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One moment, they were hurrying through the city with only the crunch of broken asphalt underfoot to keep them company, and the next, Butch was covering his ears to protect them from the loudest noise he’d ever heard in his life, like the sky was tearing itself apart. It shook the ground they were walking on, the buildings around them. “The fuck is that?” he blurted, panicked.
Petra continued walking, focused on her PipBoy screen. “Thunder,” she replied, like there was nothing to be afraid of, like the sky wasn’t falling apart above them. “There’s a storm rolling in.”
“What do we do?” he asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.
Petra stopped and turned around. Dogmeat copied her, his head cocked to one side. A slow smile spread across her face. “Wait a minute,” she said, with the kind of glee he’d come to expect from comic book villains discovering Grognak’s mortal weakness. “Are you scared of thunderstorms?”
His face went hot. “I’ve never been in a storm, jackass,” he shot back. “Vault, hundreds of feet underground—ring any bells?”
“Nope, sorry,” she said, innocently folding her hands behind her back. “I haven’t heard of vaults before. Can you explain them to me? And please, take your time. I’m not worried about the storm.”
Butch scowled, which he imagined didn’t look like much when his face was on fire. “It isn’t funny.”
“Oh, no, definitely not,” she agreed, grinning.
It was too late for him now. He’d already lost the war. Petra was gonna hold this over his head for their rest of their lives, the perfect ammunition to fire back at him whenever he got a little too cocky. He was afraid of thunderstorms and radroaches, for crying out loud; of course she’d make fun of him for it. It only made sense. It was what he would do, if their roles were reversed—only Butch wouldn’t just tease. He’d make her life hell.
He was doing his best to make up for the ten years of hell he’d already put her through in the vault. He was trying to be a different person. Petra was making it very hard.
“Can we just…get under cover before it starts raining?” he asked, bracing for the inevitable wave of mockery.
But Petra didn’t press the subject further. She just began to walk forward again, clicking around the map on her PipBoy. “Let’s get to a metro station. The thunder won’t be so loud underground.”
Butch hurried after her, peering at the bank of gray sliding toward them, jumping at the occasional rumblings of thunder that shook the world. “Won’t it wake the ghouls?”
She seemed to consider that a moment, her head tilted to one side. She easily sidestepped a break in the pavement, one that Butch nearly twisted his ankle in, as she said, “Maybe. But you’ve gotta choose, Butch—the ghouls or the thunder.”
Another clap overhead, and the rain began to pour. Butch yelped and broke into a run. “Metro! I choose metro!”
--
“So…” Petra said, once they were safely locked in a metro tunnel maintenance room. The ghouls hadn’t stirred as they crept through the abandoned station, which Butch took as a sign that he’d made the right choice. “You’re afraid of storms?”
Butch puffed out his cheeks as he hung his jacket over a pipe to dry. He stared at the old brick wall in front of him, rather than turning around to face her, all red with embarrassment. His hair dripped down his forehead. “No. I just…wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. You totally weren’t about to wet your pants from a little thunder.”
“Shut it, nosebleed,” he muttered.
That name always got her to shut up in the vault. She hated being called nosebleed. She hated that it was accurate, that he won most of their fights and got to gloat while she was escorted to the clinic with blood dripping into her mouth. But the vault didn’t seem to hold much power over her anymore, not after the things she’d seen and done out here. It made sense; it was hard to worry about a childhood rivalry when supermutants were out shopping for breakfast. Butch would get there eventually, he was sure. It just sucked that she had such an enormous head start.
Petra snickered, and the sound made his shoulders rise defensively. “’Wha—what do we do?’” she said, in a poor impression of him. “’I’m Butch DeLoria and thunderstorms turn me into a little baby. Wah, wah, wah!’”
Butch’s face grew hotter. This was exactly what he was afraid of. This was the problem with being nice. People thought they could get away with shit. “Very funny,” he growled. “Cut it out.”
“’I like to pretend I’m so tough,” she continued to shrill, undeterred, “but I’m actually the biggest scaredy cat in the wastes. Someone find my bottle and my blankie, and don’t forget to change my diaper!”
“I’m serious, Petra. Quit.”
“’I’m serious, Petra. Quit,’” she mocked, and he huffed frustratedly. She grinned, but at least she dropped the voice as she leaned smugly on the wall and crossed her arms. “Oh, I see. The Butch-man can dish it, but he can’t take it, huh?
