Archive of Our Own ^beta

2247, Tallhat, Northern Florid Wastes
Former Gulf Commonwealth, USA

Tallhat was...big.

Virgil had heard stories about the town before, from people passing through who had been there. It was a city, really, built nestled somewhere in the ruins of what the Old World had left behind. Even in the distance it had been intimidating, the sight of the ancient buildings—skyscrapers—looming on the horizon. The first time he had topped a rise to see them, it had been disarmingly surreal. He had seen pictures before—old magazine covers and comics in the market in town, the faded billboard about a mile from their house—but the pictures had failed to prepare him for seeing their scale in real life...

Growing up, Virgil had always considered the town nearby to be a place of excitement. You never knew what news you might come by on a visit to town. He had never been the best at talking to people, especially strangers, but his family had been making runs to that town for supplies his entire life. While he hadn't known everybody well, he had known nearly everyone at least by name, even if it was only by reputation. But his father had grown up in a town, one that was quite a bit bigger, and that alone had been hard for Virgil to imagine once upon a time. He had since traveled through towns like the one his father had described, though none of them the same town, to his knowledge. It had been an adjustment to make during his travels, certainly, moving through all those people. Terrifying, really, when there were so many...

It was a bit of backhanded fortune, he supposed, that he wouldn't be required to deal with the full force of Tallhat's no-doubt crowded populace. There was plenty of business to be done at the markets of the Brim, outside the city gates. There were plenty of the stalls out there, and the carts of all the caravans and traders passing through. And even the Brim was easily more than crowded enough, if you asked him. Which was just as well...

After all, ghouls weren't allowed inside the city itself.

The signs posted up around the gate had made that clear, but the guards posted on the gate had still glared at him as if he might be foolish enough to try his luck anyway. The numbers had been an adjustment, but those stares were something he was still getting used to. He might have tried to ignore them, but even that was dangerous—a mistake he had only let himself make a few times before learning his lesson properly. It was all well and good pretending he didn't see the people watching him, but he had come to learn that it was important to know what kind of stares he was getting. He had never been the best at people in general, but he was learning. Learning to tell pity from disgust, and disgust from outright hostility. One could turn toward the other so quickly, and it was best to be on the look-out for when it did so that he wouldn't risk overstaying his welcome.

Fortunately, at that precise moment, the only people who were paying him much attention were one of the roaming guards and the handful of traders in the vicinity. It was maybe a little funny how variable the expressions of tradesfolk could be. How, for some, their distaste seemed to vanish, shoved behind a friendlier mask once he got close enough to do business, while for others indifference hardened into more visible disdain as he approached—those folks were the worst to bargain with, feigning greater offense than he thought was genuine simply as an excuse to try and wring him for every cap they could.

Genuine indifference—actual and unaffronted—was rare and refreshing enough that Virgil had begun to find it welcome...

Right now, he was mostly just browsing. He had managed, with the fruits of his recent hunt, to net himself enough caps to restock ammunition for his newly acquired rifle—as well as for his revolver, since he had been forced to spend quite a few rounds dealing with the raider that the rifle had originally belonged to. It wasn't in the best condition, but as far as hunting was concerned it was a solid step up from getting by on trapping and whatever he could get close enough to hit with the revolver. The radstag he had bagged alone had left his pockets fuller than they had been when he left home, even after the restock, and now he was left considering what else he might buy with his recent windfall.

He had a proper bag now, and a canteen for carrying water—the first two things he had bought with his original, meager savings—and now that radiation was something he no longer had to worry about water wasn't all that difficult to come by. He had a battered mess kit for cooking that he had traded for with some salvage he had happened across on the road. He had a bedroll and a decent blanket—offered as payment, along with his meals, for a few days of work on a farm before the family that lived there had asked him, politely, to move on.

Every worldly possession he owned was in his bag or carried on his person. And it wasn't very much at all, really, yet every little piece that was gathered made him feel a little bit more secure in his survival...

Right now, Virgil was considering his options for armor. If he was going to try his luck hiring on as a porter or guard to a caravan, Tallhat was the place to do it, but he had to look like a worthy prospect if he wanted to be considered. His jacket was decent protection, but it could do with some reinforcement, especially across the ribs and his back. Arm-guards and pads for his knees and shins would be worthwhile, especially if he was forced to dive prone in a hurry to avoid incoming fire. He also wanted to get a decent collar for Marcus—one that was nice and thick and studded with spikes to protect his neck from attacks by other animals. He might have enough in his pocket right now for one or the other, but not both. He-

There were eyes on him.

Virgil only just managed not to tense too obviously at the realization. On the opposite side of the little lane of stalls there was a customer browsing through the merchandise on display, only Virgil had caught the movement of a quickly averted gaze out of the corner of his eye. Virgil didn't let himself look back, not right away. He didn't want to signal to his observer just yet that he knew they were watching. Looking over the wares at the stall in front of him he spotted a shiny bit of metal plate and picked it up as if to inspect its quality.

He managed not to flinch as his eyes darted over his own reflection, though only barely, angling it quickly away to observe the individual behind him. They were slight, whoever they were, dressed in a clean but somewhat shabby-looking brown coat that hung slightly on their frame, and their head was covered by a battered newsboy cap. At the moment they seemed to be browsing through a rack of Old World goods—faded magazines and newspapers and comics. Virgil waited, watching them for a moment. The wares in front of them seemed to occupy their attention for the most part. And Virgil had started to feel a bit foolish—and the owner of the stall in front of him had started to lose her patience—when at last the individual turned around. And-

And Virgil found himself looking into another set of gauntly decayed features, only too similar to his own.

(A pair of eyes that found his in the reflection of the plate before he set it down, despite his best efforts at avoiding both.)

For one long and uncomfortably tense moment, Virgil found himself stuck, caught between the awkward impulse to choke out some sort of apology to the lady at the stall and the increasingly urgent desire to put his feet in motion to move on. And Marcus must have detected his distress because he heard a soft whuff as the dog leaned against his side. Virgil had nearly reached the decision to forego the first action when his window for performing the second suddenly closed. He heard a sound behind him, breathy but coarse, like a cough, or-

Or someone clearing their throat.

