Gloomy thoughts danced over Kelly, mocking her in cruel caricatures of victory. Ad Victoriam, they rattled at her, like the bones of the dead. Ad fuckin' Victoriam.
The barracks on the Prydwen were of cold steel and emptiness, all souls elsewhere in the aftermath of battle, gathering down in the mess, working on repairs in the maintenance bay, or burning off some unspent adrenaline in the gym. The Brotherhood type were notoriously bad at chilling out, even during off-duty hours. Lucky for her, it meant the barracks was at her mercy.
The madness in her was itching to break out and trash the place, break locks and steal caps, throw shit at people walking below, kick tables and chairs off the balcony, smash precious items for the hell of it, rip up straw pillows with her teeth, spit on left-out food morsels, piss on the deck, shit on someone's bed, smear it all over herself and run around terrorizing the Squires.
But the woman in her was at her man's side, cradling his weight in the soft, plushy curl of her body. Kelly wished she could see his face, stroke it and wipe it clean. Beneath Maxson's dented helmet, Danse was slack and bloody and in need of her lips on his. If only I could drench him in my love and kiss away his pain. Bearing the thought of losing him never got easier, it only got harder and harder the closer they grew, the more they endured, the longer they survived. If one died, so did the other. There was no questioning it, no blundering through thoughts of how the other would go on with only half a soul. It was a waste of thought. The war, the world, none of it mattered, just meaningless woes in a blip of eternity that was only stuck on repeat, destined to an undying cycle. Only love was precious.
They were upon the spare bed she had once taken refuge on many a night after a hard day of service. Oddly, no one had claimed it after her exile. The Brotherhood were scanty with resources, never letting anything go to waste for silly sentimental reasons. But it was as though her exile had tainted everything she had once touched. Even Danse's belongings had been allocated out as a free-for-all garage sale after his execution.
A rogue bout of 'toxic' sentimentality from the Brotherhood, or orders from above? If so, then why? So Maxson could say I told you so, if she were to ever come crawling back into the arms of the Brotherhood? And fuck damnit, she had. Without even thinking about it. Just helped herself to their aid and resources and now she was riding their airship back to their safety. By Brotherhood decree, an exile should be killed on sight if ever caught breaking the terms of freedom. Yet here she was, sitting pretty as though none of it applied to her. It smelled too much of him.
Elder Maxson's presence here was too strong, like an inexorable shadow, hunting her and saturating her skin. She needed to keep herself far away from him if she wanted to keep her sanity intact. What is left of it. But so many questions were scattering through her brain in need of answers. It was almost enough turmoil to distract her from the emotional toll of everything else. Almost.
Lying there was like torturing herself. Even in Danse's precious warmth. The grasp of anxiety was a quickening in her chest and a knot in her stomach that refused to abate. Visiting her Minutemen only served to subdue it until she left again, and all the while she was anxious to get back to Danse. The passing glowers that struck her were like lashes across her bare heart. Yet the darkling in her blood glowered back at them.
It was all a facade. If a group of soldiers took it upon themselves to corner her in a dark passage, she didn't have the mettle in her to challenge them, even emptily. She would only curdle to her knees and go catatonic, letting them have their way with her.
Part of her wanted to.
But Kelly fucking Harper wasn't yet out of the hellfire. She had her man to protect, her people to support, her bearded nemesis to quell. Sleep would be on the back burner until her duty was done.
Until then, however, she was shit outta luck to fill in the time. Danse's right hand was warm and strong in hers, fingers that had made sweet, sweet love to her body now limp and lifeless. She kissed each one of them lingeringly, then brought his knuckles up to rest on her lips, drawing comfort from them as her love for him swelled, more and more until it stretched her chest painfully. She couldn't keep this up. It was too much to bear, seeing him like this, ruminating on the afflictions that might be his. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
With a gentle flurry, Kelly let him be and sat to swivel her legs off the bed. She rubbed the knives from their muscles and grimaced through the pain, then stood from the bed, pacing a little in efforts to control her anxiety. She realized she was still staring at him, worrying her bottom lip where she had bitten at a crack and made it bleed. The taste of her blood served to rouse her. I'm coming down from the chems. I need to keep it together. I need to clean myself up, take a hot shower, put some decent clothes on, brush my fucking teeth. Grab a coffee. A real coffee. Oh sweet baby demon, a real fucking coffee!
These simple things were suddenly a luxury. Weeks of roughing it out in the wild had hardened her like nothing before. Even breaking out into the wasteland after first awakening was a slim transition in comparison, at least there had been some semblance of civilization to fall back on in the Commonwealth. And now, being back with the Brotherhood of Steel was like walking into the gates of heaven. Actually, no, scratch that. That was a shitty analogy if it could ever be considered one.