He adjusted and readjusted his wet clothes, just so he had an excuse not to face her. His shoulders hunched higher and higher as he tried to hide from her teasing. And maybe it was true, and he couldn’t take it—so what? Who was gonna call him out on it out here, in the middle of nowhere? He left the vault for a reason. He decided to start fresh for a reason.
“Are you done yet?” he asked sullenly.
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin as she pretended to consider it. “Let me do one more and then I’ll be done. Butch DeLoria? More like Bitch DeLoria—”
And that was a step too far. “Petra,” he said loudly. “Shut the fuck up.”
Her grin disappeared, and her mouth shut with an audible snap. She straightened up against the wall. “Excuse me?”
“I said shut the fuck up,” he said. “Shut up and leave me alone.”
“It was a joke, Butch. Jesus.” Petra rolled her eyes, a sneer pulling at her lips. “You really are a little bitch.”
“Look,” he said tightly. “I get it. You’ve been up here longer and you think you know everything—fine. But leave me alone when something new freaks me out. That’s normal. And in case you already forgot, you’re the reason you got hurt last time we went scavenging.” Butch readjusted his jacket for probably the hundredth time. “Maybe you should learn from me.”
Petra scoffed. “What is there to learn? How to miss everything I aim at? How to complain every time I have to walk more than ten feet? Oh, I know—how to fall for the most obvious propaganda I’ve ever heard in my life!”
“God, are you really still mad about the Enclave Radio? I can listen to what I want. You can’t just order me around. I deserve respect.”
“That’s funny. I thought you liked being ordered around. You seem to take orders from President Eden pretty well.”
“I’m not taking orders,” he growled.
“Really? ‘Cause you listen to his every word like he’s your personal hero. Come to think of it, that’s a recurring problem with you. Listening to bullies without a moment’s hesitation. Eden, Almodovar, Wally Mack—”
Butch turned around with a snarl, interrupting, “I don’t listen to Wally Mack. I don’t listen to anyone. Butch DeLoria does what he wants, you hear me? I’m my own man.”
Petra snorted and rolled her eyes again, but didn’t argue further. Without another word, she knelt down and started pulling stuff out of her backpack—a water canteen, canned dinner, fresh socks. He watched and waited, fuming, as she unrolled her sleeping bag, made herself comfy, and peeled off her boots and rain-soaked socks. She flung them at him, where they hit the cement floor at his feet. He kicked them back to her as she rolled her new socks on, then looked up haughtily.
“Fine, Butch,” she said, arching an eyebrow in a way that made him grit his teeth. She unscrewed the cap of her canteen and took a long sip. “Fine. I believe you. You’re fully in control of your own life. That’s why you beat up everyone the overseer told you to for all those years. That’s why you needed me to open up the vault. That’s why you’re so obsessed with Eden’s stupid baseball-and-apple-pie Americana. Because you’re in control.” She smirked. “Because you’re a big man.”
And Butch’s hold on his anger frayed that much more. “That’s not why I like President Eden.”
“Yeah? Why, then?”
“Why?” he repeated. “I mean, fuck, Petra!” He threw his arms out to his sides, gesturing broadly to the world at large. “Just look around you! Everything up here fucking sucks, and I’m the only one who’s noticed!”
Petra let out a bark of scornful laughter. “You’re the only one? Are you serious? Everyone’s noticed.”
“Well, they sure as shit don’t talk about it! The only person who makes even a little bit of sense up here is President Eden, and you won’t let me listen to him! You’re not my boss. I can do what I want.”
“Doing what you want is gonna get you killed,” she snapped. “President Eden is a liar and a fraud. Did you ever think that maybe people don’t talk about how bad it is because they all know? Because we’re all aware that we live in a nuclear wasteland?”
“Honestly, Petra, I’m not sure they do know. They seem pretty happy eating brahmin shit burgers and drinking dirty water and wiping their asses with pine needles.”
“Pine needles?” she repeated incredulously.
“No one’s tried to make things better, or even livable. They’re happy with their metal shacks and broken roads and miserable lives, because they don’t know any better. They’re a bunch of stupid hillbillies, and that isn’t gonna change.”
