a/n: for this story, i’ve transplanted two of my characters into the post-apocalyptic version of washington, dc from fallout 3.

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Nepenthe

nepenthe [ni-pen-thee] –noun

1. a drug or drink, or the plant yielding it, mentioned by ancient writers as having the power to bring forgetfulness of sorrow or trouble.

2. anything inducing a pleasurable sensation of forgetfulness, esp. of sorrow or trouble.

Chapter I

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I cannot remember a happy time without Nikita.

I watched him lace his boots and shine his weapons; he kept his prized Fat Man greased to an almost ungodly sort of perfection, and after each polishing the barrels would glisten with an impregnable sort of anticipation. He kept his weapons in prime condition, and any weapons dealer in Rivet City would offer him semi-infinite bottle caps or armour of the highest caliber in exchange for his secrets. However, he would stay mum and cock his next gun, listening for any form of resistance or performance discrepancy. When I would inquire as to why he would spend hours repairing a gun that was in no need of fixing, he would pull me close to his chest, plant a gentle kiss on my forehead and whisper, “for you.”

He always refuses to elaborate.

Nikita has always been a man of few words, lashing his dusty, inactive tongue only when I was in need of dire reassurance - and even now, those days of fretful insecurity are numbered. Some couples rely on communication, and some lovers fight and spit horrible words that singe the eardrums and create a tangible, visceral discomfort that is felt for years to come.

We find this sort of interaction superfluous.

Sometimes I will work and I will sing to him, and I will see the corners of his mouth tilt in a heart-achingly sweet gesture of appreciation. Sometimes he will say “I love you,” and sometimes he will whisper gentle things in my ear that I will selfishly hound to myself for solitary revisitation until I die. I admit that sometimes I am a bit verbose, but for the most part he will remain quiet and maybe squeeze my hand if I have mentioned something he likes. He is the stoic man and I am the contented housewife; I handle most of the cooking (when applicable,) I dote over him, and I tend to his sacred masculine needs. His smiles, his touches, his obsessive weapon reparations are payment enough. Nikita is my silent soldier, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I am laying down behind my lover, my taut stomach pressed against his working back. Every time he flexes his arms, the cords of muscle near his spine contract and move against my flesh; every bit of contact with him is profound and desired. I am already exhausted from the trials of this particular day, and the warmth seeping from Nikita’s sturdy person is making me drowsy to a point of no return.

As I slip into oblivion, half-naked with my fertile belly pressed against the rock-hard body of the world’s most dangerous contract killer with the desperation of a bitch in heat, I can’t help but smile and appreciate just how safe I feel.

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We are staying at one of our houses, a small shack in Megaton that was gifted to us for disarming a bomb upon which the city was built. The walls are built from scrap metal hastily welded together (from the looks of it, probably crafted with a faulty blowtorch) and the city has an undeniable reek to it, but this is certainly home because Nikita is with me.

We are leaving very quickly to exterminate a particularly rowdy gang of super mutants that have been terrorising a group of Wastelanders inhabiting the Mall, because Nikita is the strongest in the land and I am certainly within the top twenty most-able bodies of the Wastes. We have taken it upon ourselves to make a difference wherever we can, and I am certainly keen to share my happiness and good luck. Not everyone gets a man like Nikita; I might as well offer some sort of severance pay to the less fortunate.

I am tying my shoelaces (sneakers - I don’t have the endurance or patience to wear the combative type of footwear that my lover prefers,) when I feel his pillowy lips at the pulse point of my throat and his anxious hands roaming my body. I know it is time to go, but I almost feel like dallying even more so I can witness how his actions escalate out of frustration and pure desperation. I want him badly, but when do I not?

“Nikita, be patient!” I coo, standing to my feet and cupping his tanned face in my hands. He has a good 6 inches on me (his 6’3” to my 5’9”,) so sometimes I have to stand on my tip-toes. This time he leans down for me, his gilded eyes awash with anticipatory excitement. I rub his stubble with my thumbs and smile, brushing one slender finger against the pads of his lips before kissing them and withdrawing. “Time to go?”

“Time to go,” he confirms, and takes my hand in his as we exit the skeleton of our former home. Now it is just a house, our property; the loving qualities that make it my home are gone. When we are in need, they will be replenished.

