Disclaimer: Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.

Warnings: Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.

Humanity

I growl, the sound reverberating satisfyingly through my chest, and even Moriarty looks slightly taken-aback. I suppose he should – the growl was meant to intimidate, although on the surface it was because I just hit my arm on the edge of the bar. No one is fooled by this.

And I do look somewhat imposing just now. I am leaving this morning, and so I have my steadfast leather bag on my back, and clothing that is as protective as any I can find. It is mostly the useable scrap I pull from departed Talon boys (and now that I think about it, they are mostly boys, aren't they? Very few Talon girlies, although they are pretty fucking scary, when you do run across one), all cleaned up and supplemented with leather gear that I buy from Moira.

She was very happy with the records I pulled from Pinkerton's terminal, and apart from the reward, (which was very nice) I will be getting something of a discount when I visit the Rivet City shopkeepers. Conveniently enough, that is exactly where I am going.

And of course, I have the tools of the trade on my person. That is to say, guns. All over my person, really. The point is that I would be kind of insulted if Moriarty didn't look out of sorts.

Gob came over last night looking apprehensive, as though I would turn around and laugh at him any minute, and take my offer back. That makes me unaccountably angry. I welcomed him in, showed him around, introduced him to the robot and told him that I was planning on leaving tomorrow. If it is possible for a Ghoul to blanch, he did it when I said that. I was confused for a minute, and then I realized. "Oh, shit. Moriarty." The 'rat-fuck bastard,' part of the sentence doesn't even need to be vocalized.

He looked at me, and I sighed. Then, out of nowhere, I grinned. "Don't worry. Colin and I will have a little heart-to-slimy-orifice talk, just the two of us. I'll bring the heart, and…" Despite himself, the patchwork man had smiled. Then I realized, suddenly and out of nowhere that I had a room mate and no idea what to do with him. "Uh, make yourself at home, I guess," I said, trailing off uncertainly.

I don't really know how to operate with other human beings. The closest I ever got was my father, and he is hardly a standard sort of man. So normal (and I use the term loosely) people bewilder me. Although I guess that I'd be hard-pressed to find someone normal in this nice little shit-hole I call home these days.

The point was that I had gone to sleep feeling vaguely uncomfortable and hoping that I didn't talk in my sleep. And now I am standing here, wondering if I am a fool for caring, for trying to do something. The answer is obviously yes, but that doesn't really change anything. It never has.

I smile grimly at Moriarty, and then turn to Nova, telling her that I plan on leaving for Rivet City today, and I should be back in a few weeks. She gives me a stretched smile, asks me jokingly whether I plan on being on the radio again, and I laugh. "Nah. That always seems to be more trouble than it's worth." I turn to Moriarty and, in a deceptively neutral voice say, "Oh and I've invited Gob to stay at my house while I'm gone. Keep an eye on my things, you know? I hope you don't mind."

He glares at me, grumbles, "Yeah, whatever kid. Buy something or get out of here." I nod, knowing that I've won, for now. "Sure thing, Colin. One for the road please, Gob." He passes me a beer and I slide the caps across the counter. He doesn't meet my eyes while Moriarty is in the room – that is just giving him an excuse to start something – but as soon as the bastard is out of the room he looks up and grins at me and I decide that maybe this was worth it, because Gob is actually fucking smiling. It's sad that this is such a monumental thing, to have him smile.

"I'll see you in a few weeks. Take care, Gob, Nova." Then I turn and walk out of the bar. The dog follows closely, sniffing eagerly, and I decide that bringing him was a good idea, if only for the value of his companionship. I'm not really fond of travelling in the Wastes most of the time.

Of course, there are always times when it is so worth it, just to be out there on your own. I can almost feel like I'm the only person in the world, sometimes. It's a surprisingly pleasant feeling. Or maybe it isn't so surprising, considering the majority of my fellow human beings. I don't know.

It only takes me two days of travelling to reach Rivet City. Less even, because I have arrived by the night of the second day. It helps that I kept mostly to the subway tunnels, I suppose. I arrive and make a beeline for the market. I always end up carrying extra crap that I have picked up travelling, and my back is killing me because I've been carrying it around all day.