(And he couldn't have said there wasn't a part of him that wanted to walk away anyway, pretending he hadn't heard, but...as unsociable as he was—as uncomfortable as he was—his mother had raised him better than that.)

Steeling himself, Virgil slowly turned to face the ghoul that had been watching him. No sooner had he accomplished this astounding feat than he found himself looking into a pair of eyes, brown but blood-shot and somewhat filmy, staring at him from behind a pair of scratched horn-rimmed glasses. Beneath their coat they were wearing a dingy button-up and a threadbare sweater, and a tie that, once upon a time, may have been red but which had faded to a dusky pale-pink. Their skin was a drab color somewhere in the indefinable, muddy middle between brown, and a sickly greenish grey, roughly textured and visibly raw in a few places where it creased. And the word "soft" was not a word that he would have ever imagined he could apply to a ghoul in any capacity, but there was something about the expression and the posture before him—calm, relaxed, open—that made him think just that.

He was smiling.

"Hey there," the man greeted with what Virgil thought was an attempt at a gentle sort of cheer.

An attempt, for while his voice was somewhat lighter than most other ghouls Virgil had met—may, indeed, have had a gentle sound once—the roughness in it still creaked like a rusted hinge. And this was usually the time in a conversation when it was appropriate to respond, but Virgil's own attempt shriveled in his throat before it could even try to form. He had never been a fan of talking, to strangers or in general, but he was much less so now...

(He knew that his own voice was worse.)

Fortunately, the man didn't seem offended by Virgil's silent floundering, though his smile grew a touch more subdued, and perhaps a little sheepish.

"I'm sorry for staring," the ghoul offered. "That was a bit rude of me. I promise I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable. I just couldn't help but notice that handsome fella at your side, and I was trying to make up my mind about coming over to say 'Hello'."

And Virgil felt more than a little stupid for the amount of time it took his brain to process that the man was talking about Marcus.

"Uh- Oh," he managed eventually.

(Though he failed at either sounding any more intelligent than he felt, or repressing the wince that always came when he did finally find his voice.)

The ghoul waited for a patient beat, as if giving Virgil the chance to say more, but mercifully he wasn't forced to sit with his failure for long.

"What's his name?"

"Er- Marcus."

Once more, Virgil stung with embarrassment as he struggled to find his voice. He didn't know why this was so hard. He was never good at conversation, and it had only become harder lately, but usually he wasn't this bad. He knew he had to get used to this. Used to his voice as it was now. Used to talking to ghouls—to other ghouls. This man wasn't even the first that he had met. He had run into a few since leaving home, exchanged a few words, or conducted brief trades. But brief was the word, and he hadn't even offered them his name, because they hadn't offered theirs. This man was the first one to approach him for the purpose of a friendly conversation—or for what he hoped was simply that.

(It was, in fact, the first time anyone—ghoul or otherwise—had approached him in such a manner since the day his life had changed.)

The ghoul seemed unbothered by his continuing awkwardness, smiling brightly before he turned to the dog.

"It's nice to meet you, Marcus," he greeted brightly. "My name's Emile. Does he shake hands?"

It took Virgil a couple of seconds to realize that the question at the end had been directed back at him, and even longer to try to make sense of what the ghoul—Emile—had asked him.

"He's...a dog," Virgil managed, confused.

Emile let out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I guess folks probably don't bother with things like that much anymore," he said. "I'm sure there's a lot more useful things to train a dog for these days. But back when I was growing up we used to teach dogs all kinds of silly things. Shake hands, bring the paper, roll over, play dead... I had a cousin way back who taught hers how to dance in a circle on her hind legs-"

Something clicked in Virgil's head just then, and despite the difficulty he had been having at forming words to begin with, he was helpless to stop himself from blurting it out then and there.

"You're Pre-War."

Emile stared back at him a moment, perhaps only disarmed by Virgil's shock, but suddenly he felt his chest constricting.

"Shit, I-" Virgil stammered out in a panic. "Was that rude? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

Emile let out a rusty chuckle.

"No, no, it's fine," Emile said quickly. "I guess I do kind of wear it on my sleeve, don't I?"

Oddly, Virgil wasn't sure that he agreed. Before today, the image he had of what a ghoul from before the Great War would be like had certainly been much different. He had imagined they would be hardened, having lived so long—after having lived through the ending of the world that had come before and continuing on through the broken world that followed after. He had imagined they would be terrifying to talk to, having escaped the fate of going feral for well over a century. And who could even guess at what cost just living for that long would come?

He wouldn't have imagined someone who went around, entirely unarmored and barely armed save for the lump of what was probably just a small caliber pistol hidden under his jacket. He certainly wouldn't have imagined someone who walked up to random strangers just to talk to their dog.

Emile's expression turned somewhat thoughtful as Virgil failed to respond much to his words, still occupied sorting through all the uncomfortable second-guessing going on in his head.

"Of course, I'd hope you know how to shake hands like a gentleman," Emile said, somewhat impishly, offering Virgil his hand.

"I, uh," put on the spot, Virgil couldn't quite find his voice, though he took the hand offered to him in half a panic.

"Emile Picani," the ghoul offered brightly, giving his hand a light shake. "At your service."

His hand was warm, though still somewhat cooler than Virgil had expected, and the grip gentle despite the roughness of his skin. And Virgil noted with faint alarm that the palm of his hand tingled slightly, a feeling that lingered somewhat uncomfortably even after the contact had ended.

(He couldn't tell if it was radiation, nerves, or if he was simply so unused already to being touched.)

"Technically it's Dr. Picani," Emile continued easily, "but I've noticed that tends to give folks the wrong idea. Not that I don't have plenty of experience with lending a hand in a pinch, but I'm not really a doctor in the way most are usually looking for."

And Virgil wasn't really sure what to make of that, but it was possible that Emile wasn't looking for a response. Whether it was intentional or not, by filling the air between them, at the very least he had given Virgil a little bit of time to recover himself.

