Chapter Text
ID begins:
Three people are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in full daylight at the base of Dinky the Dinosaur's thermometer. In the middle is a ghoul wearing cowboy apparel. Left is a man in Brotherhood scribe reds. He has a Pip-Boy around his right-hand wrist, which is hanging amicably over the ghoul's shoulder. They appear to be speaking to each other. On the ghoul's right, a woman in mismatched leather armor beneath a cut-off vault dweller jumpsuit that's been sewn into a jacket is grinning widely at the photographer. An artifact that resembles a dog's tail is intruding from out of frame at the bottom. End ID.
Maximus finds the camera in an overturned ice-cream stand. He's just walking by, and the flash of glossy metal winks at him from a compartment under the empty cold case, fossilized pre-war money stuck fast to the cashbox. A rusted, spidery skeleton that he assumes once supported a fabric parasol creaks in the wind, half-buried.
They're three hundred miles out from Santa Monica, southbound, and he's combing a small neighborhood parkway for supplies. It's a little past noon. Even though he took the fur-lined jacket off ages ago, he's roasting in his flight suit. On days just like this, Dane used to make fun of him for his heavy sweating. Maximus misses them horribly. He has no idea where they are. If Dane even made it out alive. But thinking about that for too long is liable to get him killed, so he doesn't.
The camera comes free with a little puff of gray confetti. He flips the ancient device over, inspecting it for damage. It's lightweight (maybe a pound even) with a black polymer coating over a hard, shiny frame. No rust, somehow. Maximus pulls the waxed canvas sleeve of his shirt tight across the heel of his hand. Gently, he swipes a thick layer of dirt away from the lens. The glass looks intact, but it needs a thorough cleaning. He tests the shutter arm, and a large lightbulb attached to the top goes off in his face.
Stunned, Maximus blinks rapidly. Familiar pain calls up an image from his childhood: red bombflare, still dazzling through his hiding place of lead-lined melamine and three-inch steel. It's almost enough to induce something worse, except he isn't there. He's here. He knows that.
Regardless, for a minute, his vision is totally shot. Fuzzy spots fly over a field of whispering orange bunchgrass, following wherever he looks. Jagged condominiums waver and snap back into focus. The pine trees above him that should be a more natural green are coolant blue. The combination swingset-bigtoy on the playground across the road that was several muted shades of brown is now a vivid sunset purple. It's a little trippy.
A camera. Maximus smiles. They're really only scavenging to top up their food. Tech isn't edible, and it's more fragile, and it takes up precious space, but this kind of remnant is really rare. It's been years since Maximus has even seen a working camera. He's certainly never owned one before. He secrets it in his backpack and then promptly forgets about it for hours, busy with other concerns; the summer heat, almost but not quite as hot as nuclear fission, a floater den in the nearby river's watershed. His companions, who are fighting the floaters.
Like always, Lucy is one big laugh as they make camp that night. The Ghoul is closer to a sneer. He's got a chip on his shoulder wider and uglier than the Divide, but while he tends to suck all the energy out of a room, he's not a parasite. He helps Lucy hunt down enough kindling for a small cooking fire, helps them set out all the ingredients and the tableware, takes care of any chopping that needs doing with his enormous hunting knife. Later, after Maximus is done cleaning up, after he's split the package of rainbow sugar sprinkles he found in the ice-cream stand three ways and Lucy is giggling about their green tongues as they brush their teeth, the Ghoul will pour out what's left of his canteen into his hat for the dog, watch over them all while they sleep.
The Ghoul has discipline. And he listens to Lucy. Most of the time, anyway. That's good enough for Maximus.
Cooper wants to hate him, but he can't.
God knows why. He's an idiot who can't hit the broad side of a barn unless Lucy is in direct mortal peril or the targeting assist on that fucking Enclave Pip-Boy is aiming for him.
The dog whines. She's licking whatever lingering taste of charred floater tongue she can find from his bare palm. Frowning, Cooper scoops out more meat for her to wolf down, soft fibers the peeling-apart texture of boiled potatoes.