I sell what I don't need, as well as a few things that I would have preferred not to part with. Working with Walter means I have some caps to spare, but not enough to be throwing them around thoughtlessly. Then I head for the Weatherly for a room. When I arrive, Vera is 'unavailable,' but at a table I see C.J. talking quietly to Bryan Wilks. They're leaning close to each other and looking positively enraptured.

I can't imagine that James is happy.

I wonder once again how old the little monsters are. Then the girl notices me, then leaps up and hugs me. I'm not really sure how to react in a non-creepy fashion to a teenage girl attaching herself to my waist, so I just pat her back and wait until she lets go. Luckily, that time comes around quickly. "You're back," she declares, grinning.

"I'm back. How're you?"

"I'm good. We've been practicing shooting with the guards, and James is really good at it, and I can open the lock on that filing cabinet on the second try now, and-"

"Whoa, you've been busy, then?" She nods eagerly. "Yeah."

"Well, good. I've gotta go talk to Miss Weatherly, but I'll come and see you in a bit, alright?" She nods, and I turn to Bryan. "Hey, Bryan. How're you?" He smiles (sort of) and grunts. I translate it to mean something like 'fine,' so I move on. "Haven't seen your aunt around, have you?" He points to the back room. Not a talkative kid.

I nod my thanks and knock on Vera's door. She answers and smiles at me brightly. Too brightly to be just friendly I think. Maybe there was another reason for her letting me stay for a cut-rate. I can't decide if that's good or not. We exchange pleasantries and then I pay for a week in one of her rooms. I deposit my bag in my room and despite feeling slightly naked without it; I sit with her for a while and talk about nothing, drinking a beer.

The good doctor eventually drifts in, as does Angela's father. What the hell's his name? Grady? No, it's Gary. We sit around a table in the pleasant, slightly dark room for what feels like a few comfortable hours, and then I stand up and make for the door, saying my goodnights.

The hallway outside the Weatherly has a flickering light somewhere, and it's dark and musty and smells vaguely of something unpleasant. I hear footsteps approaching, harsh, loud and metallic, and feel tempted to duck into the room and avoid whoever it is. But I spend a few moments too long considering, and the person heralded by the footsteps arrives. I turn, and open my mouth to say good evening to whomever and see, of course, him. Harkness. I open my mouth, and then realize that whatever I say will sound idiotic, and close it again. He looks at me strangely, so I give in to the strong urge to smile. And then, despite my earlier intentions, I open my mouth and pray that nothing too senseless will emerge.

"Hey. I, uh- How are you?" I wince inwardly at the stuttering but continue smiling outwardly. He looks at me for a moment, dark eyes unreadable, "Fine. And you?" Then he returns my awkward baring of teeth with a small, edged grin of his own. Something about the look gives me back my confidence (and just where the hell it had buggered off to I will never know), and I ask him if he's busy, and if he wants a drink with me. The answers are negative and affirmative, respectively, and so I walk down to the Muddy Rudder with him.

We arrive to an almost empty bar, dark and murky in the late evening (it must be eleven or twelve by now) and settle at a secluded table in the corner. We order a few beers each, and I decide that I have been drinking too much because I hardly feel the effects. Then I ask for vodka and he gets a scotch. Once she leaves I lean forward, for privacy and just because I want to, and speak in a husky sort of almost-whisper so that he has to come closer to hear me (and because I want him to). "Maybe I'm an idiot, but I'm kind of curious – do you actually get drunk?"

He gives me a strange look, and then smiles. "We'll see, won't we?"

I stare at him for a minute, and then throw my head back and laugh like a madman. The drinks arrive – two bottles and two glasses – and I stop. My stomach aches. I realize that I haven't laughed like that in, God, in what feels like years but is probably only a few months. Since before leaving the vault, when I paid a visit to good old Butch Deloria in the barber's salon and caught him singing along to some old record he'd found. I got free haircuts for life to keep that little moment of his to myself. For all the good that does me now.

He grins a challenge at me and drinks a ridiculous amount from his bottle. I have to stop and look at him for a moment to be sure that this is indeed Harkness, because this behaviour does not compute. But he appears to be the real deal, and also slightly worse for wear after the beer and scotch and not much food.

