Archive of Our Own

The caves colloquially called Little Lamplight are usually dark enough at night to frighten the little ones. Once the string lights are turned off, the little subterranean grotto is absorbed by darkness. The muggy air and steady dripping from the ceiling usually guarantees a terrifying atmosphere for the youngest of the cave-dwellers.

For the past month, however, the coveted brain fungus that grows on the ceiling and in corners has been in bloom. The little radiation sponges only emit a dim light, but it’s enough to wash out the shadows that usually settle at this time of night.

In a sleeping roll near the back of the Great Chamber, RJ’s arms are crossed in irritation. His foot taps the air to the echoing sound of water dripping from somewhere in the caves. He drags a hand across his face, annoyed.

God fucking damnit.

Every night for the past month has been the same. All the kids who aren’t on guard duty pack it in for the night. RJ puts them to bed with a threat that if he hears a single fucking word after lights out, he will take them out back and shoot them. Then RJ lays in his bedroll, awake throughout the entire night: face glowing under the fungus, foot tapping.

RJ isn’t like the other Little Lamplighters in a number of ways. He was named ‘Mayor for fucking life’ years back for punching a girl in the face. His ruthless form of threatening mungos consists of warning shots to the foot. When the need for trading with outsiders outweighs the danger (which is never according to RJ but always according to his advisers), he always gets the better end of the deal. The best so far being the trade of his old assault rifle for a scoped sniper rifle with some stupid mungo scavver who shot worse than he smelled.

But the main difference between RJ and the other kids is that today is exactly five months from his sixteenth birthday.

When you’re young, the Little Lamplighters don’t fuss about birthdays. They were usually guesstimated anyway, since most kids were dumped off too young to know the exact dates. Before Joseph left, he had a makeshift calendar for them to use to mark down the dates. It helped keep track of who’s getting too old, of who’s next to go.

When Joseph left, he gave all his stuff to his little sister, Penny, who quit scavving so she could teach the younger kids. It sucked to lose his best scavenger member, but at 15-and-a-half Penny has one foot out the door just like himself and he had to stop relying so heavily on her skills.

Penny pulls the little ones aside on their birthday to let them know. Usually they give her a small smile and move on with their days. With the older kids, she gives a six month’s notice so they have time to prepare. So it doesn’t sneak up on them.

'As if my own fucking birthday could sneak up on me,’ he thinks. He’s felt every agonizing second that’s ticked away since Penny pulled him aside a month ago.

Five months left. Less than half a year. RJ’s eyes slip to the sleeping form near him and watches her chest rise and fall.

Lucy.

She turned fifteen a few weeks back and it hasn’t seemed to affect her judgement at all, as far as RJ could tell. She still fusses over the little ones and tears you a new one if you don’t follow her directions. Outward appearances, though, that’s another matter. Her face is gradually changing: roundness being chiseled into high cheekbones and piercing eyes. She’s taller than him now-by a few inches-and it’s forced her to retire the scout uniform for plainer scavenger clothes. Her body shape is changing as well: waist pulling in, hips flaring out, chest-

'Is this what being a mungo is like? Thinking about fucking 24/7? Maybe I should just shoot myself now and save the trouble.’ RJ groans inwardly and turns his face away from her.

Not that RJ himself hasn’t changed. He feels taller than he was a year ago, even if he’s still shorter than most of the other older kids. His voice finally stopped cracking and settled into a deeper tone. His hands are bigger; they can’t fit into every nook and crevice of his rifle anymore and he needs to rely on tools to clean it. His face has thinned out, becoming a bit more angular. Even his nose is different, losing the button-nose of childhood for something a little bigger that comes down straight from his brow.

Hell, his clothes don’t fucking fit anymore, either. Regardless of how often he helps out around the cave, his body is wiry: muscles refusing to grow too much without protein in his diet. His limbs are too long, head too big compared to years before. The signature military helmet he used to wear has long since been passed down to a smaller kid, but he keeps the goggles to tangle in his shaggy light brown hair. The shirt he used to wear on his head because it was too big now fits him: an off-white long sleeve stained from years of wearing it as a damn hat.

Fidgeting in his slightly-too-small sleeping bag, RJ imagines a clock like a time bomb: rapidly ticking away until it hits zero or he explodes. Every second that passes, he feels himself getting further away from Little Lamplight and it’s both thrilling and scares the fuck out of him.

On one hand, he can’t wait to fucking leave. Being in charge of all these kids for the past four years has aged him more than time ever could. Breaking up petty fights over sleeping arrangements and name calling seems so inconsequential compared to the threat of super mutants a few tunnels over in Murder Pass or slavers and raiders that pick off their scavenger team, one kid at a time.

On the other hand, these kids need a leader and so far he hasn’t found a replacement for himself. Before Éclair left six months back, he taught Billy everything he could. Lucy took on Bumble as an official apprentice a couple years ago and for being only nine years old, she’s almost as good as Lucy was at that age.

While he’s found a few replacements for other stations in Little Lamplight, the most important one is going to be empty when he’s gone. The thought genuinely scares him. The last time RJ was afraid was almost eight years ago during the cave in, and that was life threatening. Growing up and leaving a cave full of kids shouldn’t make him feel the same dread.

Unlike most of the kids, RJ is a lifer in Little Lamplight. Joseph once told him that the scavenger team found him crying in a warehouse when he was really, really little and they took him in. Honestly, it was the dumbest fucking thing for them to do, since fucked up raiders are known to set up sick traps and ambushes like that.

Being a lifer means he doesn’t have any solid memories of his parents, unlike the kids who were abandoned or orphaned. But RJ didn’t need to have shitty parents to know not to trust adults. Joseph had found some old journals years back that explained how their sad little settlement was formed. The mungos in that damned Vault 87 turned their backs on the kids that were stranded in the caves and left them to fend for themselves.