But she couldn't leave Danse. It was too risky; he could go downhill and crash, needing her to call for medical help. Cade would help, she knew he would; or someone might come along and decide to remove his helmet and take a peek at his 'disfiguring burns'. The fallout would be immense. How would Maxson super-sleuth his way out of that one? She would pay her weight in caps to see him try. Though he would find a way of blaming her. Obviously. If she and Danse were to go down, it would have at least been nice to drag Maxson down with them.
Her will swooned, and her with it, slumping back down on the bed beside Danse. He didn't stir. Part of her had expected to find his arms coiling about her to draw her down with him. She was just about to lay back down with him, when a familiar shaved head came bobbing up the stairway nearby. Holding Clay-Crawler's hand was a young Scribe that Kelly recognized by face but not by name. When the raider saw her, his whole face lit up in one of his charming smiles, and she realized how much she had missed it.
She beamed back and stood. "Jig's up. You found me." She wasn't expecting the rush of scrawny arms around her, or the crushing squeeze and little twist side-to-side, and then the manic bobbing up and down as though they were teenage girls reunited after an hour apart. Had he gotten taller, or had she just shrunk? "Oh! Ho-ho-okay!" she wheezed out. "How long have you been waiting to do that?"
"Long time," he admitted as he released her and backed away, still grinning like an idiot. "Feel better now."
"Good," she laughed out, "I kinda missed you too." Her gaze dropped to the young girl. "Who's your friend?"
"Squire Ortega," the girl announced proudly, beating her little chest with a fisted salute. "At your service, Paladin. Uh, I mean... ma'am? Or, civilian? Um..." She bit her lip.
Kelly couldn't help but chuckle. "It's okay, I won't tell. You can just call me Kelly."
"Well... everyone else calls you Harper." She shrugged uncertainly.
"Harper's fine then." Bending, Kelly dipped to the girl's level and offered out her hand, forgetting how dirty it was still. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
Ortega took it in hers without a care. Her shake was firm and strong, matching the smile dimpling up her cheeks. "Hail, Harper."
Hail Hitler, rang through her mind out of the Old World, and she cringed internally. Fuck, not quite that far gone yet, I hope.
The Squire didn't take any notice of Kelly's awkward pause. "We've met before. Well, not really. But you once let a group of us Squires play with Dogmeat back when he was sick and needed our help. You told us stories about the Wasteland, and the Old World. You probably don't remember, with all the adventures you've been on since then..."
That was where she recognized her from. One of many small, curious faces listening avidly to her storytelling on some nights, most of which had only been slightly exaggerated for effect. Kelly had tried to coax Danse into joining her and adding his voice to the tales she spun, but he had politely declined and mumbled something about his power armor in need of urgent repairs. It was probably just as well, for everyone's sake. Danse didn't exactly have the charisma of a campfire storyteller.
"Sure I remember," Kelly said with a convincing smile, when I wasn't high and talking through my ass. She couldn't remember if all her tales had been family friendly, however. With how well the Squires had all taken to her, probably not. "That all seems so long ago now, huh?"
"I guess so. They won't let us Squires go out on field patrols now since we flew to the Bloodlands. Elder Maxson says it's too dangerous. All we do is patrol around the inside of the camp battlements, and we have to wear radiation suits because they don't make power armor in our size. I don't complain much and I always follow orders... but it is kinda boring lately."
"I'll bet," Kelly sympathized. She settled down on her haunches, ignoring the pain from the crossbow wound to her thigh. "You sure you're allowed to be talking to me? I'm still technically an exile."
Ortega shied with a guilty look. "We get an hour off-duty after meal time to do whatever we want. I saw Clay-Crawler outside the mess hall and asked if I could be of any assistance. He was looking for you, so I offered to help." She cast about a nervous glance. "Technically, I'm not doing anything wrong. Not really."
So she still had a fan, it seemed. "You don't think I'm a bad person for literally stabbing your Elder in the back?"
"Well... you probably shouldn't have done that... But then you went out and got the Minutemen back, and on your own!"
Not on my own, Kelly thought with a pang.
"People are praising you, you know? Some of them. Most are still angry with you, calling you a betrayer, and renegade, deserter, double-dealer, and... what was that other one... oh, yeah, a heathen. That was it."
Heathen? Fair enough. The Brotherhood abhor religion, but their militant rule may as well be one, and any who opposed it may as well be heathens. She tried not to let those words break into her, told herself she didn't give a damn what they all thought of her...
