She inched towards the curtain. “Uh, thanks anyway.”
A work in progress, he thought as she retreated from the office. Today was a work in progress.
