Fallout 4: Alight

Alight Part 3

 Preston woke, screaming, in the middle of that darkness. The stars had fled, and clouds hid the moon. His room was pitch black.

He was covered in sweat, and his heart was pounding. Before his eyes, seared in his vision, were the remnants of his dream. The people he'd shepherded, once again screaming and falling, torn by bullets, bleeding, crying. The people he'd failed, dying, crying out with pain, their blood all over the place, all over his hands.

His chest was heaving like a bellows, and he sat up, feeling the darkness around him draw in closer, as if to smother him.

A sort of panic rose in his throat, grief and adrenaline combined. He had the sensation of being crushed, of something dangerous about to pounce, hovering over him. A sound, something a wounded animal might make, escaped his mouth. He couldn't see anything but the horror of his dream, and feel the pressure of his own imminent demise. He gripped his head, trying to force the thoughts away, stop the replay of the terrible images.

Suddenly, light flared, and the lantern next to his bed lit with a warm glow.

He blinked, panting, gaping in the unexpected light. There was a hand, holding the match, and then Rosie came into soft focus.

Her hair was out of its usual braid, and her face was pale in this small light.

He made a sound, and without thinking, reached for her. Then he realized what he was doing, and dropped his hand it to the mattress.

"Rosie," he said, putting his head down, catching his breath.

She sat down next to him, the bed springs creaking. She couldn't get the sound of his scream out of her head, or the expression on his face when he'd put his hand out to her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to feel his desperate mouth on her own. She wanted to chase all of this away for him, whatever it was. They were still too new to one another, though. The space still yawned between them.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

Rosie let out a long sigh.

He realized he wasn't wearing any clothing. He drew the blanket up, covering his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think you were coming tonight."

"It's your bed," she said. She stood up, and went to the door.

"You leaving?" he asked, letting a little too much emotion leak into the question.

She paused. "No. I'll be back in a moment."

She was, holding a mug of water. He'd thrown his shirt on. She handed it to him, then sat at the end of his bed.

"Thanks," he said, taking a long draught. His dreams were breaking up into fragments, falling into discordant memory.

"What were the nightmares about?"

He paused.

"I don't remember," he said, lying. They were the same dreams he had all the time, only tonight they'd been stronger, more realistic. He didn't want to say the words outloud. Part of him didn't want to see her disappointment, when she learned what he had done, how he'd failed them all.

She looked at him, nodded. Then she got up, and settled into her chair. She knocked his pants off, onto the floor, and put her legs up, as she always did.

"You don't have to stay here," he said.

"You want me to go?" She didn't look at him.

"You don't need to babysit me." His voice was firmer.

"So I won't." She closed her eyes.

He was tired, now that the adrenaline from the dream was fading, and he was embarrassed that she'd overheard all of it. "I'm a grown man, Rosie," he said, much more firmly, and her head came up, to look at him. She'd never heard him raise his voice. He wasn't yelling, but there was anger in it. He was annoyed. "You can stop playing the guardian. Your debt is done. I get it, you felt bad, but we're good now."

Her legs came down, and she looked at him, hesitating.

"Go," he said, as if he was kicking out Dogmeat for chewing a shoe, and he pointed at the door.

He regretted his tone almost as soon as he'd used it. He expected her to give him that cold look, and stay where she was.

So he was surprised when she stood. In the light of the lantern, she looked thin, and, suddenly, her face had lost its confidence. There was no cold gaze. She looked young, and a little surprised. She hadn't expect him to speak like that.

"Did you ever think... it wasn't only about you?" she asked, words tumbling out, and her eyes were strangely shiny. She looked away, quickly, and turned and walked out.

The weight of his mistake hit him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and he scrambled out of bed, to go after her. As soon as he stood, he remembered he wasn't wearing pants. By the time he'd crammed them on, and ran after her, barefoot, she was long gone. He ran to the women's house, stopping outside the door. It was dark in there, no sounds apparent. He didn't want to rouse the entire community. He paced for a few moments, frustrated.

If Rosie didn't want to be found, he doubted he could find her.

He walked slowly back to his room.

He'd made her cry. He'd never meant to do that. Why the hell had he yelled at her? It wasn't Rosie that he was angry at, it was himself.

He'd thought she was guarding him. No doubt, she had been. But... could there have been another reason she stayed close? He turned her situation around in his head, trying to see it from a different angle.

Her parents were dead, she'd lost her homestead. She'd lived on the wastelands, farming alone for months. She wasn't a kid, but she wasn't much over twenty, either. She'd turned to the assassin gig when the raider attacks had gotten out of control, but until then, she'd lived there, alone, fending them off.

He'd always had other people around to watch his back.

She'd been alone. There were a lot of things that could happen, to a young woman, alone.

Could she have sought him out for her own security? Maybe she'd been sticking around because she felt safe near him.

And what had he done? Kicked her out, in the middle of the night.

He wasn't a man for profanity. Still. It fit this situation.

So much for the full night of sleep.