At the stark look on Kelly's face, Ortega checked herself. "Oh, sorry. It's mostly just the Knights talking like that. The Paladins don't gossip much. But I'm not allowed in the officer's-only areas so I can't be sure... But! I have overheard some Paladins saying nice things about you!"
Kelly cocked her head. "Oh yeah? Hit me." She wasn't really expecting much.
"I once heard the words 'brave' and 'fearless'. Inspiring, was another one. Umm, daredevil..." That word could be hit-or-miss with the Brotherhood, as many despised reckless hotheads, but Kelly kept quiet. "Determined, valiant, loyal-"
"Loyal?" she broke in, unable to keep her tongue this time. "To the Minutemen. But not the Brotherhood. That's the last thing I would have expected to be praised with."
"That's just what I heard," Ortega shrugged.
The Brotherhood were an odd bunch. So she had earned some respect by going balls-deep in rescuing her people, even if it meant defying the Brotherhood in order to do so. They really did place honor above all else. Some of them, anyway.
Eager to divert the subject, Kelly lifted her chin at Clay-Crawler. "What about Clay? What are people saying about him?"
Ortega turned a big toothy smile up at the raider. It look suspiciously inspired by his own gaudy style. "Everyone loves Clay. Even Proctor Quinlan, and he never has anything nice to say about outsiders. Proctor Teagan is making a special brew of moonshine in honor of Clay, and there are whispers that he and Proctor Ingram are making a new weapon called the Dragon Breaker! He might not be one of us, but he's like our team mascot! Everyone is doing their best to make him feel welcome now."
Everyone is doing their best, or everyone was told to do their best, I wonder. Back when she was loved by the Brotherhood, before she dipped her toes into chems and turned into an asshole, not even she received such a warm welcome. Was she jealous? Maybe a little. But she was more concerned for his wellbeing.
"The team mascot," Kelly echoed, with a shade of sympathy. "How do you feel about that, Clay?"
He scratched his chin, then his head. "Feel good about that." He beat his chest, raider style. "Proud."
Proud to be his pawn. Kelly felt her protective instincts build up and sputter uselessly. How could she protect him, now that Maxson had already sunk his teeth in deep? It was her fault for leaving the young raider at his mercy. She had relied on Clay's perverted obsession with her and Danse to keep him from being swayed by the Elder's shininess, like a forbidden jewel he should have known better than to touch.
You knew better, yet you touched the shiny jewel too, hypocrite.
As soon as they were out of the picture, Maxson had swooped in and snapped him right up like some burly, bearded pelican with a baby in a blanket. No, she had to give Clay-Crawler more credit than that. He was a baby in power armor.
Standing again, Kelly stretched out her aching back muscles, automatically looking over to Danse laying prone, no doubt with far more than an aching back.
"Still not wake?" Clay-Crawler asked quietly, sparse brows pinched up.
"No... I even tried tickling his ribs. He hates that." Her laugh died a shameful death in her mouth, before it dried up again with anxiety.
The boy and the girl hovered wordlessly together, looking like a pair of misfits at a funeral. Kelly wondered if Clay-Crawler would be a good influence on Ortega. He probably shouldn't be allowed free rein anywhere near impressionable children, come to think of it... "I sleep by feet?" Clay-Crawler asked, all sheepish and innocent. "Keep warm?"
She stared. "At the end of the bed?"
"Yes please."
You adorable creep. Turning back to Danse, as if to ask his permission, Kelly suddenly smiled with relief. "You think you could watch over him while I'm gone for a while?"
He nodded rapidly, excited by the responsibility. "Yes. Protect. But you will come back?"
"Don't worry. I'm not going to do a runner again, I promise."
Showering was her first task. And a task it was. The Brotherhood didn't discriminate genders, so the showers were free-for-all, dicks out, tits out, asses on show. She bet Danse got a lot of side-long pervs at that epic ass of his. The only segregation in the shower blocks was by rank, but being an exile, she guessed she was bumped all the way back down to the rookie block. Nobody stopped her as she tendertoed her way in, but she caught the stares when she began to shed her tribal getup. Her warpaint was vivid for all eyes to see, lines, swirls, shapes, handprints, and various depictions of claw markings daubed all over her body from head to toe.
No wonder they think me a traitor. A dirty, mud-squatting tribal. I better not drop the soap or I'll end up with a knife up my ass.
The red sloughed away under the gentle caress of hot water. It was bliss to lean her face up into it's heated kiss, imagining it rinsing away all her sins with the paint and blood and grime. The yearn for chemical bliss crept up on her to ruin the moment. But she thought of Danse, of Clay-Crawler, of her Minutemen, her crew, of everyone who depended on her. She had just fought so hard to earn back their respect. She couldn't lose it all over again.