Petra’s expression shifted. She stared up at him from under her eyebrows for a long moment, then leaned back against the wall. “Butch. How long have you been up here?”
“I dunno. A month? That doesn’t—”
“Six weeks exactly,” she interrupted, and he scoffed. No way she actually knew that. She was pulling numbers out of her ass. “You’ve been on the surface for six weeks. How long have I been up here?”
He rolled his eyes. “Why would I know?”
“Five months and six days tomorrow.”
“You—wait, what the fuck? You’re counting?”
She didn’t answer his question. “I’ve been here longer than you,” she said. “I know things you don't. Wastelanders know the world is fucked up. If you sincerely believe they don’t, then it’s not them who’s stupid. It’s you.”
And that did it. Butch had tried to control himself, he really had. He tried to keep his thoughts to himself, to play nice. But Petra McClay was a stuck-up, self-righteous, frigid bitch, and she deserved to hear it. His fists clenched at his sides, his face hot and angry. “Why do you act like that, huh?”
Petra raised an eyebrow at him. “Act like what?”
“All holier than thou, like you’re so much better than me,” he spat. “You always thought you were better than me, ever since we were kids.”
“…I don’t think I’m better than you,” she said slowly.
He stomped across the small room that served as their shelter. Petra shot to her feet just as he stuck a finger in her chest, poking at her sternum. Dogmeat began to growl. Her face flashed from confusion to alarm to something much more familiar, something mean and coiled and ready to strike. “You think you’re so damn smart,” he seethed. “But you’re not. You’ve just got more experience than me ‘cause you got exiled up here—and that’s not my fault, Petra, don’t act like it is.”
She narrowed her eyes indignantly. “I never said it was!”
“You stop lording it over me right now, you hear me?” Butch interrupted, like she hadn’t said a word. “You’d still be in that shop bleedin’ and cryin’ for your dad if I hadn’t fixed you up.”
Her face went just as stormy as the sky outside, and he knew he’d struck a nerve. It only made him want to cut deeper, hurt her more.
“You’ve been sittin’ pretty on your high horse since the day we joined up, and I’m sick of it. Pretending like you ain’t scared of a thing, even though you are. And why do you hide it, anyway? Why don’t I ever see you flinch, huh? Why doesn’t any of this stuff scare you?”
“Because I didn’t get the luxury of being scared!” she shouted, and Butch’s brows shot up his forehead at the sob in her voice. Petra shoved him away, and he stumbled a few steps back, his finger still pointed lamely in her direction. “I didn’t choose to leave, I didn’t get time to prepare! I just had to run so they couldn’t kill me like they did Jonas. Have you ever been trapped like that, Butch? Have you?”
Butch couldn’t look away from her. He slowly shook his head.
Petra glared at him through tears. “I have. More times than I can count. I spent my first night out here hiding in Springvale High School, running from raiders who were trying to kill me. Or worse. I didn’t have ammo, I didn’t have food, I didn’t have water—I had nothing. Everything I’ve got, I had to take for myself. No one looked out for me. No one taught me how to survive. I had to learn fast, and I had to do it all on my own. So don’t you dare judge me for that, Butch DeLoria. Don’t you dare.”
His anger left in a whoosh. “I…shit, Petra. I didn’t know.”
“Are you really that oblivious?” she demanded. “You thought I had it easy up here? You thought I turned out this way from how good things were going?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but—”
She cut him off with a loud scoff. “Oh, you’re sorry? That’s it?”
“Hey, I had problems, too, you know—”
“Yeah, and I fixed your problems, remember?”
He made an angry sound. “I’m trying to be nice! Stop interrupting me!”
She stamped her socked foot against the concrete floor, her face twisted into rage and frustration and something uniquely Petra. Something only he brought out. “No, I won’t,” she snapped, tears welling in her eyes, “because you don’t get it. You got to choose to be up here, Butch, and I’m happy for you. I’m glad you’re not stuck in the vault, working as a hairdresser, married to Susie Mack or whoever. I’m even glad you’re not alone, that we’re traveling together! But I didn’t get that. I had to leave home to come out here and find my dad, and as soon as I found him again, he—” A keening noise from the back of her throat cut her off, and the truth hit Butch like a power fist to the chest.
Before, when she got hurt, she hadn’t cried because of a blood phobia. She hadn’t cried from pain. She certainly hadn’t cried from fear.