And now 200 years later, RJ feels like he’s about to do the same thing.

So Little Lamplight might be a rundown, post-apocalyptic tourist trap set of caves, but it’s the only home RJ knows. He might as well be honest with himself and admit that the little shitheads that live here are his only family, too. These kids have already been pawned off and left for dead once before; he doesn’t want to abandon them. But that’s what’s expected of him.

He’s not sure if anyone other than Lucy has this…this defect in their brain that makes them care. Joseph might have had it, but he left before RJ got a chance to ask. Éclair might have been the same, since even through all his griping about mouths to feed he still worked damn hard to make sure everyone ate. Then again, it could be because RJ threatened to shoot his dick off if the kids ever went to bed without eating.

Years of my hard work and effort will fall apart with no one strong enough here to enforce it.

Because that’s the way politics work in Little Lamplight: when there’s no mayor, shit falls apart and the caves become chaos. Shit, if RJ took missions like the others, he’d expect a cave full of neat child-sized skeletons when he returned. The mayor needs to be responsible and strong-willed enough to keep them in line. Other kids are satisfied with anarchy, until their stomachs are empty and there’s slaver collars around their necks or raider bullets in their bodies.

Hell, RJ hasn’t even left yet and it already feels like it’s falling apart. Lucy’s still combating rickets in the kids who refuse to eat their fucking vegetables and RJ is struggling to find vegetables for them to fucking eat. All the while, Billy’s a far cry from Éclair in making fungus palatable, their best scavver Penny is now a teacher, and her replacement Zip is a hyper little bastard who only gives a shit about scavenging when it’s Nuka Cola.

The time bomb in RJ’s head ticks a little faster.

Who here could possibly match RJ in brutality and competence? Lucy can’t be a doctor and the mayor, she doesn’t get enough sleep as it is. Princess is savage but not a capable leader. Even if she wasn’t a week away from leaving, he probably wouldn’t name her mayor just to spite the bitch. But RJ has to admit that his impending birthday has been largely overlooked due to the fanfare of Princess’s own birthday.

The problem is that he’s too good at his job and has made himself irreplaceable. He’s allowed the other kids to feel safe and accepted and other warm, fuzzy bullshit feelings. Spelunkers might be run by Billy now, but RJ is in charge of making sure they have more than just fungus to eat. The scavenger team is technically under Zip’s command, but the son of a bitch can’t keep still so RJ hands out lists of things they need and knows every skill and failing of each member. When they come back injured or sick, Lucy and Bumble patch them up, but RJ makes sure the clinic is well stocked with supplies and medicine.

Being the mayor is more than telling people what to do, though. It takes ambition to step up and take what you want instead of accepting the scraps life has given you. RJ became mayor by simply telling everyone he was mayor, and started acting like it. Well, alright, so he also punched Princess in her stupid nose but she had it fucking coming. Any kid is welcome to do the same to him if, at any point, they feel that RJ isn’t doing well in his post.

The problem is that no one has challenged him for his title yet.

RJ can run his mouth and tell everyone that Little Lamplight prepares kids better than coddling parents would have but it’s not true. Little Lamplight has always been guided by a core group of kids who stepped up to accept the responsibilities of a parent. He’s found replacements for some of the positions, but what difference does it make if there’s no one left here to enforce it?

Little Lamplight isn’t always run on the power of the mayor’s threats. Sometimes, a little upstart punk forces his hand and makes him back it up. It could be a screaming match, riddled with every colorful curse in his vocabulary. There have been fist fights that end with the kid unconscious and Lucy patching RJ up in the infirmary. He’s even had to exile a handful of little assholes over the years to keep the rest of the kids safe.

No one would take Billy seriously if he tried to threaten anyone, not with his speech impediment. Penny is too gentle and is more suited to teaching than governing. Zip can’t even handle the scavenging team, let alone the entire cave. All that leaves are the new kids he’s taken in over the years and they literally don’t have the balls to challenge his position.

And then there’s Lucy.

Lucy can threaten with the best of them, but that’s because she’s untouchable on a few different levels:

First off, she’s a girl. Even though their town is a cave full of heathen children, hitting girls is something that’s generally frowned upon. The only exception to this rule is Princess: she’s more of an animal than a girl. RJ feels he was justified in punching her in her stupid fucking face, though he admits he’s refrained from doing it since, even when she’s asking for it.

Secondly, she’s the best damn doctor this musty cave has. Lucy is brilliant at suturing, general first aid, and even surgery. She turns buffout into a cure for rickets in a fucking cave. If the kids want to keep the integrity of their bone structure, it’s best to play nice with Lucy.

Finally–as conflicting as it makes him feel–RJ has to admit that Lucy is unassailable mostly because she’s viewed as his. She saved his life when they were kids, yet somehow Lucy acts like she owes him. If Lucy isn’t in the clinic, she’s by his side, helping in any way she can. He can rely on her.

While RJ yells threats at lights out, Lucy is there to corral the little ones with gentle words. If there are troublemakers in the cave, he can depend on her to be an extra pair of eyes. When his ire is tested, she acts as a buffer between him and the outside world: fielding queries and complaints directly, leaving him time to cool off.

Above all, she’s the only person in Little Lamplight that he can consider an equal instead of a subordinate.

But more recently, things have changed. While he’s protective of all the kids in Little Lamplight, now her safety comes first in RJ’s mind. Protecting the cave means keeping Lucy safe. Sending scavengers out in spite of the dangers they face means Lucy gets the supplies she needs for the clinic. When they come in, as mayor, RJ gets first dibs on everything. He uses this power to put aside items he knows will be useful for her before turning it over to the masses. When he was injured in the cave-in, she slept near him in case there were complications, but she never stopped.