No... Max isn't an idiot. That isn't true. And he isn't nearly as sheltered as Lucy thinks. Max quotes Cervantes. He has an unshakeable sense of direction, and he knows exactly when a fight's about to turn. He's just young. Needs to learn how to look before he leaps.
Respect, Lucy would say. You respect him.
Talking like she knows him or something. Uppity little shrew. Cooper hates her so God-damn much sometimes.
Fed and happy, the dog weaves through their campsite over to Max. Starts trying to nose her way into his lap.
That dog, Cooper thinks, is obsessed with him. Dead set on teaching him how to pet her properly, too. Maybe that's why he can't bring himself to hate him. Cooper watches Max fumble his backpack's straps, dragging it behind him, that boyish little grin Lucy is so weak for splitting his face as the dog nuzzles and grumbles, tail high. Max doesn't even know to scratch under her whiskers, and she already loves him. She's no more clear-eyed than Lucy; the affection of a dog can be bought in a can. But for reading the value of his basic character, she's as good a barometer as any other.
Cooper gazes across the roof of the parking garage they're camping on, the rusted commuter vehicles sitting bumper to bumper down the ramp. Valley Medical Center used to be impassable to smoothies. First from radiation, and then because of ferals, but someone must've came through in the last couple decades and cleared house, because the only ghoul around right now is him. They made good time, getting here before midsummer. It's a clear and moonless night, the sort that puts him in a sentimental mood, and he's lingering for no good reason by a fire he doesn't need. Lucy knows what to do. Cooper can trust her alone with little boy blue while he sets up to take first watch.
Unfortunately, he can also trust her to be a pain in the ass about him sneaking away. Cooper is halfway up a ladder bolted to the parking attendant's gatehouse, good vantage point of the hospital's main courtyard, no wind, when Lucy stops him with a hand on his ankle; scares the fucking shit out of him, not that she'd know it. Teeth grinding, he focuses stolidly on a point above the top rung. There's approximately a million stars in the sky. Not a one is shining its light on him.
Deep breath. It's just Lucy.
Lucy, who wants him to have some more food. "You hardly ate," she says. "You'll be hungry later."
Like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, Cooper glances over his shoulder. She's brandishing an apple. Some bastard cross between Braeburn and FEV.
Cooper must be, at an estimate, somewhere in the ballpark of two hundred and seventy years old by now. He isn't a child who threw a tantrum and refused dinner. He gets vicious acid reflux. The kind the long-dead doctors who worked in this hospital probably wouldn't have a clue how to treat without dissecting him first. Lucy has never seen Cooper hungry. As far as he's concerned, she still doesn't know a single thing about real hunger, and he aims to keep it that way.
What he'd like to do is tell her where she can put her mutant fruit and false concern, cuss, and in another life, maybe pound her brakes off. Instead, Cooper drawls, "Yes, mother." Because he doesn't know how to act right anymore, or how to have normal conversations, or be easy and sweet, or say thank you, but he pretends like he does, because Cooper needs her.
Lucy's fingers are still touching his ankle. It's making his skin burn. She tilts her head, fluffy bangs like dark silk framing her eyes as they scan him over, warm and probing. Abruptly, she unhands his leg. Reaches up, tucks the apple away in a pocket of his duster.
"Wake me up in four and a half hours."
That's an order. The soldier in him pays attention. Cooper just grunts. Resumes climbing.
"Hey! I mean it!" He spares a small frown for her, because Lucy should know better by now than to raise her voice after the sun goes down. She points at his face accusingly. "Don't forget. You forgot last time."
Max is tinkering with something. He's turned from the firepit, flames reduced to toasty coals, red cores like hazard lights throwing color on his back. Lucy flicks out their blankets over some flattened car seats she stole from a deuce coupe two levels down, curious but not wanting to be a bother.
It's getting late, that midnight hush that falls across the wasteland like cotton, no distant banging from ventilation systems or resistor hum to break up the monotony. Lucy used to fear this kind of silence. Now she finds the stillness comforting. Sure, their radios are nice, and that new Tabitha broadcast they picked up in San Francisco was really something, but the songs attract enemies.