Somewhat.

"Virgil," he managed at last.

The name escaped with an almost desperate velocity, which was possibly the only way he was going to get it out. And it felt so strange to say his name out loud. He hadn't ever liked talking to strangers if he could help it, and living so far out from anywhere else with his family for most of his life, he hadn't had to introduce himself to many over the years.

(It felt even stranger to hear it, in the voice he spoke with now, sounding even more like it was being said by a stranger.)

Emile offered him a friendly smile, bright somehow despite the worn state of his teeth.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you too, Virgil," he said. "Now tell me, does Marcus take pets from strangers? I wouldn't want to overstep his boundaries."

"I, uh, I guess?"

Generally, Marcus had always been a whole lot more sociable than he was, but since leaving the safety of the farmstead they had both become a lot more wary. And Virgil had always been wary, but he had also never been on his own before, almost always with his parents or his brother watching his back. For the past few months, that had meant being constantly on edge, and it was an edge that Marcus had also picked up on. And Marcus was a big old goof, but he had always taken his job of protecting Andy and him very seriously when they were kids. Somewhere between coming home on the brink of death and later leaving home in tatters, Marcus seemed to have decided he was needed for that job again.

He was still friendly enough, most of the time. But it was a bit chancier when he could tell that Virgil was nervous.

(Virgil also wasn't sure Marcus had ever been touched by a ghoul that wasn't him.)

"Maybe just, uh, offer him your hand first," Virgil said. "I don't know if he'll want to be touched, but I know he'll growl before he'll try to bite."

Emile smiled once more and sank carefully down into a crouch on one knee before holding out the back of his hand. There was still plenty of space between them, thankfully—Emile hadn't seemingly wanted to intrude too closely on Virgil's own boundaries, so he hadn't really gotten that close. Virgil watched the dog carefully, in case he needed to intervene, but from the uncertain little wag and the curious twitch of his ears, he at least didn't seem opposed to the idea.

"You want to go say hello, bud?" Virgil asked quietly.

And seemingly that was all the invitation Marcus needed to walk up and inspect the hand offered. After a brief examination and almost no time at all, he was butting his head eagerly against Emile's hand for pets.

"Aw, see, I thought you'd be the friendly sort," Emile said. "You're just a sweet old man aren't you...?"

Despite his earlier trepidation, Virgil couldn't help but smile at the sight-

Even if that smile was sadly short-lived. The expression pulled strangely at the skin of his face, the feeling of it was unfamiliar, uncomfortable—an unavoidable reminder both of how long it had been since he smiled last and the primary reason why he hadn't. And, unfortunately, the shift didn't go unnoticed. Though Emile's smile remained, his good humor visibly dimmed. He gave Marcus one last good scrub through his fur before he stood, dusting the grit from the ground off of his knees.

"Well, I don't know what sort of business you two have to take care of today," Emile said, "and I wouldn't want to keep you from getting it done if it's anything urgent. But, if I might ask one question?"

Virgil hesitated a moment. On the one hand, he really wasn't sure yet what to think of Emile. And he was more than smart enough to know better than to go telling a stranger important information—like how much ammo he had on him, or how many caps, or where he was going—so most days, his answer would have absolutely been no. But-

But as little as he had actually said, this was the longest Virgil felt like he had really talked to anyone in over a month, and as little as he usually liked to do that, there was something about it—about seeing someone smile at him—that had worked its way under what was left of his skin like a splinter...

"Uh, sure?" Virgil managed finally, after a conspicuous pause. "I mean, go ahead."

Because if worse came to worst, he could hopefully just not answer. Right?

"Have you eaten yet today?" Emile asked. "I mean, feel free to say no, but I was getting close to taking some time to have lunch, and I wouldn't mind sharing it with some friendly company if you're not in a hurry."

And now Virgil really was torn. Because he had eaten, of course—the last cold dregs of his stew from the previous night, which he had choked down at dark o'clock that morning might not have been the most encouraging breakfast, and it was approaching mid-afternoon, but it was still more than filling enough to be counted. Which, of course, was hardly even the point—if Emile was offering food without asking any price in return save for his company, that was an offer only a fool would turn down without a reason.

(Or without a much better reason than simply being uncomfortable, at the very least.)

"I mean- I could eat?" Virgil managed uncertainly. "If you're offering?"

The way that Emile smiled at him, one would have thought he was the one getting the better end of the deal—hard to believe, Virgil knew he was terrible company.

They didn't wind up going very far from the marketplace. About half a block past the outskirts of the Brim there were the ruins of an ancient parking garage, its ground level still largely intact. Inside there was a small camp tucked away just out of sight of passers by, a couple of small fires and a few barrels filled with burning debris kept the place lit and warm despite the sapping chill of darkness and concrete that Virgil could already feel threatening to gnaw an ache into his joints.

A warmth, he realized, that would have been just as sorely needed by the camp's few inhabitants, for while there were only a small handful of people gathered together here in the dark, nearly every single one of them were ghouls.

Their entry into that space was not remarked upon, though it certainly didn't go unmarked either. Most looked their way only briefly, their eyes falling on Emile with vague recognition that must have been enough to satisfy their interest. A few others looked at Virgil with an unfamiliar curiosity, though it was quickly abandoned to return their attention to whatever else they had been doing moments prior. And somehow, as uncomfortable as the attention had been, this quick dismissal almost managed to bother him more. And it took Virgil a few moments to put his finger on why...

If Tallhat rejected ghouls from its walls then the ghouls that came to trade at the Brim would still need to stay somewhere. That's what this little camp was—a place out of the way for those unwelcome in the city to take shelter. And Tallhat was the largest settlement around for miles—more than likely, there were always a few people here, some of them possibly in permanent residence offering services for others who came and went. The arrival of a stranger would hardly be anything worth the briefest moment of notice, after all, here he was nothing more remarkable than another ghoul they just hadn't met yet...

And Virgil realized he had gotten so used to uneasy stares and forced, awkward civility that he had forgotten what it felt like to be faceless to those who were watching.