Now, as he lays in the darkness, fungus illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, RJ watches Lucy sleep and wonders if there’s something more there.

'Not that it fucking matters, you goddamn idiot,’ his mind berates himself with a hiss. 'You’re leaving soon and once you’re out there, you’ll never see her again.’ He turns away from her and faces the ceiling in an attempt to drag his thoughts away from her.

See, there’s a reasonable amount of danger in being mayor of a town full of defiant ankle-biters and RJ can’t risk having Lucy take over, even if there’s still nearly a year until she’s 16. The thought of some little piece of shit new kid trying to pull the same shit they do with him, with her…it makes him see red. Screaming matches. Threats. Fist fights.

RJ’s fist lashes out at the craggy cave wall next to him. The impact splits his knuckles and echoes through the entire Great Chamber with a wet thud.

“Fuck,” RJ says quietly, with feeling. Lucy stirs in her sleep, eyes opening slowly as she tries to focus on what woke her up. Her bleary eyes meet his and her confusion melds into a burned out resignation.

“Is it morning already?” her voice is thick and tired. Lucy almost looks as tired as RJ and with her hair pulled back into a messy knot, he can see dark circles under her eyes. The fungus glow makes the smear of blood on the wall shine in the darkness and her eyes inevitably find it. She sits up and leans in to take a closer look.

“What…is that blood?” she asks and reaches out a hand to touch it. RJ adjusts to lean on an elbow to block her line of sight.

“Killed a bug,” he lies easily and shrugs noncommittally. The fact that he wasn’t swearing about bugs or pain meant there was something else going on. Lucy’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Don’t you lie to me, RJ,” she says and shoves him aside and presses fingers against the wet patch of the wall. Her fingers come away a vivid red. “I’m a doctor and a girl, I know blood when I see it. What happened?”

“Killed it with my fist,” he shrugs again and holds out his injured hand. Lucy takes it delicately and tries to inspect it in the low light. All she can tell is that it’s bleeding pretty steadily for a hand injury. She lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Cmon, let’s get you to the clinic so I can see it better. It might be broken or something,” she murmurs tiredly. She starts getting up from her bedroll but RJ’s injured hand grabs her wrist and prevents her from fully standing.

“I’m fine and you’re exhausted. Go back to sleep, Lucy,” he says but removes his hand quickly when he realizes he’s bleeding all over her. He starts to roll over but Lucy catches him by the shoulder.

“At the very least, it needs to be cleaned so it doesn’t get infected. Who knows what that bug was carrying, right?” Lucy smirks tiredly because she knows he’s stuck. He can either admit he lied or get dragged out of bed at this hour, where she’ll grill him until he tells her. She watches him consider it.

“Fucking Christ, fine, let’s go,” he agrees and starts making his way towards the clinic, trusting her to follow. They carefully make their way out of the Great Chamber, taking care not to wake anyone else up.

Reaching the office building, they’re quiet to avoid the guard’s attention. RJ steps through first and allows Lucy to walk through, closing the door quietly. She opens the door to her clinic and the string lights overhead make them squint for a moment. Pinching the bridge of his nose, RJ sits down on one of the medical cots and waits for Lucy to gather supplies.

“Are you going to tell me what actually happened or do I have to guess?” Lucy asks quietly as she rummages through drawers for gauze, swabs, and alcohol. She debates for a moment and throws a sewing kit into her pile, just in case.

“I told you I killed a bug. Just patch me up and drop it,” RJ says tersely. Still pinching the bridge of his nose, he thrusts his injured hand out in her general direction so she can examine it.

Instead, Lucy grabs his chin and pulls him to face her. His hands drop to the cot and he stares tiredly at her.

“Robert,” she implores, eyes searching his face and finding pale skin with dark circles under listless eyes.

“Lucia,” he replies, drained. The exhaustion he sees on her face mirrors his own. He gently pulls his face out of her hand.

Lucy makes a noise of frustration and grabs his wrist, getting to work. RJ’s hand thankfully only looks worse than it is. His knuckles are split but he shouldn’t need stitches, as long as he keeps his hand still for the next week. She tosses the sewing kit back in the drawer and unscrews the cap to a large bottle of vodka.

“This is gonna hurt a ton. Hands have a lot of nerves in them,” she warns. Lucy pours the vodka on a cotton swab and RJ reaches past her for the bottle. He takes a swig without grimacing, feeling it ignite his throat.

Maybe it’ll burn out whatever is making me feel this way.

Lucy pauses and takes a harder look at RJ. He’s been known to throw punches when kids try sneaking some alcohol. Always says it’s a waste of resources and the last thing they need is to chase a bunch of drunk ten year olds around a cave. Whatever is wrong with him, it’s bad.

Concern for his bodily injury wins out over his inner turmoil, at least for the moment. Whatever battle is raging inside him can wait until the bleeding is stopped.

“So the good news is that you don’t need stitches and nothing looks broken,” she begins, lightly dabbing the cuts with alcohol. His arm tenses at the sting, but his hand stays steady. He takes another pull from the bottle.

“Bad news is that there’s so much bug juice in your hand that it’ll go septic and I need to cut it off,” Lucy says offhandedly. RJ smirks reluctantly and takes another slug from the bottle to hide it.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Lucy grabs the bottle from his hand and he lets her, letting his arm flop onto the cot. “What’s driving our great and powerful leader to punch a cave wall and waste alcohol?”

