Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 72: Sucker For Pain

Kelly didn't know how long she had sat on the deck, staring into the swirling madness of herself. Paranoia of the radiation returning gripped her and held her in place, the fear of it bringing with it her sins and her dead husband. But being in here also helped.

It was like Danse was in here with her. His essence permeated everything she touched.

So she was confined in this strange limbo and unprepared when a well-mannered knocking on her hatch unravelled her. A lethargic blink, then she curved her head over in the direction of the sound, almost convinced she had imagined it.

The knock came again, only it was tempered with impatience. "Harper, open up. You missed the morning meal."

Maxson... fucker.

...

MAXSON!

Kelly shot up before her body could prepare itself and keeled back against the wall, the heavy thud resounding throughout the space. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. Her fingers dived to her travel sack on the bed and scrambled inside for the compact mirror she had scavenged once from a Super-Duper Mart. Something clattered out and onto the floor loudly as she did so. Damn it.

She looked like shitfuck. Eyes dark and bloodshot. Hair a nest of snarls and tangles. Skin greasy, sallow and bloodless. Her lips were still chafed by the desert sun and cracked like dry shale. She looked like a fucking junkie. She was a fucking junkie.

Desperately she tried to scrap together her appearance, raking her fingers through her hair until she realized she was only in her sleepwear-a thin singlet and underwear.

The wheel to her hatch spun and it was too late to grab at the threads of her dignity. Maxson let himself in without a word, keeping his gaze low and averted as he shut the door behind him, though she didn't miss the initial glance he took of her. He had a coffee in hand.

Kelly reached for the duster she had worn to cover her state yesterday and shrugged into it, then raggedly stood at attention. Waiting tautly for the reckoning. Inside, she was screaming.

The Elder just stood side-on at her hatch and gazed bleakly down at the deck, arranging his thoughts and devising a plan of approach. By the way he had just quietly entered and given her time to collect herself, he had known he would be walking in on a mess.

He spoke, levelly, tryingly. "I know you're off duty for the time being, but you still need to eat."

"Yessir."

With that detached response, Maxson consulted the floor with a distressed frown. "What happened yesterday was a great tragedy. One that none of us foresaw."

Her eyes honed on him. None of us, or no one but you? She remembered the dream of him slitting Danse's throat in vivid detail and it strengthened her hostile glare.

Maxson then lifted his gaze to her, rimmed with the muddy darkness of pulling an all-nighter. The arrow glance to his head was stitched and cleansed, but still raw, and the bruising over his broken nose-a la her fury-still existed. He looked like just as much shitfuck as she did.

During her surveyance of him, she realized he was doing the same of her, but with bare concern. She wanted to feel he was covering his surveyance of her under his guise of compassion. But his eyes betrayed nothing. "I know you never asked to be in the position of leadership, never trained for it, never even wanted it, and that all of this must be overwhelming. If you need time to process, you have only to ask."