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dual survivors // one
Even the sound of the rain was different, somehow. It seemed impossibly loud, pattering through the holes in the roof, echoing off the useless air ducts. The house felt so much like a metal eggshell, chipped away at by the elements until it was pocked and littered and only an echo of what it once was.
Zetta sat and watched Riley breathe. She found herself doing that a lot, lately. Any time she didn't spend scavenging or building or bickering, she spent watching him breathe.
To her, it had only been a matter of hours — The bombs. The vault. Codsworth. Concord. But she swore, she felt each and every of those two hundred and ten years in those few hours. Ferran lost, Shaun stolen, and Riley — Riley... Still frozen in the vault, barely alive. Barely. But as much as she fucking hated those goddamn cryo pods, they'd kept him alive. It bought her the time she needed to find help.
God, but they got fucking lucky. Lucky that there were people in Concord. Lucky that they weren't all assholes. Lucky that they were a soldier, a mechanic, two goddamn pharmacists, and a woman who had lived through this hellscape to a ripe old age. Zetta knew some first aid basics, but she knew fuck all about what to do about a gunshot to the chest beyond 'stop the bleeding.' Between the lot of them, they had enough experience to know how to handle it.
And now... Now, Riley was laid out in bed, at home, comfortable under the threadbare quilt they were lucky enough to find in a neighbor's bunker. Asleep. Breathing. Alive. They lost their lover, their son, the world they knew — But they still had each other. She hadn't... She hadn't lost him. She hadn't lost him. She hadn't lost him.
Zetta reached out to take Riley's hand in hers, and he shifted, his face listing towards her. A moment later, he squeezed her hand gently. His eyes slowly opened. She didn't say anything, too transfixed on watching him blink slowly, watching as he started to smile at her.
"Hey," he said softly, wiggling his fingers against her palm to get her attention. He must have assumed she was lost in thought. "You okay?" The sleepy rasp did nothing to quiet the fondness in his voice.
Zetta's heart squeezed tight in her chest. Breathing. Alive. She hadn't lost him.
Her vision blurred, so she missed the way his face fell as he noticed it. "Zetta..." He started tugging on her hand properly, then. "Come on. Come up here."
What she wanted was to curl up on top of him and cling and never let go. But even if, between the stitches and the stimpaks and the days that had passed, he was able to get up and walk around, he was still healing. She'd only hurt him if she did that. So, instead, she stuck to what she knew he meant — She climbed over his legs to lay on the bed on his uninjured side, pressed herself against him tight as he tucked his arm around her. She felt him kiss her hair, and felt herself threaten to shake apart.
"I'm here." Those words came from her, not him, even if she was the one about to cry. But she knew he was about to say it himself, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to handle it if he did.
A pause, and Riley's chest shook, jostling her. He was trying not to laugh at her, she could hear it in his voice. "That's good. 'Cause I was worried there for a minute you left me for Hawaii again."
The joke immediately fell flat. Hawaii, the trip they took with Ferran last year. They'd kept meaning to get the photos developed, but never got around to it. Not that any of their old photo albums kept, anyway, so... It didn't really matter, did it? A bleak, heavy feeling sat on her chest, its power not lessened in the slightest by how familiar it had become. She wanted them. She wanted the pictures. She wanted the image of Ferran's face, bright under the island sunlight and brilliant with such a simple kind of happiness that he rarely showed, to hold in her hands.
Not that she could handle it, she knew. Seeing him in a still photograph, knowing how far away he was when the bombs fell — Knowing, even if he survived, that they were now two hundred years away from him —
Riley pressed his face into Zetta's hair, and she knew, too, that he was thinking about the same thing. His "sorry" was muffled, but she could hear the tears in his voice anyway.
She curled her fingers tight in his shirt. Then, when that wasn't good enough, let go to reach up to touch his face instead, to grip his hair, nails scritching against his scalp. "Shhhh."
"I... He..."