“It’s not wasting as long as I don’t puke it up later,” he says in an attempt to be lighthearted. Lucy scoffs as she applies a coat of ointment she makes using Med-X. She gets up to put her supplies away and give the ointment a chance to work before she wraps it.

The relief is instant and RJ almost misses the dull throbbing that distracted him from troubling thoughts. He experimentally makes a tight fist and feels his knuckles split wider. The blood beads up through the ointment and he watches it with mild fascination. He continues to flex and release his hand until Lucy returns to grab his wrist tightly.

“Stop!” she hisses as she grabs gauze with her other hand. “Damn you, RJ. What the hell is wrong with you?”

To stop the bleeding, Lucy applies firm pressure by squeezing his hand in both of hers. She scans his face for something, anything that will tell her what’s going on inside his head. RJ’s hand is still tense and he can feel the skin of his knuckles straining not to rip open further. He meets her eyes and relents.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself,” he says in a low tone and allows his hand finally relax. Moments like these are when they work best together: RJ’s rage is quelled under Lucy’s repose, sputtering without traction until he finally levels out.

“Well, we’re a bunch of kids living in a cave. There’s probably something wrong with all of us,” Lucy agrees as she gently eases her grip to check the bleeding and quickly replaces the gauze and pressure, shaking her head.

“It ripped open more, no thanks to you, and it’s still gushing, no thanks to the vodka. I have to sew it up, since you can’t be trusted to keep still,” she concedes. Lucy grabs his other hand and makes him apply pressure while she digs through the supply drawers for the sewing kit the tossed earlier.

“You’re probably right,” he begins quietly from the cot. She nods absentmindedly at the comment. Of course she’s right, she’s a doctor. Well, sort of.

Discreetly glancing over at RJ, Lucy notes that the worried expression on his face looks foreign. As a doctor for malnourished kids in a cave, Lucy is no stranger to worry. More often than not, it’s luck–not skill–that allows the kids to pull through illness and injury.

Lucy knows RJ has a lot of responsibilities as mayor. Thanks to the transparency of their friendship, she knows exactly what he does to keep this place running. But since he became mayor four years ago, he’s always been on top of everything. Preferring rage over worry and fear, RJ explodes while Lucy contains.

However, she’s noticed that over the past month or so, his anger comes easier, while sleep is harder to chase. When the clinic keeps her up late, RJ will still be awake by the time she’s sliding into her bedroll, dead on her feet. His responses are slower, his eyes have dark circles, and if he ever let her pry into his personal health (other than injuries), she would bet he’s lost weight.

“I can’t be trusted,” he slowly finishes and Lucy’s thoughts pause to mull that over.

'What could have possibly happened over the last month for him to think–’ her thoughts falter as the pieces clink together in her head.

Sewing kit in hand, Lucy freezes where she stands and slowly looks at him. RJ flinches at the sudden silence and turns his head away to stare as blankly as he can at the wall.

“Oh, RJ,” her voice is gentle, as if she’s afraid to startle him. Lucy reaches a hand out slowly, and watches him visibly brace himself. She pulls her hand back. “It’s soon, isn’t it?”

RJ curses incoherently in his head and refuses to meet her eyes, teeth clenched. His grip tightening on his wounded hand is answer enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, quiet breath to calm himself before he does something stupid.

Like take the bottle and chug it. Pick up a gun and lose it. Shove past her and run. Grab her hard and never let go. Kiss her and-

The injured hand clamps down hard and she sees a fresh trickle of blood. Lucy places the sewing kit down and kneels at his feet. As she brings up a hand to make him face her, RJ realizes that she’s the only person who has ever touched him without immediate retribution.

The usually pale skin of his face is tinted red from the tip of his nose to flare out to his ears. The grip he has on his injured hand is so tight, it’s probably doing more harm than good. His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, adamantly refuse to meet hers.

“Let me help you, RJ,” she implores as her eyes flick from his eyes to the growing puddle of blood on her clinic floor. With a sigh, Lucy picks up the sewing kit and begins to take out the supplies.

“I’m not fucking eight anymore, Lucy. You can’t fix this. You can’t stop me from aging. You can’t-” RJ feels his voice raise to a near shout and stops himself to reign in the control that’s slipping through his fingers. He lets go of his injured hand and brings them up to gesture wildly in futility.

“You can’t stop me from leaving,” he continues almost too softly to hear. Hands fall onto his knees and head hangs in defeat. RJ had been determined to keep this to himself but he should have known better. Lucy can pull out whatever is bothering you, be it bullet or problem.

He’s right of course. Out of all the miraculous things she’s accomplished out of a rotten clinic located in a dank cave, even Lucy can’t stop him from aging. But it wouldn’t stop her from trying to help.

“Well now, don’t be too hasty. With enough radiation, I could turn you into a ghoul. You’d be Mayor-for-life, until the end of time,” Lucy says almost wistfully. A rusted lighter clicks once, twice and catches, allowing her to sterilize the needle. RJ’s eyes roll hard, but his mouth twitches.

“And think of the tactical advantages of not having a nose! No one would know where to hit you!” she continues, goaded by his almost-smile. RJ welcomes the distraction and laughs once, hard and cynical while she lets a smile light up her face.

“Well, you’re right that my nose wouldn’t be missed,” RJ wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t care about his looks, but fuck if his nose isn’t a piece of work. It wasn’t pretty to begin with, but it was broken about a year ago and it’s felt larger ever since.

Some new kid had picked a fight with RJ by making fun of his teeth. Oral hygiene isn’t a priority of most of the wasteland, but when you spend your whole life in a cave run by kids, it’s nonexistent. Lucy has a theory that eating nothing but fungus does something to teeth, the same way it gives the little kids rickets. Add the occasional chipped tooth from fighting and RJ’s mouth is a mess. Needless to say, it’s up there with his nose on the List of Things to Never Bring Up in Front of the Mayor.