Emile led him to one small fire before a hollowed-out car—very small, just a bucket with some holes punched out to let the air reach the flames and allow the fire to be fed. A section of chicken-wire had been bent over the top to serve as a grate. A few odds and ends—road signs propped up by cinder blocks, an entirely legless upholstered chair, some battered crates—had been dragged around it to serve as seating, but at present the space surrounding the fire was still unoccupied. Emile quickly dropped his bag next to one of these crates and stepped over to grab some scrap wood from a nearby pile in order to feed the struggling flames. The chair looked...tempting, but he wasn't sure he trusted its springs. Instead, Virgil took his cue from Emile and picked out one of the crates instead, and Marcus quickly sank down beside him.

(Not trusting much else about the place besides the chair, Virgil chose to keep his bag close at hand.)

"So," Emile said, digging through his bag. "I've got a can of pork and beans and a few carrots that I'll need to use very soon. I think those'll go pretty well together. You don't have to, but if you've got anything to add to the pot we could stretch those a little farther..."

He hauled out a battered cooking pot and his mentioned items.

Virgil ran a quick mental inventory before opening his bag.

"I've got molerat. It's getting on toward a week and a half, but it was smoked pretty thoroughly, so...it might be alright?"

At least, it had still smelled fine the last time he had checked it. As far as he could still tell—his sense of smell certainly wasn't the best anymore.

Emile waved a hand.

"I'm sure it's more than fine," he said, looking up from a search through his own bag. "For us, anyway. I guess it's a good thing if you haven't had the bad luck to have to find out, but our stomachs are made of sterner stuff than they once were."

He pulled out a can opener and got to work opening the beans, though he paused for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"A good thing, considering some of the bad luck I've had over the years," Emile said, with deceptive good cheer in his tone.

By us of course, Virgil knew he meant ghouls. And he had heard that said before, but he hadn't wanted to take a risk—because so much of what he even knew about ghouls was based on rumor, and a lot of it carried the distinct smell of hearsay. In fact, many of the stories he had heard about what ghouls could or would eat bordered on blood libel.

(But was it really libel when the inevitable end might mean that it was only ever just a matter of time?)

Emile must have noticed the shudder brought on by the uncomfortable turn of his thoughts because he paused in his preparations to look at him carefully. And perhaps he misinterpreted the reason.

"I wasn't offended, by the way," Emile said. "When you mentioned the War, I mean. It's...definitely not my happiest memory, but... I've had almost two centuries now to come to terms with it. Not that I would ever say there's any set amount of time that could ever be enough to fully recover from something like that, not really, but..."

Emile trailed off for a moment, watching Virgil pensively.

"Not all of us have our own personal apocalypse set so far in our past," he said finally.

And when there eyes met, he could see the question there that Emile hadn't—hadn't yet—decided to ask. He could see the man gauging whether he should—whether Virgil was ready for those kinds of questions. And Virgil didn't know if the discomfort he was feeling was from being seen or being seen through. Yet, as Virgil settled a hand on the dog at his side—not even really thinking, just seeking out the comfort of Marcus's fur—the other ghoul seemed to come to a decision.

"How long has it been for you?" Emile asked him, so impossibly gently despite the rough creak to his voice.

"I- I don't know," Virgil admitted honestly, his voice quiet. "Two months? Maybe closer to three?"

From the rapid blink and frozen stare, Virgil thought Emile looked almost startled by his answer. Virgil knew that he was startled by the reaction, but he didn't know what else he could do but sit there, fingers still buried in the ruff of fur around Marcus's neck, waiting until his mind made itself up about whether or not he should back out of this whole thing and just leave.

"Yowzers," the ghoul muttered at last, almost breathlessly. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't expecting it was that soon..."

Virgil didn't know how to respond. It probably would have been best to say that it was fine. That it didn't matter. It probably shouldn't have, anyway. Still, when all Virgil managed in the end was a vague shake of his head, something in Emile's expression—now pensive—suggested that he understood, nonetheless, that it did.

The other ghoul finished preparing their meal in silence after that, and Marcus watched Emile ready the food with far more interest than Virgil could hope to muster. Though Emile didn't seem too deeply offended by Virgil's abysmal failure at providing meaningful company, he couldn't help but feel like his own presence beside the fire was an uncomfortable intrusion on the other man's unearned hospitality. It was honestly only the dog's soft and insistent whines that kept him from getting up and leaving before he could be any more of a bother than he had been already. But the dog's eyes were locked on the pot over the fire and there was drool starting to dampen the spot where his chin was resting on Virgil's knee. Walking away now would just have been cruel.

The silence might as well have been a fourth visitor at the fire, one that lingered even as the stew of odds and ends was dished out, Virgil's into the battered mess kit that he carried, and Emile's into an impressively chipped mug with a once-colorful design on its side that seemed to have faded into near-invisibility with time. They ate wordlessly for a while, Virgil occasionally fishing out bits of cubed up molerat for Marcus to share.

Eventually, though, Emile did see fit to break that silence. And, fortunately, he didn't seem poised to start digging any further into Virgil's damaged soul.

"So what are your plans in Tallhat?" Emile said. "It can be hard finding work around here, but if that's what you're looking for, I might know somebody who knows somebody else who would hire."

Virgil was startled enough by the return to conversation—or the attempt at one—that it took him a few moments to register the question itself. Then it took him a moment to consider whether he wanted to share that information. But then Emile had given him a free lunch entirely unasked for and so far Virgil had repaid him by being a shitty guest. He could suffer through a bit of small talk, at the very least.

"I was thinking about trying to find a spot on one of the caravans," Virgil said. "If I can find one that'll take me. I've been making a few caps here and there from hunting, but there's not enough game this close to the city. The meat still sells high enough to clear even with the cost of ammo, but with the animals as scarce as they are it's the time that would really cost me. But I thought if I found a trader looking for another porter or hired gun that I could make a few more caps or at least get paid with a meal while getting more distance from the city."