I think about how I am likely to act around a drunken Harkness and decide that if I am drunk also then everything will be alright.

This logic is extremely shaky but I decide not to question it and instead smirk and match him, drink for drink, through the rest of our respective bottles. Then I look up at him and see three of him floating around my field of view. I reach forward and, through a process of trial and error, locate the most solid version of his face. He looks on in what seems to be a state of inebriated amusement.

I draw the face forward to meet my own, hastily and clumsily, but am rudely interrupted by a nose before I can reach my objective. He makes an impatient noise and compensates, while I do the same thing in the same direction, and then we both thrust our faces forward, head butting each other. We freeze and look at the other wide-eyed, trying to decipher the past few incidents. And then, as one being, a bright flash pf understanding illuminates us and we begin to roar with laughter. This gets us 'escorted' out of the Muddy Rudder by a laughing bouncer.

Outside, the air of hilarity slowly disperses and we are left standing in a deserted stairwell staring at one another. I step towards him and he mirrors me. I'm vaguely conscious of a voice objecting to this particular course of action, but I ignore it in favour of nudging Rivet City's security chief into a dark corner and sticking my tongue down his throat.

He lets me, but he doesn't make any move to encourage me. Drunkenly confused and frustrated, I wrap an arm around his waist to see if I can mould us any closer together, trying to provoke a reaction, and then finally disconnect my mouth from his to breathe. I had forgotten to. I press close to him again, and he lets me, and I twist my head carefully so I can get the kiss right this time. He doesn't move and so I trail my tongue along his lip insistently. I feel a burning heat begin to spread through my stomach and I let go of his mouth to affix my mouth to his neck.

Then he looks at me and for once I see only one set of eyes. After another short bout of unspoken communication we are heading to my room outside the Weatherly. I don't feel as drunk or fuzzy anymore, and I sort of regret it, because if I were still I could pretend that this is nothing. I could pretend that he is playing more of a part in this than the strangely inert dummy. I could pretend that he is interested, and I wouldn't have to talk about it until the morning after, and I wouldn't be thinking about the morning after, either.

And then we are inside my room and he pushes me into the wall, one of my wrists pinned beside my head, and all my doubts vanish. My stomach's been set on fire, my spine's been replaced with molten lava, and I am burning up. His mouth is on mine, and his body is pressed flush against mine and it's all I can do not to collapse. I taste his tongue in my mouth, and decide that I am taking far too passive a role in all this.

I walk forward nudging him along. The backs of his legs come up against a bed and he sits back on the bad, looking at me expectantly. I move forward to straddle his legs, sliding my hands up under his shirt, drawing a startled breath from him before I lean forward and continue kissing, slightly frenziedly. I have wanted this for too long, and it feels so good, too good, now that I have it.

Removing our clothes is an awkward process because I can't seem to bring myself to take my hands off of him long enough for the clothes to be removed, and he is having similar problems. I struggle out of my shirt and immediately return to licking and sucking my way down his neck towards his exposed collar-bone and now-bare chest. I bite down on the surprisingly pale flesh, wanting to mark it, to mark him. He makes an urgent noise in the back of his throat and curves his back up towards me. I take a second to wonder just what the hell I'm doing before my wonderful hindbrain reminds my inhibitions to shut the hell up and enjoy the ride. Then I'm lost.

I push him onto his back and continue my progress along his chest until I reach a soft brown nipple. I lick it and he clutches my back with both hands, then I fold my lips around it experimentally. He groans and pulls me against him, nails digging into my back. His hips push upward, seeking contact.

It's my turn to groan, and I grind back down against him and kiss him again. I feel his hands in my hair, on my shoulders, travelling up and down my back before ghosting over my ass. Then in a whirl I am on my back and he is on top of me, pressing down in a blinding heat and his hands are on my face, my sides, and my crotch and it's all I can do to match his movements.

Then I am arching up off of the bed and babbling incoherently, and probably calling his name and making a mess of him and myself. Maybe that pushes him over the edge because then he comes and it is probably the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, all tensing muscles and head thrown back and my name, of all things. It makes me an entirely different kind of warm, the kind that makes me want to curl around him and hold him to my chest and not let go. And because we're both on a post-coital (and alcohol) buzz and dead tired, I do just that, and fall asleep.

