The first time he saw the kid…the kid was still a Vault kid. With the dirty, ragged 101 jumpsuit and the wide, fearful green eyes, the kid was asking him if he had seen his dad. What? Did he look like he gave a fuck? Pathetic. He blew a curl of smoke into the innocent face. The kid coughed, swatting a hand over his sorrowful face to push the smoke away.

He never saw the kid again until a long time later.

At first he couldn't even recognise him. What? Had it been a year? There was hate in those green eyes. That - Jericho was sure of; he had hatred spat his way a couple of times to know for sure. He had seen the pistol being pulled out of the holster. Two shots and Moriarty slumped to the ground. Two resounding shots were fired at point blank, when just one would have been more than enough to kill that fucker. The first one obliterated the crotch. The sound of blood and gunk spraying on the ground was louder than the bang. The kid had paused to tip his hat, grinning, enjoying the painful shrieks coming from the Irish as the man dropped to his knees, bleeding. Those eyes were glazed with exquisite pleasure. The second shot drilled through the skull between the brows. Brain matter spattered onto the wall like a pretty picture and the Irish, frozen in mid scream, crashed to the floor. Jericho sat impressed, while the bar erupted in horror and shocked screams. The kid watched him and he smirked in greeting.

Later, when the town had reduced its hostility and he was bored with watching Simms pretend to give a fuck about the dead bar owner, he felt the presence of the kid next to him.

"Aren't you fucking dead yet?" he barked, as he faced the night sky, watching the puff of smoke he exhaled disperse and disappear.

"You wish, old man," was the gruff reply. The next day he found himself walking alongside the kid outside Megaton.

The first time they worked together, he realised how much he missed this. He missed the unpredictable arcs of crimson and the horrified flashes of pain that every living thing gave in the face of death and violence. He tended to aim at their stomachs first, straight through so that the bullet will shatter the spine. He prided himself on efficient yet painful kills. But he had to admit - the kids' shows were more entertaining. From the cocky smile to the tremble of delight from the kid's hands as he fired shot after shot, he understood the all-consuming love for violence. Goddamn. He loved violence. The kid always aimed for the weapon hand first, then the knees, and then, if he was in a good mood, the head. He rarely fired just one shot and rarely killed anything, preferring to leave the mess to the Guais or let them bleed out their life. The kid and he watched their attackers turned victims crumple in a heap of writhing agony before they left. Jericho lit a cigarette sometimes, the swirls of smoke merging those of the fire as they torched the writhing pile down.

They burned down Andale. Then they burned down Arefu. After that… Tenpenny Tower. They watched the ghouls rip apart human flesh with sickening delight before destroying the ghouls as well. The amount of carnage then, coupled with the smell of thick, coagulated blood made Jericho realise how similar they were. Good to be out here again. Damn good. The kid grunted in agreement, his eyes wild and bright. He threw the cowboy hat over Tenpenny's mangled face as he smiled that innocent-looking smile. Jericho saw a scar across his scalp. The kid told him someone took part of his brain out. The kid was full of shit.

It was the kid's moments of kindness that tainted the cruelty. The first time he was introduced to that little streak, they were bargaining for quantum. The scavenger trader wanted 250 caps it. The kid smiled brilliant as he counted the caps. Jericho scoffed but didn't give a fuck. It was the kid's caps. Who was he to tell him he was being ripped off? Kid even thanked the scav for the purchase. The scav sneered. As soon as the scav pocketed the caps, the kid jammed his pistol against the scav's pulse and pulled the trigger as he stared into the life-drained eyes. For a while, the corpse hung onto the pistol from the massive hole before it fell to the ground. The same brilliant smile was still on the kid's face as he cut up the corpse and threw one chunk of it to the scav's dog. Jericho realised that the kid had skilled hands, like those of a surgeon, steady and precise. He'd never forget the kid's smile and the drops of blood on his crazed expression. He started to believe then, that the kid had been telling the truth. Someone did rip out a part of his brain.

He taught the kid how to smoke. He laughed when the kid coughed. Then a few days later, they were betting on impossible shots for the remaining cigarettes in the box. He blamed himself for having to let slip another cigarette to an equally callous palm. But hearing someone else cough wasn't so bad actually. He only realised he had begun to have a soft spot for the kid when he decided to share the last cigarette as they watched the Behemoth they freed tear up Evergreen Mills, one raider at a time. When the terrified screams stopped, the kid nuked the monster. He let the kid have the last few puffs. The kid looked like a professional, exhaling grey smoke rings before doubling up and coughing.