The little prick played dirty and introduced RJ’s nose with the butt of a rifle. The only reason the kid’s not dead is because Lucy had refused to let RJ out of the clinic until the bleeding stopped and by the time Lucy gave the OK, the kid was gone.

Good riddance, you nose-breaking asshole.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think your nose is nice,” she says offhandedly. She’s concentrating on threading the needle and RJ looks curiously at her and points at the offending facial feature.

“My nose? Luce, are you sure you didn’t hit the bottle?” RJ asks incredulously. “It’s got a big fucking lump on it. And I’m pretty sure it’s crooked now. I don’t know why I didn’t kill the little bastard when-”

“What kind of doctor do you think I am? That may have been the first broken nose that I ever had to take care of, but it is not crooked,” she says, a little insulted. Lucy shakes her head in disappointment and RJ wonders if she should be in charge of sewing him up when there’s clearly something wrong with her eyes.

“Aha!” she exclaims as the thread finally cooperates and slides through the needle. She pours water over his hand and RJ hisses, unprepared for the sudden stinging. His nostrils flare and he clamps his jaw shut. Lucy winces apologetically and swipes a bit more Med-X ointment on it.

“Are you ready?” she asks with the needle poised over his hand. RJ nods once and it’s in, needle piercing flesh and thread tickling as it drags across his hand. He exhales slow and watches her work.

Lucy makes the first suture in silence, dabbing the blood away with gauze every so often. Here in her element, she comes alive with brightening eyes and some of the droopiness from exhaustion being smoothed away. Her brow furrows in concentration as she knots the thread into place. RJ feels her hands brushing against his own as she works and catches himself staring at the curve of her lips, the bend of her neck, the swoop of her collarbone-

RJ coughs suddenly and he watches her jump a bit, startled. He resigns himself to look at the floor while Lucy laughs softly at herself and starts on the next suture. Her face grows serious, torn between helping and leaving it be.

“You know, you’ve been a great mayor all these years,” she starts conversationally. Lucy ties off the second suture and debates on whether he’ll need a third. RJ looks up at her through eyelashes and guards his facial expression carefully.

“Yeah, well. I try,” he says slowly, deliberately vague. He watches her stop working and rest her hands lightly around his wrist.

“Maybe…we should think about lengthening your term,” she says carefully, bracing herself for his answer.

RJ hears the words and can’t process them. Won’t. What she’s proposing to do–to break a 200 year old rule for him–it’s too much, too cruel to even offer. The hope in his chest blooms and dies before he can even get a word out. He schools his breath to stay calm.

“No,” RJ says simply. He gently tries to pull his wrist from her grasp but it tightens, holding him there. He looks up to meet her wide, imploring eyes.

“But why not? The little ones look up to you, the older kids idolize you. If anyone should be able to stay longer, it should be-”

“No!” RJ’s voice, deep and commanding, rips out of his chest in anger and frustration: a month of bottled rage unleashing on her in one simple word. It’s the voice that he uses on kids who don’t know their place. Never did he think he’d have to use it on her.

Lucy stares blankly as he stands up, tearing his wrist out of her grasp. He walks to the other side of the room and grabs a roll of gauze. He silently rolls it around his knuckles a few times, quick and tight, and tears off the end.

RJ walks back to Lucy and reaches past her to grab the bottle of vodka one more time. He knocks it back, and she watches his throat work. His throat bobs three times before he comes up for air and slams the bottle back down, much less full than before.

Lucy flinches at the sound and RJ feels guilt through the haze of fury. His eyes soften and he slowly reaches a hand out. He lays his uninjured hand across the side of her face, pulling her attention from his injury to his face.

“Once I’m gone, I can’t come back, Luce. You know that. You know better,” he chides her and she shakes her head defiantly, standing to face him. His injured hand is fisted and her gaze flicks down to see blood spreading across the yellowed gauze.

“But it doesn’t have to be that way, you’re different, you’re not-”

“Not what? Not a fucking mungo?” RJ cuts her off. He laughs darkly and gestures to his body: clearly not a child, but not quite an adult. “Not yet. But when I am, you can’t let me back in. If I stumble up to the gate holding my fucking insides between my goddamn fingers, the only mercy I expect to receive is a bullet between the eyes.”

Lucy shakes her head futilely, trying to will him to understand with her wide, dark eyes. But RJ’s emotions are tapped and it flows out his blue eyes to stab her in sharp, hushed tones.

“Trusting is dangerous enough between us here; we can’t fucking trust mungos. Even if they used to be one of us. Especially if they were one of us. It’s the only fucking thing that’s kept us alive,” his hands drop abruptly, spattering drops of blood against the floor. His chest rises and falls quickly from unleashing, but it’s clear he’s losing traction.

Lucy sees his temper ebbing and takes his uninjured hand in her own. She holds it close against his chest. They both feel his heart hammering from anger and something else. RJ’s breathing calms, as it inevitably does when she’s near.

“Do you feel that?” Lucy asks faintly looking into his too-blue eyes. He nods once. “That wouldn’t be beating if I hadn’t saved your life. You were dying. This heart was working against you, pumping blood out instead of keeping it in. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to fight your heart, RJ, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Lucy’s hand is warm over his heart and he makes a fist, trying to sort through his thoughts. Logic and emotion clash inside his head until he can’t tell which is which anymore. Ignoring both, he settles on something he knows he can rely on: action.

His injured hand comes up to rest on her chest, feeling her heart. The gauze does nothing to prevent his hand from getting blood all over her shirt but neither of them care. Her heart is beating just as wildly as his own and he notices that her tanned face is flushed.

