Chapter Text
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If I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside
on my fingertips
and at brain edges
and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.
—Charles Bukowski, “if I never see you again”
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Looking Like You
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When Lucy MacLean wakes with the dawn, she’s no longer on the bed, but on the floor, in a different room of the house.
She blinks in the pale morning light, trying to make sense of her new location. The Ghoul had shown her the mattress last night, thin and stained as it was, before stalking off downstairs. Perimeter check, Lucy thinks, recalling her growing wastelander vocabulary. But did he come back later? Dump her here while she slept? If he wanted to move her, he’d prod her awake so she’d use her own darn legs.
Maybe this is retaliation for offering some of his vials to that pleading ghoul they passed on the road yesterday. She’d suggested one or two in a moment of pity, thinking of Martha and Roger, but the Ghoul had strode on as if he hadn’t heard her, saddlebag staying shut.
Well, whatever the reason, she’s here. Lucy stretches, sending joints creaking and popping in a way they never did before. It sounds like the wasteland had its way with her last night, chewing through her Vault dweller vitality. How much longer before the surface takes it all? Would she even be the same person once she catches up to her dad?
Mulling over fingers and honest exchanges, Lucy goes to check her Pip-Boy’s chronometer and gets a faceful of the Ghoul’s arm instead.
She stares, uncomprehending. Did—did he—why’s he beside her? He never lets her close at night, even when she’s cold and miserable, as if preferring to teach her suffering than extend an inch of comfort. Did he finally have a change in heart? Is that why she’s not shivering like usual?
Lucy scoots for space, unsure why he’s not saying anything, only for the Ghoul to match her movements.
She freezes. He does the same.
“Uhm,” she says, which is odd, because it’s the Ghoul saying it, but deeper, as if his voice’s inside her skull. “Uhhhhhm.”
Lucy sits, fighting for calm, and gapes in disbelief as the rest of his body sits too. She bends a knee and a pinstriped one does just that. She slaps a gloved hand to her face and oh good gosh, she didn’t have a nose.
A strangled yelp escapes her, high and undignified, unlike any noise the Ghoul’s made before.
“Holy moly,” she says in his voice. It’d be hilarious if it weren’t so horrifying. “Holy freaking moly!”
She paws at herself, clutching at the bandolier. Okay. Okay, just deep breaths. Don’t lose your head. Lucy inhales through her nose, forgetting, and shudders at the strange and uncomfortable sensation of air scraping against the exposed passages.
Then it punches her: if she’s here, would that mean—?
There’s a loud thud upstairs, sounding like a metal object was thrown across a room.
Lucy hurries to stand but trips over legs longer than her own, falling flat. She tries again, using the floor and wall for support. As she wobbles upright, she recalls the time she borrowed Chet’s bike, how unwieldy it’d been to navigate with her much shorter stature.
Shoving the current lunacy aside—if this is a nightmare, it’s her most lucid one—Lucy shuffles to the staircase and starts climbing. By the time she’s cresting the landing, she’s stopped stumbling over herself.
She enters the room she was supposed to wake up in. Her body’s sitting on the bed, trying to wrangle its arms from the Vault jumpsuit. The head snaps up, bangs in disarray, face pale and thunderous.
They stare at each other. It’s as if Lucy’s peering at a reflection that has a will of its own.
“Uhm,” she says when the silence stretches on. “This is, uh, insane, right? Are we dreaming?”
The Ghoul frees his arms, the jumpsuit’s top half slumping about his waist. Gooseflesh covers his exposed skin but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stands, using the wall to keep steady like she had.
The Pip-Boy’s absent. A quick glance reveals it in the far corner, the wall indented where it’d been struck. She hurries to it, spurs jangling. She crouches and breathes a sigh of relief at the undamaged screen and unbroken knobs. She clutches it to her chest, embracing its comforting weight.
“Was that really necessary, sir?” she says, standing.
“Give me my fuckin coat.”