Petra cried because Doc McClay ran away from the vault, from his daughter, from everything—and then he died.
“Your dad,” he breathed, hardly able to make a sound. “He’s gone.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded, looking very small and scared and sad.
He wanted to slap himself. He’d assumed the new parts of her were a natural consequence of her lifestyle, that it was the wasteland and surface-dwelling that had changed her. But even the end of the world couldn’t compete with plain old grief. “How long?”
“Ninety-two days before the vault sent out the distress signal,” she said. “One hundred and thirteen days since we met in Rivet City. One hundred fifty-six days tomorrow.”
Something squeezed in his chest, like when Mrs. Hannon gave him Paulie’s jacket and said her son didn’t need it anymore. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “You really have been counting.”
She shrugged miserably. “I started counting my first night. It’s the only way anything feels real.”
“I mean…shit. What happened?”
She looked down at her feet. “Enclave raid on Project Purity,” she said quietly. Butch’s throat went dry. Everything—every little detail about Petra, every random piece of information he’d learned since meeting up with her—suddenly made perfect, awful sense.
The Enclave were murderers. President Eden was a liar.
And her dad was dead.
“He wanted to bring clean water to the wasteland,” she explained. “I guess they didn’t like that. I was fixing a valve in the pipes when they stormed the memorial. By the time I made it back, most of the scientists were dead. Dad locked himself and their leader in the reactor room and blew it so they couldn’t take it over. And he…I watched him…” Her words faltered. A tear dripped from her nose onto her sleeping bag. “If I’d been there, or if I’d been faster, maybe—"
“Hey, no, no,” Butch said quickly, cutting her off before she blamed herself out loud. “It wasn’t your fault. He wouldn’t want you to think like that.”
“I could’ve taken those guys. There weren’t that many. They took us by surprise, that’s all. If we just had a chance…”
“Petra, hey,” he coaxed. “C’mon.” He laid a hesitant hand on her shoulder. When she didn’t flinch away, he squeezed. “Don’t say that. You couldn’t have done anything.” An idea occurred to him. “Your dad probably knew there would be trouble. Maybe he sent you away to protect you. He wanted you to be safe, and you were safe. That’s good, right?”
She continued to stare at her feet. “Yeah,” she said dejectedly, not sounding at all like she believed it. “I guess.”
She slid out from under his hand to sit on the floor, her knees tucked to her chest, and she looked exactly like the girl he knew in the vault. For all her guns and her recklessness, she was still the same person underneath. Still a loudmouth and a smartass. Still a vaultie in the wasteland.
Still Petra.
Dogmeat whined and laid his head next to her feet, and she rubbed the soft fur on his ears. After a moment, Butch tentatively sat down beside her.
Petra rested her chin on her knees. “Sorry I made you feel stupid,” she muttered. “It’s not dumb to be scared of thunder. I was just…I don’t know. Sorry.”
“It’s pretty dumb,” he said. “Sorry I yelled at you.”
She shrugged. “At least it felt like home.” Dogmeat sighed heavily and blinked at him, his mismatched eyes bright in the dim maintenance closet. Petra sighed, too, long and sad. And then she asked, “Why did you come out here, Butch?”
He looked over at her fast—too fast. Too obvious. And even though she wasn’t looking at him, he smiled nervously. “Well, the wasteland needed a gang, and I figured—”
“No.” She didn’t even need to say it very loud before he shut his mouth. She was right about one thing—he really did take orders well. “Don’t give me that,” she said, tracing the dappled fur on Dogmeat’s back. “Answer honestly. You had a good life. You had your gang. A job. The overseer’s favor. You had a future in Vault 101. Why throw it away to come out here?”
She was too good at that. Seeing through him. Sometimes he wondered if the wasteland had irradiated her brain, given her mind-reading powers or something—like Grelok in the Grognak comics. She could be scary like Grelok, when she wanted to be. Sometimes she was just plain scary, all on her own. Butch folded his hands in his lap. “’Cause I hate pretty much everything about myself in the vault,” he confessed.
She glanced over in surprise, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. He kept his eyes on the wall ahead of them, staring at the brick and the pipes and the slow drip-drip-drip of rainwater from his drying clothes.