“Do you feel this?” he asks quietly, with intensity. RJ closes his eyes and focuses on the drumming of her heart against his palm. “This feeling–your heart–is why I’m alive, why I live. Breaking the rules won’t just put me in danger; I’d be fine with that. If anything happened to you-”

On impulse, Lucy leans down slightly and grabs the back of RJ’s head, pushing him forward. She captures his lips with her own and holds him there. Her eyes are squeezed shut in this bold attempt at making him try to understand, damn him.

RJ’s eyes shoot open and he freezes in surprise. She presses hard and insistent against his mouth until his tense shoulders roll back. His eyes slip back closed and he reaches his unmarked hand up to brush his knuckles against her cheek. He pushes forward and feels her relent, allowing him to take control.

Inexperienced and clumsy, lips press against each other again and again. Lacking any technique, the kiss is full with years of affection for one another. Trust, reliance, and the smell of alcohol passes between them with each shared breath.

RJ breaks the kiss and leaves Lucy blinking her eyes open. Both slightly out of breath and flushed, they stare at each other for a moment. Sighing deeply, RJ sits down on the cot. He puts his head in his hands, blood smearing on his face.

Lucy slides next to him and leans her head into his shoulder. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it go while she waits for whatever comes next.

“Should have let me fucking bleed out,” RJ’s words are muffled behind his hands, but Lucy can still hear it. She shakes her head and he feels it against his shoulder. He uncovers his face and stares at the ruined gauze on his hand.

“If I ever…” He pauses to take a cleansing breath before beginning again. “If I come back, I need to trust that you won’t let me back in. To keep the rest safe. I need your word.”

“I can’t promise you that,” she answers honestly and RJ nods once. Finally, after all this time, he understands why. He holds a hand up to cup her face and she sighs, leaning into the warmth and closing her eyes.

“Lucy-”

A crack echoes through the caves: the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Lucy flinches and RJ jumps to his feet, blood singing in his veins. Mayor or not, RJ was born to shoot and the thrill of a fight is one of the few experiences in this shithole wasteland that he actually enjoys.

“Stay here,” he commands, holding Lucy’s face. She opens her mouth to argue and he leans in, silencing her with a hard kiss. RJ feels her bristle and fume at the command, then melt against his lips. Maybe it’s adrenaline or maybe it’s the alcohol, but he smirks cockily and swipes his tongue across her lips just to hear her squeak. Breaking away quickly, he’s out the door without looking back.

The caves are pitch black compared to the light of the clinic. RJ closes his right eye–the one he aims with–in an attempt to get his night vision back. He jogs near-silently through the winding tunnel, softening his knees to reduce the echo his boots make.

Most nights there’s only one kid on guard, so the single gunshot could mean a radscorpion got a bit too close or…

Or one of my kids is dead.

RJ reaches the mouth of the cave and slings the nearest rifle over his shoulder quietly. It’s not his personal gun–that’s back in his sleeping roll–but it has a decent enough range. He crouches low, sweeping the scope across the horizon, looking for anything to account for the gunfire.

In the darkness, he can just barely make out a human with the leather and tattoos that mark him as a raider. RJ’s stomach drops. Raiders have only ever picked off his scavenger teams when they’re well beyond the safety of Little Lamplight. If this is a sign of what’s to come, RJ might have to figure out a way to strike back at their own camp before he has another slaver problem on his hands.

Shaking his head, he lines up the shot. Future problems aside, the raider is definitely too tall to be one of RJ’s kids and that’s all he needs to know. With calm hands, he pulls the trigger and watches a spurt of blood fountain out of the raider’s chest.

As the body falls, he hears a shout and follows a pair of binoculars as they fall out of the dead raider’s hands: a scout, most likely a spotter. Scouts usually travel in pairs–spotters and snipers–so RJ doesn’t risk running out in the open just yet. He props the scope back into position and searches the area again, heart hammering in his chest.

There’s a small, dark smudge in the sand halfway between the cave and the dead raider and RJ prays to any deity that will listen that it’s not a kid. He sees four legs and a tail and is torn between relief and sorrow. While it’s not a kid, it’s also not just any animal. It’s one of the handful of dogs the cave keeps around for a bit of extra security and company. This particular one was a personal pet of Pup’s–nicknamed for his fierce passion for dogs–and it never left the kid’s side.

Which means-

“No, no, no,” RJ chants silently to himself as he does another scan of the environment in an attempt to find Pup or even better, the other scout hunting him. As much as he had tried to get his eye to adjust in the tunnels, it was still too damn dark to make anything out. He lowers the weapon and tries to find him by focusing on anything that moves. The dry wind nudges a bare plant, ruffles the dog’s limp tail, until finally, it kicks up a mop of brown hair.

Zeroing in on the movement, RJ props up his scope to be sure. Pup sits huddled behind a large rock, shuddering with tears as he fails to silence the anguish he feels for the death of his pet. He peeks his head out from behind the rock to sneak glances at the body and RJ’s heart drops.

In slow motion, RJ watches the tears fall from Pup’s eyes, shimmering as they fall and hit the sand. His round cheeks show how young (far, far too young) he is. The boy turns his head and it’s completely out of cover. Wispy brown hair rustles from the movement. Pup’s hand clenches, his breath hitches. The flash of the rifle, the splatter of blood, the slump of the body-

RJ’s mind goes thankfully numb, running on adrenaline and cold, calculating rage. He raises his scope in the direction of the flash. At first, he almost doesn’t see the second scout. The dirt-smeared tanned face blends in perfectly with the dark desert rocks, which marks him as the sniper. But then, the motherfucker lights a victory cigarette.