Good gravy, Lucy’s never sounded so mean before. Is this how her father perceived her at the observatory? A familiar figure turned You see what this place does to people hostile stranger? Then again, the inverse’s true: just thinking about the depth of Hank’s cruelties, a man she once thought could do no wrong, lines her heart with lead.
“Don’t you think we should discuss what the fudge’s happening?” she says. “Or trade theori—”
“Guns, knife, rope. Hand em over.” The Ghoul’s drawl sounds fake in her voice. Then again, Lucy’s no better, enunciating every word in his tone’s natural burr. “And my hat.”
“Want the pants and shoes, too?” she says before she can stop herself. “I’d ask for my suit back if I thought I could fit.”
Lucy regrets the outburst seconds later. “Sorry. Sorry, that was uncalled for.” She takes a deep, albeit uncomfortable drag of air, then undresses until there’s a tidy pile of his things on the bed. She slides the Pip-Boy on her left forearm, adjusting the cuff so it fits. She sighs in relief when it does.
The Ghoul takes everything without a word. By the time he’s done, he’s himself—almost. The duster’s tattered ends drag on the ground and he has to roll the sleeves so they don’t engulf his hands. The hat swallows his head, sinking low across his brow. The bandolier encircles his chest in an oversized loop despite his efforts to cinch it tighter, making the Mare’s Leg lean at a precarious angle.
The Ghoul tosses Maximus’ 10mm and its holster onto the bed. For a second Lucy stares as if it belongs to someone else, hating how it transports her to Moldaver’s banquet table and the horrible revelations there. Shoving those thoughts and the pain they bring aside, she drags it over and attaches it to her belt and thigh.
A gurgling stomach cuts the tense silence. Lucy blinks. The Ghoul touches his abdomen as if it’s a foreign thing.
“We should eat,” she says, keeping her tone nonconfrontational. “I was saving that Cram from earlier. Maybe we could share it while we analyze what’s happ—”
He stalks out of the room without a backwards glance.
“But, aren’t you—? Sir, aren’t you the least bit curious what the heck’s going on? Sir? Mr. Ghoul!”
He’s already halfway down the stairs, clenching the railing. Lucy follows, snatching the saddlebag before joining him outside. As they leave the dilapidated house, it’s no issue to match his pace, every two strides of hers equating three of his.
Just as Lucy’s about to ask where’s Dogmeat, she appears, licking her jowls. She pants at them, wagging her tail as if nothing’s changed. Lucy tries to contain her rising hysteria. At least neither of them traded places with the dog.
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.s.
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The Ghoul marches like he’s heading to his own execution, staring at the horizon as if pinned there.
Lucy gives him space, walking some ways off to let him process this inexplicable body switch on his own terms. She hasn’t stopped churning through ideas, each more outlandish than the next. Her best one involves the fact he’s stitched her finger to his hand, forming some sort of bridge for their souls to cross.
The truth is, no matter how she tries spinning a logical explanation, nothing about this is based in empirical reason. Maybe she’s in a ditch somewhere, hallucinating off bad fermented mutfruit.
This is madness, plain and simple. Worse of all, Lucy has no idea how to reverse it.
At least walking’s easier, she thinks, clinging to the positives. In fact, despite shedding the duster and hat, she’s just as comfortable as before. It’s as if she’s wearing an insulating layer, protected from the heat and cold. Heck, she could hold this pace for miles and miles, the normal fatigue in her legs and feet nonexistent. No wonder the Ghoul could travel at this gait for as long as he does.
She glances over, hoping to find him in a more agreeable mood, except it’s only Dogmeat trotting beside her. Lucy stops and turns. He’s far behind, squatting, jumpsuit around his knees.
She spins away. Gosh, right on the road? He could at least do it behind that pile of rocks. As she waits, she glances at where her thighs meet. With everything going on, she hasn’t even noticed if he had all his parts.
Despite it being her body at the moment, it feels like a violation to touch his genitals without permission. He’s doing the same to yours right now, a voice says, and although the thought’s unsettling on its own, it does make her curiosity more permissible.
Lucy’s first to admit her budding interest in the Ghoul makes no sense. He treated her poorly in his attempts to rub the wasteland in her face, not to mention almost getting her butchered.