“I…didn’t have a future. Not really. The Tunnel Snakes disbanded. My ma basically disowned me after I sided with the rebels. I’m a hairdresser. I’m no one important unless I’m hurting someone else. I’m just…useless. Garbage.”
“I thought you liked your job. You’re so good at it.”
“Yeah, I am, but it’s not important.”
“You could say that about lots of jobs, though. It doesn’t mean—"
“Hairdressing isn’t rocket science,” he interrupted. “Cut this, shave here, mix dyes—I basically flunked every class in school, and I’m a pro. Anyone can do it. Paulie was an engineer. Amata was in vault management, and now she’s overseer. I mean, you were a goddamn therapist for everyone you’d ever known, and you were good at it. Trustworthy. Confidential. Honest. People knew they could trust your advice, whatever it was. Engineering, management, healthcare—the vault needs that stuff to keep going, but no one needs a hairdresser. It’s a bullshit job.”
Petra didn’t say anything, just kept watching him. He scuffed his boots on the floor and focused on the rocks stuck between his treads, rather than on her pity. He didn’t need pity. He didn’t want it. “But the main reason,” he admitted quietly, “is that I couldn’t stand to be hated or feared for the rest of my life.”
“What do you mean?”
He let out a long sigh. “I was—I am—an asshole. No one likes me. Everyone in Vault 101 thinks I’m either a screw-up or a monster. I…hurt people. A lot of people. Sometimes ‘cause I wanted to. Sometimes ‘cause Almodovar told me to.” He held up his hands before she could accuse him of anything. “I’m not saying that excuses it. I knew better. But it happened.”
Her brow furrowed, just like it used to in class when she wanted Mr. Brotch to elaborate on whatever bullshit they were learning that day. Petra had the brains to understand. She got books and people, mostly without even trying. She could be smart and compassionate. Clever and wise. Butch wasn’t good for much except outnumbered beatdowns and split end trims.
“Why did you work for him?” she asked.
“Well, ‘cause…because…” The words sat heavily on his tongue. He’d spent so long waiting for someone to ask his side of things, to wonder how he came to be this way, and now it was nearly impossible to spit them out. Where was he supposed to start? How could he ever make her understand?
Dogmeat got up and walked around their legs to settle at his side, his head in Butch’s lap. Butch looked down in surprise. When Dogmeat didn’t move further, Butch laid a hesitant hand on his head.
“…Your dad loved you, you know?” he managed.
Petra pursed her lips to the side. “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re lucky,” he said. “He took care of you. Lots of people did. The Palmers. The Gomezes. Amata. Even if your dad hadn’t cared, they would have. And maybe it wouldn’t make up for your dad not being there, but it would be something. People wouldn’t let you go hungry. They wouldn’t whisper about you when they thought you couldn’t hear. Maybe, if things had been really bad, they would have stopped your dad before he drank up all your ration coupons, or they would have given you food and clothes that fit without them. You wouldn’t have had to grow up too fast, or go to the overseer, or ask when you could have your own coupons. He wouldn’t tell you no. He wouldn’t offer you a job, or tell you to keep it secret, or aim you at people he didn’t like. You wouldn’t have your dad, but you would still have some sorta family. You’d have a way out. Options.”
For a few moments, she was silent. He glanced sideways at her, trying to gauge how she felt, if she understood at all. If she cared. Petra’s face was impassive, stony. He looked forward again. “How old were you?” she asked quietly.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Sixteen.” A tear rolled down his cheek. He hastily wiped it away with his free hand, before she could turn and see.
Petra nodded once, sharply, angrily. “I wanted to kill Almodovar. When I left and when I came back.” Her hand snaked down his arm, snatched up his wrist, intertwined their fingers and squeezed. “Now I wish I had.”
His lower lip trembled. Butch bit down on it hard to draw blood as he squeezed back.
“He’s a coward,” she continued. “He took advantage of you. It wasn’t fair. At all. It’s not right that no one helped you. None of it should have happened.”
Something in his chest released. Dogmeat nosed at his hand, and Butch managed a watery smile as he resumed petting him. “But it did,” he said, in a wavering voice. They both pretended to ignore it. “Everyone in the vault thinks I’m some sorta monster.”