Despairing to wriggle back into her tight and scanty war garb, Kelly tiptoed back out of the showers in nothing but a towel, hair fresh, her skin scrubbed pink and clean, and dripping wet. Despite the Brotherhood's zero tolerance for indecent exposure, usually, she would saunter about half naked without a care, show some skin, free the nipple, go commando, moon a bitch who complained. But here, now, exiled and vilified, she felt targeted and vulnerable. Clutching her garb, leathers, and metal war kit below her breasts to keep the towel from falling in a mortifying incident, she hurried back down the decks and hoped there was still a spare uniform or pair of fatigues in the footlocker at the foot of her bed. Otherwise she would be prowling the ship in her birthday suit, because she sure-as-shit doubted the Brotherhood would issue her some new threads.
She was busy scurrying over the gantry that would take her around the outside of the barracks area, in full view of the maintenance bay over a ways below, when she screeched to a halt in sight of Maxson's pair of baby-blues. He had obviously been staring long before she had even noticed him, but he continued to stare, frozen in mid-thought over his stationary power armor while Proctor Teagan tinkered and chattered away, oblivious to his Elder's current distraction.
Caught red-handed, Kelly grew acutely aware of her wet body, her breasts pushed up into tight mounds by the pressure she held against them and heaving with her quick breath, her legs lustrous and bare, wrapped across one thigh to cover her wound like some makeshift provocative garter. Not to mention the fact that she was above, he was below, and her towel was scandalously short...
She sidled her legs close together like a prim 'n' proper lady should. Fuck. Fuckity-fuckity-fuck. She limped the rest of the way down the steps, feeling her cheeks blister with shame. When she dared a peek back before vanishing from his sight, she saw that he was still staring, but now appeared to snap out of it and avert his gaze, angrily, like he despised her for distracting him.
She wondered what he would think if a rogue grenade hit him in the face.
When she reached the bed, Danse was exactly where she left him, and Clay-Crawler was perched at the end with his legs folded beneath him. He was staring too.
"What, you'd think no fucker on this airship had seen a pair of tits before," she snapped before throwing her clothes and armor at him. "Get a good look then! Don't miss out!"
He did, practically drooling. "Good tits! Can I see?"
"No! Fuck off!"
Heartbroken, he nodded slowly and moved to leave.
"No, Clay, I'm sorry," Kelly sighed to stop him. "I'm just a crazy bitch right now. Thanks for looking after Deadskull." She waited for him to smile. "No movement from him? A twitch or...?" The raider shook his head despondently. She hadn't been expecting to come back to good news, but a girl could hope. She bent to check out the footlocker. It was locked-‒she was sure she had been the one to last lock it‒‒but a bobby pin made short work of it. To her relief, her old Knight uniform was still tucked safely inside, complete with socks and boots. Her miscellaneous items were wrapped up in a plastic zip-lock bag; toothbrush, a spare stimpak, razorblade, a precious pack of pre-war tampons, a tiny vial of perfume... oh yeah, Hancock had gifted her that when they had been scheming to seduce Maxson in hopes of getting him pussy-whipped on her side. Hah, good times. Hidden beneath the bag, a whiskey flask that was now empty hid a wanton Jet inhaler. "Heh. Whoops," Kelly said under her breath as she scooped it up quickly and stuffed it into the pocket of her jumpsuit, denying the cry her inner demons gave to suck it into her soul. First chance she got, she was going to stomp it into dust. After a thought, she took the vial of perfume too, just in case. "Hey, Clay, think you could hold up my towel for me while I change?"
Not stopping to think that he might not, in fact, understand the common courtesy, Kelly began to slip into the jumpsuit with her back to him, bending and struggling to get her injured leg into the hole, when she heard a gasp and turned up to see the raider gawking down at her naked ass spread wide for his view with eyes popping out of his skull.
"Clay! Don't look! Fucking damn it!"
He blinked rapidly before jerking his head away, eyes still wide as though unable to unsee the image. Great. Maybe she should just streak across the Prydwen, get it over with so she had no dignity left to even fuss about.
After she was suited up, she booted up and then stood aimlessly over the man and boy. Her man and boy. What am I going to do with you two... The notion of responsibility only served to exhaust her even more, and she could feel every tendon sag, every muscle slump and drag heavily on her bones. No more. No more mountains to climb, people to save, fuckers to kill and worlds to set on fire. I just want to rest. Just for a while.
But she couldn't. "Coffee." She blurted, more as a command to herself. "You want one?"