Save worrying for the morning.

I wake up warm, comfortable and sticky. That tends to mean a good night, although the fact that I can't seem to remember much of it makes me slightly uneasy. Finally, reluctantly, I open my eyes.

And immediately shut them again, suddenly remembering many bits and pieces of last night, all at once. And, seeing him there, fast asleep, brings up some strange feelings. I mean, I don't think I know his first name for fuck's sake. Then again, that isn't really a big deal, is it?

I should wake him. I really don't want to, so instead I get out of the bed, trying to move it as little as possible. Then I set about cleaning myself and finding the less dirty bits of clothing, which is all I have learned to hope for since I am not a do-it-yourself sort of person when it comes to laundry. I do try to clean things; I just don't really get the desired results. That is to say, things often end up dirtier after I attempt to clean them than before.

When I turn back to the bed I had been studiously avoiding with my gaze, I see him sitting upright and looking at me strangely. Uncomfortable, I look away and have to force myself not to rub at the back of my neck. "So… D'you remember much of last night?" He laughs, and I'm not sure whether to be offended by his calmness (is this a common thing for him?) or reassured by it. It doesn't help that the sound of it feels so contagious to me.

"Well, I remember insults to someone's masculinity, and then a drinking contest," which I won, by the way, "and after that we were… thrown out of a bar. On my own boat." It reads like a statement but he says it like a question, probably wondering exactly how trustworthy his recollections are beyond this point. "Hm. Not exactly my most dignified moment, I think. After that I can't say I remember anything but… flashes and random images. But," looking at the state of his clothing and the bed itself, "apparently we enjoyed ourselves."

That's all he says. I was hoping for more to work with, to see how he is taking the fact that we kind of slept together, but I'm getting nothing. Time to take the leap of faith then, I guess. "Well, I- Would you be willing to keep on 'enjoying yourself'? With me, in, you know, a mutually exclusive sort of way?" For a minute I am afraid that I'll have to explain the phrase mutually exclusive, but then he smiles at me.

Sometimes I forget why I am willing to traverse ridiculous expanses of wasteland and brave the ridiculous, crazy dangers that populate it. Sometimes I don't really understand why I care for him so much, why I get warm thinking about him, why I would leave my life (what's left of it) behind to stay with him. Sometimes I think that I must be a fool. But right now, in this moment, I understand; I'm in what could be, if you stretched things a bit, love.

And yes, I really am a fool.

We probably won't say anything, because that isn't how the wasteland works. You defend your vulnerable points, and the heart is one of them (in more ways than one, as any mutie would tell you). It's stupidity to let someone near you, to let your guard down so easily. But still, he smiles that smile for me again, tells me that he wouldn't mind.

I shut my eyes for a minute, feeling inordinately tired all of a sudden. I feel hands fall onto my shoulders and I have to fight down my instincts to leap up and reach for a weapon. Then I lean back into the touch as the fingers being kneading at the knots in my shoulders. I rest the back of my head against his shoulder and sigh, content to fall asleep again, when there is a thumping from the general area of the door. The muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten again and I stand reluctantly.

Harkness' voice comes from behind me unexpectedly and I turn to face him. "We'll continue some other time, then. I may also have to borrow a pair of pants." I smile and then stand and stride across the room to open the door. James stands at the door with his fist poised to knock again.

"I need to talk to you," he mutters, not looking me in the eye, his voice low and husky. I've just realized how little this kid actually talks.

"Yeah, alright." I look behind me to see Harkness standing with an arm propped against the wall, head tilted sideways and regarding me curiously. "I'm fine, go ahead. I'm going to go to the tower and find myself a clean uniform. I'll bring these back to you later today." I smile and move to the side to let him past me.