Trumpets and Armstrong bring raiders around faster than explosions or gunfire, and their leader doesn't mind killing raiders. As long as the sun is high, he likes a little walking music.
Speaking of the Ghoul... That man sorely needs an attitude adjustment. Lucy is the farthest thing on Earth from his mother. He freaking wishes she felt so maternal. If she had her druthers, Lucy would've smothered him in the cradle.
There's a small crunch of metal being bent in a direction it shouldn't. Max curses quietly.
Lucy pauses mid-fluff of their only pillow. "Whatcha workin' on?" she stage-whispers.
He murmurs something under his breath. Then, "Sorry. It's nothing."
Oh, boy. He's deepening his voice on purpose again. Max only does that when he's nervous or angry. Lucy's eyes narrow, curiosity getting the better of her. She tries sneaking a peek over his hunched shoulder by speaking low into his ear. "Doesn't sound like nothing."
Max sighs. His back straightens as he turns around and offers her the object in his lap. "I can't figure out how to open this thing."
It's a Codac camera. Lucy experiences a swoop of almost nauseating deja vu. Steph has one just like it in her living room, purely decorative, the zirconium reflector haloing the flashbulb that never used, don't touch shiny. This one's got more of a patina. Hesitant, Lucy takes it from him. She licks her lips, traces a thumb over the body's alligator texture, the smudged chrome rings holding the lens in place. According to Steph, who at least enjoyed the concept of photography if not the practice, the R9000 model focuses to infinity by default. No fussing with focal length required. Just point and shoot. It has a nice weight in her hands.
"It works," Max offers.
"You're lucky you didn't open the film compartment then," Lucy marvels, distracted. He makes an interested noise. She smiles at him askance. "The light from your Pip-Boy alone is probably strong enough to ruin the whole reel."
"Oh. Right." Max clears his throat. "Remind me what that means?"
He's getting better at asking questions about stuff he doesn't understand. Lucy rewards him with a small breakdown of everything she knows about cameras, and he pays her impromptu lesson back with a closed-mouth kiss, warm and mid-sentence, and not long enough.
Max sits back afterward, fireglow and the screen on his wrist illuminating his face from below. "You know..." As he trails off, Max looks toward the squat building the Ghoul chose to post up on. "The flash is really bright."
The only parts of the Ghoul they can see from here are the cowboy hat and his repeater in its back holster. Lucy frowns. He's been acting so weird lately. She knows in her gut that he won't wake her for a shift tonight. He wants more time to himself.
Max clears his throat again. Blinking, she looks between him and the camera. He raises an eyebrow. Tilts his head at the Ghoul again.
That is such a terrible idea.
"Just to be clear, if we're not careful, he will kill us on accident," she warns, already getting excited.
Max grins with all of his teeth.
They get him when he's heading down for breakfast. Lucy insists this is payback for letting her oversleep. Maximus doesn't see the problem. He's a ghoul. Technically, he's not even alive anymore. Why does he need a certain amount of sleep? Or food? But whenever he brings that up Lucy gets this funny look on her face, or stops listening to him, so Maximus lies in wait with her at the bottom of the ladder, shoulder to shoulder behind a striped pole, muscles tensing in anticipation when they hear his ancient knees crack.
Finally, the torn ends of the Ghoul's overcoat come waving over the edge. Spurs chime against metal. Overcautious, Maximus holds fire until both his hands are preoccupied with gripping a rung.
No one gets hurt. He doesn't draw on them. But because he's an asshole, the Ghoul actually tries to huck the camera off the parking garage.
It takes Lucy laying into him (always scary to watch: she goes straight into the really personal shit) until she's sounding hoarse and turning pale for the Ghoul to calm down, and even then, after all that, he keeps the camera.
Maximus doesn't think that's fair at all, but there isn't much he can do about it. They share a tense meal cobbled together from what's left of the floaters lean muscle and some snacks Lucy fought the hospital's vending machines for. Then they're off, Lucy's radio piping out a love song they've all heard a thousand times before.