The match flares and catches the paper, and RJ watches through his scope as the bastard (fucking rotten mungo piece of shit) takes a long pull with a satisfied smirk, cherry glowing like a beacon in the night. RJ takes care accounting for wind and distance while he lines up the shot with the crosshair directly on the fucker’s neck.

With tense shoulders and a deep, steady breath, he squeezes the trigger on the exhale. There’s a wet, garbled yell as the sniper drops: bullet undoubtedly rending through trachea, muscle, and hopefully missing the spinal cord to prolong the suffering.

RJ waits a moment for any sign that there’s more raiders coming or any other threats. The silence is punctuated by the gurgling of the sniper gagging and drowning in his own blood. After a full minute, even that sputters off with an echo and silence envelopes the desert once more.

RJ’s mind doesn’t catch up with him until he’s standing next to the body, blood pooling under his boots. There’s a keening noise in the back of his throat before it closes up from holding back tears. He takes a ragged breath but it comes out as a raw sob.

Adrenaline gone as quick as it came and it leaves RJ breathless. His bones too heavy, muscles too fatigued, (heart too broken), he collapses to his knees. Shoulders shaking violently, hands trembling beyond measure, RJ reaches out and holds Pup’s cooling hand up to his forehead.

Dirt and blood smearing everywhere, RJ clamps his free hand over his mouth to mute the shout trying to rip through his chest. The gauze around his knuckles are red with fresh blood but at this point, he can’t tell what’s Pup’s and what’s his own and the thought sends another round of tremors through his body. His stomach roils like the radioactive tide and he turns to retch off to the side.

Blood roaring in his ears, he doesn’t notice Lucy approach until there’s a hand on his shoulder. He flinches hard and grabs at it, turning himself around to face her.

Lucy’s eyes are glassy with tears but her attention slips past the body and to RJ, the shaking mess of a boy covered in blood and dirt. The same boy who just let a raider choke to death on his own blood. This boy, who has spent years protecting every kid in Little Lamplight like they were his own.

The boy she loves.

With a guiding hand, Lucy pulls RJ into her body, his head reaching her navel from down on his knees. He shakily brings his arms up to hug her fiercely, hands clutching and staining her shirt with blood. His howls are muffled by her body and she hums soothingly to him. Her fingers card through his hair softly and knock the goggles off his head.

After a few moments, RJ regains control over himself enough to grieve in almost-silence. Lucy takes this moment to press a chaste kiss to the top of his head.

Being a doctor, Lucy has the unfortunately numerous duty of watching some of the Little Lamplighters die, while RJ has only ever received second hand accounts. As tough as he talks, just the news of death hits him pretty hard already. She glances over at the body and is thankful that Pup went quick and didn’t have to suffer.

“I couldn’t find him, Lucy,” he chokes out. “There were two but I couldn’t fucking find him. If I was quicker…I should have…” RJ speaks into her stomach instead of her, so she doesn’t see him for the mess he is. The words have a ragged edge to them before they trails off with a hiccup.

“Oh, RJ, no,” she soothes. “You did your best. You’re the best sharpshooter we have here. If there was a way to save Pup, you’d have done it,” she hushes low, not sure if there are more scouts around. She glances around worriedly and he feels her unease.

RJ looks up at her face and although her tears are flowing unrestrained, it’s clear she’s taking this tragedy much better than he ever could. His eyes are puffy and red, his hateful nose is running traitorously, it smells like blood and vomit, but his sobs have dwindled to unsteady heavy breaths. He stands up on shaky legs and squares his shoulders.

“There might be more out there. I need a better weapon than this,” he gestures with the subpar rifle in his hand and stares at the ground. Taking a moment to mop up his face with the back of a sleeve, he fidgets in place and refuses to meet Lucy’s eyes. She sighs deeply, flicking away her tears with a finger.

“Is it still by your bed?” she asks timidly, afraid to speak any louder as if RJ will shatter along with the silence. He nods once and she moves to leave but a hand latches onto her wrist.

All at once, guilt sinks his heart like an anchor on his soul. The past month’s exhaustion and inevitability finally catches up to him and his body is lead, limbs feeling heavy. He holds her wrist like a lifeline, willing some courage into his heart.

“Wait, Lucy-” he starts, unsure of how to begin when all he’s ever focused on was the end. His mouth tastes like vodka and puke, face a mess, body bloody and filthy, but she’s looking at him like it’s all she’s ever seen.

In the dark, with moonlight streaming through her hair to glitter in her dark eyes, he realizes there’s no need to explain. Any lie he tells is pointless, she’ll see through it immediately.

So once again, RJ settles on action.

Gently, he pulls her forehead down to his lips and presses a soft kiss there, hoping beyond all reason that she understands. Lucy wraps her arms around him almost protectively, hugging him close. She tucks her head in the crook of his shoulder and they stay wrapped together for a comfortable moment. He feels her breath on his neck and his resolve falters but before he has a chance to back out, Lucy breaks away with a watery smile.

“I’ll go take care of your rifle,” she says with finality. Her eyes are wide and pupils blown out as if to memorize every detail of his face. She brushes light fingers across his ruined knuckles as she kisses his cheek and turns away. RJ watches her walk away, staring unashamed at the lines of her body, the sway of her hips, the flow of her hair.

Lucy reaches the mouth of the cave and he waits until her form is swallowed by the darkness before moving. He fetches the rifle from where it dropped and hikes it over one shoulder. It’s not the best he’s ever used, but his skill will make up for any short comings.

He looks down at his hands, fair skinned and scarred. They’re filthy: coated in blood, dirt, and sand. His knuckles feel like ruined meat, but at this point, the gauze is doing nothing to keep them together anymore. He unravels the sopping red fabric and lays it in the sand.