Emile listened with a thoughtful hum.

"I could ask around," he said. "There's always traders coming and going, and a few of the regulars who come through our spot here hire on with the caravans. I'm sure there's someone who could give us some hints on who's hiring and who's safe to hire with."

Virgil wasn't sure how he felt about that—talking to further strangers, and expecting favors from them. Or advice. That kind of information would be valuable, and most would usually expect him to earn it somehow... Then again, having that information would still make it a whole lot easier in the long run—and a lot less uncomfortable—than trying to approach any of the traders asking for a job without it.

"Alright," he managed. "Sure."

And Virgil didn't understand how that had earned him another uneven grin, but clearly earning those from Emile wasn't especially hard.

"If you still need supplies," Emile said, "I can also probably give you some names of which sellers around here will trade fairly. Most of the ones out here on the Brim aren't too bad, but they'll still try and squeeze you if they think you're some nobody passing through."

At that sentiment, Virgil couldn't help but snort.

"Aren't I, though?"

"Of course not," Emile said brightly. "You're Virgil. And as long as someone knows you, you aren't nobody."

And Virgil had been more than ready to accept this as sappy, empty sentiment—Emile seemed the type—but the man continued.

"If someone knows you," Emile said, "then they might hear about how you got gouged on your first time in town. And that somebody might tell somebody else and before you know it, people will be warning their friends who are new in town not to bother with someone who doesn't remember how much it's okay to charge for things people need to get by."

Which, Virgil supposed even he couldn't argue wasn't a very fair point.

"Okay, sure," Virgil said. "You know me, and I know you?"

"Exactly," Emile said. "And since we're friends now—don't argue, it's been decided—you'll of course know you can come to me if you need help. Even if I can't give it myself, I might know who to ask."

Which was a very generous offer, and one that Virgil was almost immediately tempted to forget about entirely, because the idea of just asking for help like that, even with it openly being offered, made what was left of his skin start to crawl.

But...

While Virgil couldn't imagine asking someone he barely knew for help, there were bound to be things that Emile knew that he didn't. When it came to living as a ghoul there were still so many questions that Virgil didn't have the answers for—so many questions he was afraid to learn the answers for. Questions that gnawed at his mind and at his gut whenever he let them rise out of the box at the back of his mind that he shoved them into every morning just so that he could try to make it through the day. And Emile was probably his best chance at finding those answers—because while he was bound to run into other ghouls down the line, there was no guarantee that he would find another so obviously willing to open up. Nor one who had been around for so long-

The man was at least two hundred years old, he was bound to know more about...well, a lot of things. If anyone could give him the answers he wanted—and would be willing to give them freely—it was probably Emile.

(Though whether those answers would bring him peace of mind or merely confirm the worst of his fears was another question entirely.)

The question sat unanswered for most of their meal, mostly because any time Virgil let himself think about asking it caused something in his gut to turn in a way that threatened to reject Emile's hospitality. But eventually their spoons hit the bottom of their bowls and Virgil allowed Marcus to do his part in cleaning the dish before the words finally managed to float their way up to the surface.

"Have you-"

Virgil cut himself off halfway through, already beginning to regret thinking about asking, but it felt too late—now Emile was looking at him, soft-eyed and curious, expectant and welcoming.

(And that welcome only made Virgil feel even more like he should take it back—that he should run before he could finish asking.)

"Have you ever known anyone who- Who went feral?" Virgil finished at last.

His stomach was already twisting itself into knots with regret, but at least any fears he may have had that the question might be too much seemed to be unfounded as Emile offered him a sad smile.

"Of course," Emile answered softly. "Too many, I'm afraid."

Virgil supposed he had known that would be his answer already, but then that also wasn't really the question that he needed to ask.

"Is- Are there...signs?" Virgil asked shakily. "Before it happens, I mean. Do- Do they know?"

That was the question kept him awake more nights than not. If that end came for him—perhaps when it came for him—would he know his time was running short, or would it just...happen?

Over the past couple months, Virgil had unfortunately had far too much time alone with himself and his thoughts out on the road in which to weigh the question, and even then he still wasn't sure which possibility terrified him more. It made him sick to imagine realizing what was happening to him—to think about being left to wait out his last days, hours, minutes knowing that the end was coming—to imagine suffering the awareness of his own decline and being forced to spend whatever time he had left fighting for the strength needed to take care of himself before it was too late. In some ways, it almost seemed preferable to think that it would happen faster than that—that perhaps, between one minute and the next, he might just suddenly be...gone. That when the end came there would be no time or chance for him to fear it, and that afterward he would suffer no worries ever again. But it would also mean having no time to try to make peace either, no time to settle any affairs. The vicious animal thing he left behind would have free reign, and any hope of mitigating the damage that creature would cause afterward would be out of his hands...

(No chance to make sure that Marcus would be safe from him, and that there was someone who might take care of the old boy after Virgil was gone.)

Virgil didn't realize that his thoughts had run away from him again until he felt a light touch on his arm. He flinched away in shock but fortunately managed not to do much more than that. He was still present enough in himself that some part of him knew where he was—barely, but he could still feel the weight of Marcus across his lap, still feel the warmth of the fire—but not to really know what was happening. He just knew that it had grown tremendously difficult to get air into his lungs and that his hands had started shaking. And he knew that Emile had been talking to him—or trying to talk to him—for a while now, but he couldn't for the life of him manage to focus on just what he was saying past the rushing in his ears...

(This wasn't the first time his mind had run haywire on him since he had been forced out of his home, but something about this time felt...it felt final. Was this it?)

Suddenly he felt both of his hands being taken and looked down to find Emile was holding them gently in his own. That same odd tingling feeling he recalled from their handshake came back with a vengeance where their fingers touched, flaring into something so intense that it almost felt like he was burning. It was too much, too abruptly, for his already overtaxed brain to handle and Virgil might have pulled his hands away, except that the burn had blessedly managed to drag him free from the chaos in his head, and instead he felt his grip tightening fiercely, as if Emile's hands in his were the only thing keeping him from being dragged away.