The first time he wondered if he actually began to trust the kid, he found that he had started trusting the kid a long time ago. As they fought their way through the horde of the Enclave bastards, the kid covered his back while he covered the kid's. As he ran, he felt the kid's presence just beside him. Always. He never watched anyone's back like this ever. They shouted every vulgarity they could think of as they made it to the memorial with the Steel bastards. When the kid wanted to start the purifier, he told Jericho to fuck off. Jericho only replied "Don't piss around. I don't want to be standing here with my thumb up my ass all day," when he should be telling the boy to fuck off too as he left. But the look of unwavering TRUST the boy gave him made him forget for a moment whether the kid was Santa Claus or the Devil; the kid was just a kid. When the kid collapsed in the purifier, he broke the glass and hauled the kid out. He told himself he only did it because the kid had all his cigarettes.

The first time the kid took a bullet for him he couldn't believe the rush of fear he felt as he watched the kid gush red from the wound in his chest. No way in fucking hell was he gonna let the kid go without a fight. He's gonna fuck that kid up if the kid fucking dared to die on him. He shot every raider in the crotch then ran them both to Underworld. 2 packets of cigarettes in 3 hours. Smoke clouded his vision that he didn't see the kid crawl out of the room till he felt the weak shove against his shoulder. Aren't you fucking dead yet, kid? You wish, old man. He'd never admit that his hands shook when the kid thanked him. Nobody thanked him ever.

The day Jericho started coughing blood, the kid stood frozen as he stared at the clot of blood on the ground. The kid blabbered that he could do this, he was a doctor, and he was a doctor's son. Jericho smashed the barrel of his gun across the dirty cheek to shut him up. Nobody had to make this old man happy. He gave the kid a scar there, that day. The flash of a green gaze told him the kid was upset but the kid didn't do anything. Somehow, that hurt expression was more painful than any kind of violence he experienced. They returned to Megaton after the long journey.

One month, Doc said. One month. Jericho pretended not to notice the look of hopelessness the boy hid under his palm when he sat beside the ex-raider. They finished up the second-last packet of cigs then, watching the curls of smoke float then fade away in the night sky. "One more tryst, old man. Just one. I'm savin' this for a special occasion," the kid had pleaded and he gave in.

They broke the slavers. And freed the slaves as an afterthought. Then they torched Paradise Falls. Like old times. Jericho never felt older. The pain in his body magnified a thousand times as he inhaled the smell of burning flesh. It was getting harder to breathe these days. He didn't know how he landed on the chair but somehow he did. The kid was sitting beside him as they watched the place go up in flames; the smoke was darker and thicker than anything he had ever seen. They shared the last cig in the pack together.

"I forgot how fucked up everything was out here," he murmured. The kid grunted as he watched him. The kid wasn't really a kid anymore was he? How long had it been? A year? 5 years? 10? Kid had a face of a man, now.

"Don't go soft on me, old man."

"Who's getting soft, kid?" Jericho felt the tears roll down his cheek then. The pain in his chest was increasing in intensity. He couldn't tell if he was actually feeling it or not. It was difficult to form words anymore. He saw how the kid's eyes were red but he wasn't crying. "I thought you were some sort of badass," he wheezed.

"No, man. You're the badass." There was a hitch of a breath. The kid coughed.

"No shit, kid." He coughed. "You think you can watch your own back without me?"

"Fuck yea. I learnt from the best din' I?" The kid's voice broke then. Jericho coughed violently, spitting blood on the ground. A hand made its way to his arm, strong but reassuring. "It feels like I'm losing a second dad," was the soft whisper that reached his ears. He didn't have to look at the kid to see that he was crying. Somehow, the pain had started to numb. His vision had started to fade.

"Hey, kid." Wheeze. "Thanks for making this old man happy." He choked. "Your heart's…" He was slipping in and out of consciousness, black alternating reality, alternating the memories they shared. "Your heart's in the right place."

Jericho inhaled.

But never exhaled.

"I'm gonna miss you, old man." The soft breath disappeared into the smoke as the last flames died down.