With a small smile and a glance towards the caves, he carefully straightens it out to make a bloody heart. It hurts, damn does it hurt, but he digs a finger into the wound to get some blood flowing again. Slowly, he lets the blood drip inside the heart in a rough L shape.

You don’t have to fight my heart anymore, Luce. It’s yours.

By the time RJ has reached the sniper’s corpse, the sky is definitely lighter than it was before. Staring down at the body, he feels anger seeping into his bones again. He remembers the day Pup joined Little Lamplight well: it had only been a year ago that scruffy little ten-year-old found his way to the caves. Conscience clear but furious, he roughly kicks the sniper’s body and spits in his face.

See you in hell, you son of a bitch.

The raider guns are garbage: literally. More duct tape than weapon, the guns are homemade pipe rifles with scopes made out of magnifying glasses. RJ spots metal in one of their boots and yanks a switchblade out, making sure the blade cuts deep on the way and then carefully slides it into his own.

Looking at their clothes, he entertains the idea of taking at least the boots before shaking his head. Black and studded, they were too easily recognizable if he wore them, and selling them would only attract attention.

RJ pats the bodies down, one by one, looking for anything valuable. Between the two corpses he gets a small sack full of caps, some ammo for a weapon neither of them have, and a few syringes filled with god-only-knows what. He stuffs the items in a utility belt he took off the spotter.

Grudgingly, he loops the binoculars on his belt. If he plans on sticking with a sniper rifle, he’s going to need them. Not that RJ really has a choice; even if the rifle wasn’t the only weapon he knew, his height and frame isn’t conducive for close quarters combat out here. In the caves, sure, he could get a 13-year-old in a headlock. But here out in the wasteland, there’s no way he could overpower a full grown adult that grew up on meat and produce opposed to fucking cave fungus.

As for the bodies themselves, RJ leaves them (mostly) intact. His–no, Little Lamplight’s–scavenger team will pull them in and strip them down. The kids always need new clothes and the bodies will be thrown in a dark corner of the caves to feed the fungus. The bloodstains in the sand will be raked out and it’ll be like those raiders merely disappeared. As for Pup and his dog…RJ swallows the lump in his throat. They’ll be treated the same.

Hiking his rifle up a little higher, he watches the sun rise for a moment. The light touches the rocks surrounding Little Lamplight like a blanket. He imagines the Great Cavern packed with sleeping kids, unaware of the tragedy that’s taken place right outside while they slept.

An overwhelming sense of finality holds him in place, even though his brain is telling him to go. The urge to say goodbye, to apologize, to curse his only home before leaving is there, but he restrains himself. It won’t change anything: won’t make this parting any easier for him and it certainly won’t help the kids inside.

RJ picks a direction and starts walking. At around two hours after sunrise, he regrets not asking Lucy for a canteen before he left. After four hours, he’s desperate for food, even shitty cave fungus.

Six hours after sunrise, he’s beginning to rethink this whole growing up thing.

Finally, feet dragging and mouth dry, RJ thankfully stumbles into a small trading caravan. His exposed skin feels burnt and papery, light skin unused to long stretches in the sun. There’s only two men with the caravan and neither resemble any guard he’s seen. Instead, they’re in big drifter coats with wide brimmed hats protecting their heads. Mungos or not, RJ feels as if he has no choice but to approach them with desperation fueling his steps.

A huge, two-headed beast watches RJ approach, one head blinking slowly at him while the other strains to nip at the load on it’s back. The two men regard RJ with only slight wariness, his height and age no doubt putting them at ease.

“You there, boy,” one calls, hand hovering over a small gun on his hip. “Not raider, are you? Had enough trouble with 'em since we’ve been traveling here. Won’t put up with it.”

“I must look worse than I thought,” RJ’s coughs out a dusty, mirthful laugh and his dry throat coughs in protest. “Not a raider, but I’d be damn happy to find some. I have a few bullets saved for their heads.”

The two men look to one another, then at RJ. They take in his small frame, dry lips, and blood caked boots. In the wasteland, it’s common to find kids wandering the sands, orphaned and looking for revenge. The men nod solemnly at each other.

“You a good shot with that, kid?” The talkative man nods towards the rifle slung on RJ’s back. RJ’s answering nod earns him a half-empty canteen tossed to him. He takes it gratefully, basic needs outweighing distrust. He chugs it while the two men chuckle good-naturedly.

“Gonna be honest, a kid like you ain’t gonna last long in the wasteland by yourself, kid. You don’t look like much, but you look like you’re used to folks underestimating you. That’s good. Means the raiders won’t see you as a threat til it’s too late,” the man spits at the word 'raiders’ like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Now, you keep the raiders off us, and you get food, water, and a place to sleep. We’ll even throw in some caps, too. We got a deal, kid?”

RJ doesn’t need to debate his options. Between starving to death and murdering raiders for caps, it’s pretty clear which is the better path to take. He nods and holds out his hand to shake on it, hoping that they weren’t expecting some weird blood ritual to seal the deal. One man shakes his hand, then the other, both smiling open and trusting.

“Great! The name’s Daniel and this here’s Cade. You got a name, or should we be calling you kid from here on out?”

“Call me MacCready.”

In Little Lamplight, Lucy sits on top of RJ’s sleeping roll, knees tucked to her chin. With nimble fingers, she wraps the bloodied gauze he’d left behind around the butt of his favorite rifle, tying it off with a sigh. She pets the material lightly, feeling the tacky blood stick to the metal. The early risers are beginning to stir and the time has come to give them the news. Gently leaning it against the wall, she leaves the rifle until the day comes when she needs it to protect her, as he always did.