And all that was enough—just enough—that Virgil could finally begin to make sense of what Emile was saying.

"You're safe right now, Virgil," Emile said, looking into his eyes. "You're safe and you're going to be alright. If you can, I want you to focus on the sound of my voice, okay? I'm going to try and help you get your breathing under control. Nod or squeeze my hands if you understand?"

Virgil wouldn't have said he understood exactly—he understood what Emile was asking of him, sure, but he wasn't sure how much his breathing even mattered when it felt like his brain was on fire—but he nodded nonetheless.

It was a struggle to hang onto Emile's words as he continued, but Virgil did his best to follow along as the elder ghoul instructed him to mirror his own breathing, counting out long pauses in between. He was fighting against himself for the first few minutes—against the demand from his already aching lungs, screaming for him to gasp hungrily for air, feeling all the while like he was on the edge of suffocating. But soon it became easier. Soon, his racing heart began to slow, not to a crawl but to a more manageably quickened pace. And, soon, that brain-fire that always seemed to devour his thoughts whenever these attacks hit him cooled and sank back into the usual background noise in his mind.

And Virgil's face was wet with tears, and some part of him couldn't help but feel embarrassed about it, though considering that he had—at least briefly—managed to convince himself that the end had finally come for him, a little embarrassment was something he might almost be willing to live with.

"S-sorry," Virgil managed again, once he could even think about putting words together.

Emile, who for some reason was still holding onto him, simply squeezed his hands again.

"Don't be," he said quietly. "Have you...dealt with something like that before?"

For a moment, Virgil considered denying it, but then given what he had been asking about just before it happened, what was even the point? He pulled his hands away, but he answered with a nod.

"Yeah, I- A few times."

Several times, in fact, and with growing frequency, particularly over the past few weeks.

"And...does it usually happen when you're thinking about...?"

Emile never quite finished the question, but Virgil managed another shaky nod.

"Y-yeah."

More and more often, now, and with greater ferocity, whenever Virgil let his mind wander to...to his fears of going feral, he found himself dragged into that chaotic swarm in his head. Whenever he wound up dealing with ferals out on the road in order to keep Marcus or others safe, whenever he passed other travelers on the road and fearful, wary glances were cast his way, whenever he entered a settlement and people kept a hand on their guns as they encouraged him to keep moving, whenever he felt that odd, giddy feeling he had come to realize meant he was close to a source of high radiation...

(Whenever he thought about his family—his father—and had that same red-hot anger flare up in his chest that he had felt that night.)

Emile mirrored his nod silently. A few moments later he offered Virgil a very small smile.

"Well, I can try answering your question from earlier," Emile told him gently, "but...only if you think you'll be alright hearing it?"

And Virgil felt his stomach drop, like a trap door had opened up beneath him, but he forced himself to nod anyway. Because if this was where he finally got his answer—his sentence, his warning—then... Then at least he could try to make plans for it, he supposed. He buried his fingers in the depths of Marcus's fur, the thought already starting to choke him...

(There was every chance now, wasn't there, that he would need to say goodbye? That he would wind up leaving the poor boy behind...alone.)

"Sometimes..." Emile began slowly. "Sometimes there is, are, warnings, and sometimes there aren't, but...I can tell you, in my experience, Virgil? When those warnings do happen, they don't look like this."

Virgil's eyes had dropped down to Marcus, but they returned to Emile's face, confused.

"Do you remember," Emile asked him gently, "when I introduced myself that I said I was a doctor?"

And Virgil was even more confused by the question, but he responded with a nod.

"Back before the War," Emile said, "it was my job to help people who were...struggling with things. Mostly I helped families and couples who were having trouble communicating in a healthy way, but..."

He hesitated a moment before finally letting out a sigh.

"I know folks these days think about the time before the bombs fell as idyllic," Emile said, "and there's no denying that it was...a very different world, and in a lot of ways it was easier. But...we were also, all of us, dealing with the consequences of a decade-long war. There were riots over food shortages, out of control inflation, paranoia about Communist infiltration...and of course the fear that nuclear conflict could erupt at any time was hanging over all our heads constantly. That kind of stress takes its toll, and more and more of my patients were dealing with the results."

In spite of his earlier panic, as Emile talked, Virgil slowly found himself spellbound. He had heard so many stories about the Old World in his life time, of course. His parents had taught him and his brother both about the poisons that tainted the earth and where they came from, why they needed to be so careful about where they got their water. That glimpse of the vertibird in the sky before it had been abandoned on the hill near their homestead had been an impossible miracle of technology thought long lost that everyone in town had speculated about for ages. Once, Andy had cracked open the trunk on one of the ancient cars on the road and uncovered a stash of old magazines that they had been able to sell for a high enough price to afford enough crop seed to plant a second plot of razorgrain—though not, of course, before they had both taken the time to look through every faded page...

Virgil understood that there was a world that had come before the one that he and his family had been born into, one that had been different and strange and full of wonders both beautiful and terrifying that were mostly long forgotten...but this was different than any of his parents' handed down knowledge or improbable relics or half-faded glimpses of the past. The bones of the Old World were everywhere, and its ghosts still haunted the living, but Emile remembered a time when that world had been alive. A time when the crumbling skeletons that gazed vacantly from the windows of the rusting husks that littered the roadways had been people just going along with their day...

"It wasn't my specialization," Emile continued quietly, "but I still had to familiarize myself with handling the consequences of both acute and complex trauma. Because sometimes the events in our lives are too much to easily move past. Sometimes the emotions we feel about them leave scars of their own. And sometimes we can be just fine one minute and overcome in the next..."

He paused, his expression somewhat contemplative as he looked back at Virgil.

"I can't guess at your circumstances," Emile finished at last, "and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I know that, whatever you've been through, just a few months isn't remotely enough time to come to terms with it. Because that's what your attacks look like to me, Virgil: a response to trauma, and not even an uncommon one. And there's maybe no magic wand that I can wave to fix anything, but if you're willing I can give you some advice that might help you in dealing with attacks like these in the future. And if you do decide that you want to talk about it with someone, then I'm definitely willing to listen. And-"

Emile paused just then, hesitating as he looked him over carefully, as though weighing him in a way that had Virgil wanting very much to escape his gaze. But then...