Clay-Crawler looked disgusted by the offer. "Bleh. Gross. Want Bloodwater."
"Feel free to dribble your own blood in some water then, vampire-boy."
Wandering down to the mess was something she had really hoped to avoid, but she would need that coffee if she wanted to stay up all night playing General. When she approached the hall, most were finishing up with their meals and making small-talk in tight groups, officers to one side, grunts to the other. A few were loitering around the mess officer's bench, perched on the stools with hot drinks in hand. A young Initiate was teaching a Squire her way around the cooking station, flipping mirelurk eggs on a frying pan.
The chatter dulled when she stepped in. Good to see I'm still a showstopper. Lifting her chin, she met eyes boldly as she walked to the galley. A burly form stopped her in her tracks.
"We don't serve traitors."
Kelly smiled tartly. "Knight Rhys. Nice to see you haven't run into a bullet yet. Give it time."
"Is that a threat?" He stepped in closer.
"I can't make you run into a bullet. Only you have the head for that."
He bored his eyes into her like he couldn't comprehend her level of gall. Just before she was sure to eat his fist, the mess officer spoke up. "Alright, stow it. No headbutting in my hall. You wanna have it out, save it for the rec deck. Knight, take your seat and act like you're enjoying your food. General, what'll it be?"
"I've lost my appetite," Rhys snarled, slowly prowling from the mess with a chip on his shoulder. Like an avalanche, others paid tribute and followed his example, leaving the room in droves until only a third remained. If even that.
It took her a moment to drink in the hurt. I only have myself to blame. Yet, Kelly refused to let it break her facade. Her thinly maintained facade. What did she care if they rejected her? They were never her family, they were Danse's, and even he was rejected and tossed aside like scum.
Picking her heart up off the deck, she turned back to the mess officer to spare him a grateful smile. "Thanks. You didn't have to do that."
"I didn't do it for you, General. Just following orders, keeping the peace."
"Right." She swallowed that down. "Just a coffee. A strong one." I should probably eat with that or I'll get the trots... "Any leftovers?"
"We save those for the patrol hounds."
Right. Ouch. "Coffee's fine." While she waited for it to brew, she turned to lean against the galley bench and observe the tension she had caused around her. Many were putting up a good fight not to stare back, but the bolder ones had no qualms in making eye contact, albeit with expressionless faces. She recognized a few of those faces. Paladin Brandis, whom she and Danse had tracked down together, talked down together, and welcomed back into the family fold. He lifted his cup to her in a minute gesture of solidarity. Knight Lucia and Knight Clarke from logistics, whom she and Danse had also helped out. Lancer-Knight Duval's thick moustache quirked at her over the rim of his cup. Beside him, Knight Lynch smiled openly, eager to have her attention. Kelly remembered the young woman trying her damndest to befriend her back when she was more active in the Brotherhood. She wondered if she would still be so eager now.
"Coffee's up."
Kelly swivelled back for it, sipping cautiously at the hot liquid to test it's strength, and also it's level of poison. One could never let their guard down. Maxson had once told her that poison was a woman's weapon, when she had lingered with suspicion over a coffee he had brought her; a rare gesture of kindness after the Minutemen Massacre... before he had choked her against the wall and given her a love bite, of course.
Satisfied that she was still alive, Kelly made to leave, only to nearly bump into Lynch. It was a miracle that she didn't spill her coffee.
"Harper, it's good to see you again." Her nutmeg lips were as full and smiley as Kelly remembered, her teeth so white against her rich skin. She envied the ease of such a smile. I used to smile just like that.
"Knight Lynch. Still kicking."
"You bet. Haven't run into any bullets here."
Scoffing, Kelly demurred a little. "In hindsight, I really should have kept my mouth shut back there, huh."
"Yeah," Lynch shrugged, "but that would have been boring. You wouldn't be you if you walked into a room without stirring up some sort of tension."
"Wherever I go," she sighed, not at all despondent. There's my problem right there. I enjoy it too much.
Laughing quietly, Lynch moved aside. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you're back with us, even if it's just as the leader of our allies. See you around."
"Yeah, see you." As she walked away with her coffee in hand, voices in her head competed over one another in pandemonium. What if you're not the leader of the Minutemen? What if they don't want you back? What if they won't ally with the Brotherhood again? What if the Brotherhood won't ally with them if you're their leader?
The Jet inhaler grew heavier in her pocket.
What if Maxson takes them from you, assimilates them into the Brotherhood like he always intended? What if he has you assassinated for being a distraction to his dark desires? What if your own people kill you? What if you're just walking back into another world that wants you dead?
What if you want yourself dead?