When he's gone James looks at me curiously, obviously wanting to ask something and trying to frame the question properly. "Don't worry about it kid," I say pre-emptively as we walk unconsciously towards the room in which I taught the pair a few months ago. "Something is obviously bothering you. Care to tell me what it is?" I don't really understand what this feeling is, this urge to help and guide this kid, give him anything he needs that I could give. I don't understand it and I don't know where it comes from. I think that maybe it is the closest I'm going to get to a paternal instinct. That makes about as much sense as anything else; the boy certainly could do with someone, and I feel something that feels suspiciously like affection for him, far too often these days.

And of course I feel a strong urge to slap his mother every time I see her interact with him, which is probably something to do with the protective instinct also.

"I don't- It's just that-" he cuts himself off, then shuts his mouth and screws up his eyes, trying to decide what to say. While he is deciding, I push open the door and settle on one of the three chairs around a table missing a leg, which is propped up against a wall. He throws himself into the chair opposite me and sighs. "It's all Bryan's fault."

I feel a little bit of dread as I realize what this is about, and that I may indeed be picking over –shudder- feelings with a teenage boy. I guess it makes sense, because who the hell else is he going to talk to? But still.

"And I- He's not even- She just thinks that he's so great, and- It's not fair! We've been friends since before I can remember, and I- It isn't fair!"

I have to take a moment to decipher his halting comments, and then I run a hand through my hair. "Since when have things ever been fair? You gotta tell me what's wrong before I can help, you know." He scowls and looks away, fiddling agitatedly with a fraying seam on his pants.

"I just don't know what to do. She was my best friend, and now all she talks about is him. And she's always with him, and,"

"And you're jealous." I say it matter-of-factly, without the slightest accusatory tone, but still he colours and glares at me defensively. "Maybe I am. So?" I smile – laughing would put him on guard – and say, "No, I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just saying; you wish that she would feel about you like she seems to feel about him."

"Yeah, maybe," he mutters guardedly. "I'm not sure how much I can help you with that, unfortunately. Emotions are tricky. Does she know?"

He looks surprised by the last question. "No. Of course she doesn't. How am I supposed to tell her that? She's so... I just can't," he says, looking away.

"Well then how do you know that she doesn't feel the same, and is only talking to Bryan because she thinks you aren't interested? You have to tell people these things James, they don't just know." He stares at me in consternation, unable to articulate the problems with this statement. "You think she'd feel the same?"

"You'll never know unless you say something, will you?"

"But what if she doesn't?" I sigh, wishing that he hadn't spotted this glaring problem with my instructions. "Well, that'll hurt. But will it really be worse than how you are now?"

He scowls down at his hands as though they are to blame for all of his problems. "No, probably not. But then, if she doesn't, are we still going to be friends? What if she hates me?"

"I don't know, kid. I don't have those kinds of answers for you. But I don't think that she'll hate you. If you want to stick with just being friends, then that's your choice. But then she might stay with Bryan, or somebody else, and I bet you wouldn't like that." He shakes his head vehemently, and I hide a grin. "So yeah, it's a gamble. But most of the things in life that are worthwhile are, you know? So do what'll make you happy."

I feel sort of badly for giving James advice that might end up hurting Bryan, but I feel so sorry for the kid, and I'm hardly going to tell him to keep quiet about it. God, this is stupid. James stands to slip out the door, but hesitates and turns back for a moment at the threshold. "I… thanks. For, y'know, listening." He almost smiles at me, and I almost smile back. "Anytime."

Then he walks out, and I let out a deep breath and grope around in my pocket for the whiskey that I keep on me for occasions just such as this, and take a gulp. I don't know why, but I'm always on tenterhooks when I'm talking to that boy. I don't want to screw things up, don't want to give him any reason not to trust me. It always leaves me feeling a little drained.

I should be talking to Harkness, dealing with our new thing, figuring out what it actually is, what I want it to be, and what he wants it to be, and just how close those two ideas are. I should be trying to find my father, trying to save the world, or at least looking for somewhere relatively safe where I can live out the rest of my miserable life, in this miserable place.

But I'm not going to. I'm going to sit in the Muddy Rudder, pass most of my day there. Then I'm going to go out on deck and watch the sun set on the water. I'll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes.

Hey guys (if anyone, other than the two people lovely enough to review, is reading this), I'm thinking of ending it here, but I'm wondering if that would be too abrupt. Tell me what you think?

Colvine