"Do you-" Emile faltered only briefly as he wrestled with his words. "Look, first, I want you to know this is a completely sincere and honest offer, that you can feel free to say yes or no to, but...would you like a hug?"

For a moment, Virgil could only stare back at the man like he was crazy. But then everything he had seen from Emile so far told him that the elder ghoul was exactly the kind of person who would offer a stranger a hug within only hours of meeting them. Because Emile didn't know him—he didn't know what Virgil had been through, what he had lost—but then...he could guess, couldn't he? And, watching him from where they sat side-by-side at the campfire—seeing Emile's hands hovering over the knees of his crossed legs as if just waiting for permission to reach out, the earnest sympathy in his bloodshot eyes, unstained by pity, that only hours ago he wouldn't have dreamt of seeing aimed his way—Virgil suddenly found himself wanting so very badly to close the distance.

That distance between them, only feet apart, still seemed so very far away—it might as well have been the moon for all that Virgil could move himself to cross it. But he also hadn't let himself cry in front of anyone for the longest time—not since that night. Now he had—now he was—and finding that he was already, once more helplessly in tears he found himself nodding in answer.

Emile was careful as he inched toward him—he moved slowly, cautiously telegraphing his movements in a way that Virgil insisted on believing was to avoid spooking his dog. He settled sitting next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder—and at first that was all he did, as if letting Virgil get used to his presence there—before he reached out, placing an arm across his shoulders. And there wasn't much to feel from it at first—only the weight, really, through the leather of his jacket, and Emile was neither a large nor a heavy man. But it was enough to coax Virgil into leaning into it, and from there it was almost as if gravity did the rest. The minute that Emile's arms were around him, Virgil's did the same and he found himself clinging to the other man in a way he hadn't hugged his own mother since he was a child.

Virgil didn't know how long it lasted before he finally got a handle on himself, only that his knees and his back were sore from the position he had settled in and his throat felt wretched from sobbing. Marcus had climbed halfway onto his lap between the two of them at some point, and his left leg had started to fall asleep under his weight. The shoulder of Emile's threadbare jacket was soaked through with tears and worse, and Virgil pulled away with a grimace hating to think about what he might look like in that moment, with tears burning in his eyes and filth starting to crust itself around the barely-healed wound where his nose used to be.

"I'm sorry," Virgil rasped out weakly.

"Again, don't be," Emile said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "Believe me, I've dealt with much worse, and I can tell that you needed it. Besides, I've been there. I mean...I've probably been there three or four times now if I'm honest."

Virgil didn't respond, but fortunately he wasn't required to—the minute Emile pulled away Marcus was up there trying to clean his face, and there wasn't much he could do at that point but let him.

(Well, that and put a hand up to protect his exposed nasal cavity from the dog's relentless tongue, because that was a mistake he had only needed to make once.)

Fortunately, his breakdown seemed not to have drawn a lot of attention—and, though he did his best to hide it as his eyes swept the dark, close space within the parking garage, Virgil was definitely looking. But there weren't any eyes directed their way. The few who betrayed any difference in their attention at all seemed focused on looking just about anywhere else. And perhaps he should have expected that, that people here would know how to mind their own business—that most ghouls with their own problems wouldn't be out to pry into the affairs of others when they were just as likely to want people keeping out of theirs. Then again, he also supposed that perhaps they simply understood.

How many of them had suffered their own horrible moment of falling apart in the first pair of arms that didn't consider them untouchable?

Emile didn't press further—seeming content, at last, to let his existing offer of a friendly ear rest where he had left it. He gave Virgil and his dog their space to cool off as he settled back down next to the fire, leafing through the faded pages of an ancient comic book. And even after Marcus had satisfied himself with taking care of him Virgil held the old boy close, fingers carding deeply through his fur as the dog laid across his lap.

It was an entirely new storm of thoughts that came swarming into his head to fill the silence. Because everything that had happened since meeting Emile in the marketplace all felt so...so strangely impossible. And it wasn't anything Emile had said that Virgil was struggling with so much as the fact of the man himself. It felt impossible, not just that someone could have lived as long as Emile had—because Virgil knew that there were many ghouls that had—but that he could have done so and still been so...kind. That he would still be so willing to go out of his way to offer help to a stranger without asking a single thing in return...

Emile had lived for so long, and he had seen so much, and so much of it had surely been awful. He had lived in a world strangled by war and fear and had been forced to watch it all burn to cinders—had watched it burn while he had burned with it. And there was no way for Virgil to fathom what the other man had lost when the bombs fell—not just the family and friends he once had surely possessed, but also an entire world and way of life that Virgil himself could only try to imagine. And since that day, so very long ago, he had lost others still to a fate worse than death that Emile himself might one day be forced to endure...

"I- How?" Virgil asked him, his voice shaking. And though his tears had returned, for once that quaver was not from fear or doubt but from sheer, blind-sided confusion. "How do you do it? How do you just...go on?"

Because Virgil had made a promise. He had promised his mother that he would hold on, or that at least he would try. And so far he had kept it... So far. But every day it felt just a bit harder. Every day was harder to remember why his promise had had even mattered in the first place. What was the point of keeping his feet on the road if he didn't know where it would take him?

Emile smiled at him a little sadly, though there was also something in it that seemed...almost softly embarrassed.

"Well, you get up every day because you have to, right?" Emile said, somewhat sheepishly. "I know it feels like it should be more complicated than that, but...a century really is just a series of days, like any other. And you can try and plan ahead, but you still have to take them one at a time, because that's how they come."

And as Virgil stared at him, speechless, he continued.

"I don't think there's any kind of trick to it besides that," Emile said. "You get up in the morning. Because you have to. Because you have things to do. I'm sure you get that much, right? You've got your dog to take care of and food to hunt or scavenge and your clothes to keep clean... Or maybe because there's some other place you have to be and people you know that you can talk to when you get there. And if there aren't, maybe there are new people for you to meet..."