"I know, love. I know." Somehow, she managed to keep her voice from breaking.
Ferran lost. Shaun stolen. World dead. And, somehow, they were still alive. Still breathing.
Zetta sat and watched Riley breathe. She found herself doing that a lot, lately. Any time she didn't spend scavenging or building or bickering, she spent watching him breathe.
To her, it had only been a matter of hours — The bombs. The vault. Codsworth. Concord. But she swore, she felt each and every of those two hundred and ten years in those few hours. Ferran lost, Shaun stolen, and Riley — Riley... Still frozen in the vault, barely alive. Barely. But as much as she fucking hated those goddamn cryo pods, they'd kept him alive. It bought her the time she needed to find help.
God, but they got fucking lucky. Lucky that there were people in Concord. Lucky that they weren't all assholes. Lucky that they were a soldier, a mechanic, two goddamn pharmacists, and a woman who had lived through this hellscape to a ripe old age. Zetta knew some first aid basics, but she knew fuck all about what to do about a gunshot to the chest beyond 'stop the bleeding.' Between the lot of them, they had enough experience to know how to handle it.
And now... Now, Riley was laid out in bed, at home, comfortable under the threadbare quilt they were lucky enough to find in a neighbor's bunker. Asleep. Breathing. Alive. They lost their lover, their son, the world they knew — But they still had each other. She hadn't... She hadn't lost him. She hadn't lost him. She hadn't lost him.
Zetta reached out to take Riley's hand in hers, and he shifted, his face listing towards her. A moment later, he squeezed her hand gently. His eyes slowly opened. She didn't say anything, too transfixed on watching him blink slowly, watching as he started to smile at her.
"Hey," he said softly, wiggling his fingers against her palm to get her attention. He must have assumed she was lost in thought. "You okay?" The sleepy rasp did nothing to quiet the fondness in his voice.
Zetta's heart squeezed tight in her chest. Breathing. Alive. She hadn't lost him.
Her vision blurred, so she missed the way his face fell as he noticed it. "Zetta..." He started tugging on her hand properly, then. "Come on. Come up here."
What she wanted was to curl up on top of him and cling and never let go. But even if, between the stitches and the stimpaks and the days that had passed, he was able to get up and walk around, he was still healing. She'd only hurt him if she did that. So, instead, she stuck to what she knew he meant — She climbed over his legs to lay on the bed on his uninjured side, pressed herself against him tight as he tucked his arm around her. She felt him kiss her hair, and felt herself threaten to shake apart.
"I'm here." Those words came from her, not him, even if she was the one about to cry. But she knew he was about to say it himself, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to handle it if he did.
A pause, and Riley's chest shook, jostling her. He was trying not to laugh at her, she could hear it in his voice. "That's good. 'Cause I was worried there for a minute you left me for Hawaii again."
The joke immediately fell flat. Hawaii, the trip they took with Ferran last year. They'd kept meaning to get the photos developed, but never got around to it. Not that any of their old photo albums kept, anyway, so... It didn't really matter, did it? A bleak, heavy feeling sat on her chest, its power not lessened in the slightest by how familiar it had become. She wanted them. She wanted the pictures. She wanted the image of Ferran's face, bright under the island sunlight and brilliant with such a simple kind of happiness that he rarely showed, to hold in her hands.
Not that she could handle it, she knew. Seeing him in a still photograph, knowing how far away he was when the bombs fell — Knowing, even if he survived, that they were now two hundred years away from him —
Riley pressed his face into Zetta's hair, and she knew, too, that he was thinking about the same thing. His "sorry" was muffled, but she could hear the tears in his voice anyway.
She curled her fingers tight in his shirt. Then, when that wasn't good enough, let go to reach up to touch his face instead, to grip his hair, nails scritching against his scalp. "Shhhh."
"I... He..."
"I know, love. I know." Somehow, she managed to keep her voice from breaking.
Ferran lost. Shaun stolen. World dead. And, somehow, they were still alive. Still breathing.