The longer she’s with him, the more she understands there’s an unapproachability to the Ghoul, a kind of aloofness that detaches him from the rest of the wasteland. He looks through people as if they aren’t people at all, a fact she experienced firsthand during her forced march to the Super Duper Mart.
And yet, and yet, then he’d suggested she join him in a voice that lacked its drawl, showing her a glimpse of humanity beneath the callousness. His offer had lulled Lucy into assuming he’d be more forthcoming and gentler, empathetic to her plight.
That was five days ago. In that time, the Ghoul grunted more than he spoke. And when he did speak, his words were sparse, as if snagged on barbed wire. He offered no comfort and asked nothing in return.
It’s as if they’re two people traveling in the same direction, nothing more.
She glances at Dogmeat. The dog’s sitting beside her, as if also waiting for the Ghoul.
“Do you know what’s going on, girl?” Lucy says. As she crouches, she takes careful note of the soft, intact anatomy brushing against her pants inseam. She forces back the more inappropriate curiosity—Could he maintain an erection? Would sex be rough with him?—and rubs the dog’s neck. “Huh? Any thoughts?”
If Dogmeat did indeed have any insights on the matter, she keeps them to herself, eyes soft and squinty. Her ears soon swivel at the sound of footsteps. Lucy tracks the Ghoul’s approach. His hand’s on his stomach, hat low.
She rises to full height. “Sir, we’re stopping to eat and drink,” she says, using her sternest that’s-enough-tomfoolery teacher’s voice.
To her relief, the Ghoul doesn’t argue, coming to a halt. He makes a careful survey at their bleak surroundings, turning in place. Lucy spares a quick glance. This stretch’s flat and barren, nothing but a sea of sand and the occasional rock. Unless raiders are buried in an ambush, they’re as alone as two people and a dog could get.
Lucy removes the saddlebag from her shoulder and sits. When she fishes out the Cram, she blinks. She hasn’t felt a single hunger pang. Must be a normal thing as a ghoul, she thinks as she hands him the container. He takes it and retreats a few steps. He then hunkers down, the duster puddling around him as he uses the bowie knife to peel the top off.
Dogmeat licks her lips, watching with laser focus as Lucy pulls up a few strips of mole rat jerky. She tosses the dog a couple before gnawing on hers.
Lucy grimaces after a few bites. It’s just texture in her mouth, taste barely there. No wonder the Ghoul could chow down on Roger, or radroaches, or bloatfly larvae, or whatever disgusting thing they’ve come across. Without flavor, everything’s the same. She eats because she must, the act stripped of enjoyment.
She glances over. There’s a complicated set of emotions scrawling across the Ghoul’s face. He stares at the artificial meat, mouth full. His chewing slows. When he swallows, it’s with a full-body shiver, eyes clenching shut. When they reopen, they’re shinier than before, cheeks reddening.
He cuts another slab of Cram and eats it right off the knife. Then another, and another, until he’s grunting soft mmns as he shovels it down.
He’s burying the empty container when she passes him the canteen. The Ghoul accepts it after a brief hesitation, nose wrinkling as he takes several swigs. He pours some for Dogmeat, who chomps it in her eagerness.
Lucy’s studying the horizon when she says, “Do we wait to resolve this? Or keep going after my father.”
Hank’s power armor tracks and occasional dried blood-splatter have been leading them northeast, towards a stretch of desolation called the Mojave. Her heart sinks again. What’s out there, Dad?
“Bullshit doth rear its goddamned head,” the Ghoul says.
Lucy looks over. He’s staring into the middle distance, gaze unfocused.
“You’ve never heard of this happening, then?” she asks. “Ever?”
His attention sharpens and cuts to her. “No.”
“Shoot.” Lucy leans back, at a loss. She rubs at her absent nose, wishing for humidity. “So, we keep going?”
“Yeah. We keep goin.”
As they get up and resume their journey, Lucy once again wonders how the fudge they ended up like this, or how they’re going to undo it.