He trailed off, that smile on his face growing so, so faint, but never entirely absent.

"Though...some days you won't," Emile continued softly. "Some days you can't. Some days you'll fail. And you'll need to learn how to forgive yourself when that happens. For the days when it's too hard. For the days when you can't. And you just...keep trying. And maybe you'll be able to try harder the day after that—but if you can't, then you give it whatever you've got to spare anyway, and you just...see where it takes you."

He paused, taking a slow breath. He reached out, slowly, to take Virgil's hand, and when Virgil failed—mostly in his confusion—to pull away he gave it a gentle squeeze, and that warmth from before—prickly, too hot, too much, not enough—tingled across his palms and fingers in places that he thought had lost feeling.

He wanted to pull his hand away. He never wanted to let go.

"You try," Emile said again. "And you keep trying...because each day you keep getting up gives you another chance to find...something. Something that'll make you want to get up on the day that follows. Want to keep going. And it really doesn't matter what you find—big things, little things. Sometimes, for me, it's something as small and fleeting as finding a comic book I haven't read yet. Sometimes it's something a bit bigger, like a chance to make a new friend. And sometimes it's the chance that I can make a difference, even just a small one—sometimes it's something like this, something important, where there's maybe someone who could use some help, or even just an open ear. But the important part, more than anything, is that you never give up looking for it..."

It was stupid, but for a moment Virgil almost felt like crying again. Because deep down he knew he had been hoping for a better answer. He had been hoping that Emile would have something profound for him—some secret insight that would somehow make things right. But of course that wasn't how the world worked—there was no magic button that would fix him and make him able to cope with the slowly unfolding tragedy his life had become...

Then again, Emile hadn't found that button either and yet his life, if it was indeed a tragedy, was still unfolding...

Emile, for his part, seemed to realize Virgil's disappointment. Perhaps he had even been expecting it, because he seemed unoffended, and indeed, almost apologetic for it.

"I don't know if you've ever heard that old song they still play on the radio out of Tallhat sometimes," Emile said, a quiet note of something like embarrassment in his voice, "The one about how you can only catch sight of a rainbow after it rains? I know that kind of thing can sound like an empty promise sometimes, and that maybe rainbows feel like foolish things to chase after, but... Whether you find a rainbow or not, whether it's even a rainbow that you're after, you won't find anything if you don't let yourself go looking."

"Storms come and go," Emile said. "They always will. And we'll lose people to the fury some of the time, and we won't survive every one that comes along. But...each time we do make it through, it's important to remember that there are tiny, green, delicate things that spring up after the rain. They're fragile, and they might not look like much at the start, but they're worthwhile things to nurture no matter what grows from them."

He gestured back in the direction of the market they had just left behind them—the Brim, Tallhat and the rest of it.

"A hundred years ago, I couldn't have imagined I'd ever see that many people living in one place again," Emile said. "The scale of life that exists even just on the Brim: the people coming and going, bringing their goods to sell from farms and other towns all around the wastes, arguing about prices, getting into petty squabbles and sharing gossip and telling stories and all that... In the first few years after the bombs fell, all of it would have seemed impossible. But it wasn't. People stuck around, and they lived their lives, and they had kids, and they built things so that life would be a bit easier for those kids, and so on..."

He heaved a sigh and a shrug, falling back to lean against the battered car behind them.

"I can't say it's not a hard life, the one we're given," Emile admitted. "It's long, if we're lucky, and it ends badly if we aren't. But...I saw the world end, Virgil, but I've also seen it come back. The world you were born into, the one you know, it's so much better than it was after the bombs first fell. It took hard work, and it was slow, but...people did it. They still are: they kept going and they keep going, and the world is better for it. Because they stuck around. I think that's all that anyone can really hope for, in the end."

"Yeah..." Virgil finally managed, with great effort. "I guess so."

"And hey," Emile interrupted softly, breaking in on his thoughts before they had another chance to turn sour. "I hope you don't think you're supposed to be okay, right? Nobody would expect that just yet. You've gone through hell, kid, and it takes time to find your footing after something like that. Not everyone makes the choice to keep going, but you have, and that's already so important. It's okay if you're struggling with it, anyone would be. Try not to ask the impossible of yourself, if you can help it."

Virgil wasn't sure how accurate that was. After all, most of the time he almost felt like he was handling it—and if he could get that far, that close, then it just meant that he needed to try even harder if he wanted to make it all the way, didn't it?

At the same time, Virgil often felt like he was trying to climb his way out of a pit—as if some part of him were still struggling to escape the grave his father never got to dig for him, but somehow hadn't managed it yet. And it seemed like the longer he tried to climb, the harder he worked at it, the more impossible the idea of finally reaching the top, of finding his way out, became.

But maybe that was what Emile was trying to tell him. Maybe there was no "all the way" to reach for. No place he could reach where he wouldn't still find himself climbing. Maybe there really was only reaching hand over hand to climb a little higher. Then again, maybe there was more to it than just climbing—places to rest so he wouldn't begin to slip, moments to recover his strength before resuming the inevitable climb. And maybe that was what his mother had meant, too, when she had asked him to make a promise that she had to know he would eventually break. Not to hold on until she got back, because she had known she wouldn't make it in time, but to just hold on until he couldn't anymore...for better or worse.

"I mean...I can try," Virgil managed quietly.

And maybe it shouldn't have felt like anything momentous, but already being asked only to try—to hang on—felt like a much smaller ask than expecting himself to reach the top.

Maybe all he could do was try. For himself, for Marcus, for his mother—maybe even for Emile, too, just a little, since the man sincerely seemed to care that Virgil try to keep going.

And...hell, maybe if he did keep going—if he kept looking, kept searching—he would find something more, one day. Maybe not the rainbow from that Old World song, maybe not even the top of the pit, but something at that would prove that the pain of the climb had been worth it.

After all, if Emile was to be believed, much more impossible things had happened.