“It’s not fair,” she said again.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But that’s what they think. And that’s why I left. I figured I could start fresh. You survived out here. Why couldn’t I?” He sighed and slipped his hand out of hers, picking at the stitching on the side of his vault suit. “But I can’t,” he muttered darkly. “I’m not good at this, not like you. I’m not smart, I can’t aim a gun, I barely know how to use a stimpak.”
She frowned, her brow furrowed. “Don’t say that, Butch. You’re smart.”
“No, I’m not. Remember all the times Brotch basically called me a dumbass to my face? Remember when you gave up on tutoring me after one session?”
“I gave up because you were an asshole—”
“Exactly! I’m stupid and an asshole and the only reason I made it to Rivet City was pure dumb luck.” He leaned his head back until it thunked against the pipes running down the old metro walls. “I don’t understand anything up here. If you hadn’t found me, I’d still be hiding in the Muddy Rudder.”
Petra laid her cheek on her knees. A lock of her silver hair fell over her face, and Butch really wanted to meet her barber. “Well, if I hadn’t been terrified of what the overseer might do, I’d still be in the vault,” she offered, “so you’re braver than me.”
He scoffed. “I’m afraid of storms. And radroaches. And you’re not scared of anything.”
“Of course I’m scared. There are lots of things to be scared of.”
“Like what?” he asked. She didn’t move, didn’t speak for a moment, and Butch inhaled sharply. “Oh. Oh.”
“The thing I was most afraid of already happened,” she said simply. “I guess now I’m scared of being all alone.”
“Yeah. That’s…yeah.” Butch knocked his boots together and kept his eyes on Dogmeat, not sure what would happen if he looked at her. “…Are you scared of anything real, or is it all in your head with you?”
Some people might’ve taken it as an insult. But Petra only snorted out a tiny laugh. “I’m scared of supermutants with missile launchers,” she offered, and Butch nodded.
“That’s a good one. Very…practical. I’ll keep it in mind.”
She reached out to flick Dogmeat’s ear. The only sign that he noticed was a slight shake of his head. “You know, we agreed to a fresh start,” she said. “I don’t think we ever did that. Maybe it’s time.”
“Maybe,” he agreed. “So…you’re not scared of me? Even though…?”
“I don’t think you’re a monster. And if you are…” She gave a small shrug. “You’re not the only one who’s hurt people.”
Stevie Mack was unrecognizable when Petra was through with him, Wally said. The family had to identify him through personal items. Same way Old Lady Palmer had to identify Jonas. Same way the wasteland meted out justice.
Petra was the first person Butch had explained himself to. She was the first person who cared enough to even try to understand. So if he was a monster, and she was a monster, well—at least he was in good company.
“I don’t think you are, either,” he said, blinking hard to keep tears from welling in his eyes.
Petra smiled a little and knocked her elbow into his ribs. “You are an asshole, though. You’re right about that.”
He wiped the remaining wetness from his eyes, trying to fall back into their familiar bickering. It felt a little less angry now. Whatever that meant. “Aw, don’t be a nosebleed about it. I’m a Tunnel Snake. And you are, too.”
“Not this again.”
“Rule number one, girlie. You wear the jacket—”
“You’re in the gang, I get it,” she finished. “I thought you were gonna start a new gang. A better one.”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “Why mess with perfection?”
“You have a severe case of egomania.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Right. I’m jealous of you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s what it is.”
“’Course you are. Everyone can see it.” Butch nudged Dogmeat away and pushed himself to his feet, ready to put whatever this weirdness was behind them. Far behind them. But Petra reached for him before he could go far.
“Butch, hey—”
He turned around. Her cheeks were already pink with embarrassment, and she looked away as soon as they locked eyes, busying herself with anything she could reach. “Look, I won’t make fun of you anymore,” she said, fidgeting with the seams of her socks. “I don’t want you to be scared like I was. We only have each other now. I want you to know you can count on me.”
Butch couldn’t find the words to properly respond to that without sounding like a blubbering baby, so he settled for shoving her with his foot, off-balancing her to the point she nearly fell over. “You’re not gonna make fun of me at all? That doesn’t sound like us.”
She scowled at him as she righted herself. “How about I won’t make fun of you for stuff like storms?” she countered snidely, trying to trip him. “No promises for anything else.”
He grinned, even as he dodged her kicks. “Aw, there she is. That’s my girl.”