It is a long journey from Megaton to the Mall, but certain occurrences make the trip pleasurable. I love idly walking through the sand, then feeling a gaze over my shoulder and turning my head to see Nikita smiling shyly at me. He has a very masculine jaw line, a strong chin and darkly tanned complexion usually dotted with stubble from his aversion to shaving; most find Nikita a bit intimidating to look at, although undeniably sexy in his rugged manliness. However, when he smiles a childish delight flares in his reserved expression, and his golden eyes become molten and inviting. I can trust him with my life, and, more importantly, I can trust him with my soul. It excites me from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes to know that smile is only ever directed toward me.

We’re extremely codependent and our relationship borders on unhealthy, but in this desolate world where humans crave any sort of motivation to cling to, I don’t mind Nikita acting as somewhat of an emotional crutch. A stopper in my independent maturity, if you will.

I sense a raider to my left and reach for my pistol. Predictably, my partner has detected the enemy before I have, and when I finger the barrel of my handgun I can see his wary gaze already focused on the telltale signs of a raider nest. Raiders tend to inhabit bridges, littering cement blockades rather strategically to trap any wandering Wastelanders unfortunate enough to indulge hopeful, humane naivete and explore anything even remotely resembling shelter. When a man comes into the open, armed with a hunting rifle and opening fire, I cock my gun and shoot him three times in the head. He falls, and before his lifeless body hits the ground I feel Nikita leave my side with weapon drawn. He corners three raiders, and I walk to my recent kill and rummage through his tattered defensive garb.

At first, looting the bodies of the dead seemed foreign and uncomfortably macabre to me; now I understand it is a necessity of life. I grab stray 5.56mm ammo from the dead man’s trouser pockets, acutely aware of Nikita’s penchant for killing with his beloved Chinese assault rifle.

I hear the strangled cries of a dying female, and follow Nikita’s menacing profile in the dust to hand him my spoils. A young raider is twitching on the ground at his feet, bleeding profusely from a bullet hole above her left breast and vagrantly reaching toward his ankles in a final gesture of surrender; as death claims her, we ignore the soft sigh exhausting from her lifeless lungs and engage in a kiss. His rough fingertips graze my temple.

Soon we are at the Mall. Nikita has one hand on his shotgun, index finger idly tracing circles on the trigger, and his other hand is situated comfortably on the right side of my hip. I love the feeling of his arm slung ‘round my waist; heavy muscle and body heat press against my slender frame in already scorching temperatures. I begin to perspire in every place his skin makes contact with mine, clothed or not, and the moisture is welcome. He presses a soft kiss to my shoulder, disregarding the thin film of sweat, blood and grime that has accumulated on my exposed skin.

Nikita will love every inch of me no matter how dirty, smelly or useless I may become.

We are waiting for contact from Margot, a headstrong woman that leads this particular pack of Wastelanders. We are resting in the approved waiting spot (underneath a rusty sign advertising a diner that is long past its prime,) and in boredom I begin to pull at the hem of Nikita’s dusty black t-shirt. His observant yellow gaze turns down to mine, and I smile.

“Nikita,” I offer with a catlike grin, and he gently returns it, capturing my hand in his and preventing the further destruction of his clothing.

“Søren,” he responds.

“After this, can we visit Rivet City?” I ask on my knees, my calves curled under my thighs and my feet uncomfortably perched on the cracked pavement. He’s sitting down with his legs apart and his elbows comfortably rested on his knees. I want to lean against him, but I resist.

“Whatever you want.”

I beam and start to respond, but we are interrupted by Margot’s obvious appearance. Her face is wrinkled and aged prematurely from inevitable radiation and sun exposure, but it is apparent she was once a striking young woman. She brushes stray locks of blonde hair behind one ear, and offers a hand to Nikita and then to me, and we both shake and rise to our feet out of respect.

“Thank you so much for helping us,” Margot begins, offering a sweet and feminine bow that quirks the corners of my beloved’s lips. “We have tried to keep the super mutants at bay, but there are so many of them and so few of us. Our numbers have always been limited, but now my people dwindle to so many casualties and inadequate medical supplies.” She looks at us wearily, and then her eyes alight, as though she has remembered something.

“I’m sorry to have met you alone, but the leader of our guards was seriously injured and is being watched over by the pack at the moment. I hope you do not mind their absence .. “

“It is no problem,” I assure her, and take her weathered hands between my own. Her human warmth is a welcome accommodation against my skin, even though my dry hands were scorched enough to begin with. “We understand. Where do we begin?”

She directs us to the concentration of the infestation, then quickly retreats to the quarters of her following. When Nikita and I are alone, he turns to me and pulls me flush against his chest. I can feel his heart beating against my sternum, and, as usual, I resist the urge to melt into his arms and offer myself completely to him, body and soul. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble that I feel against my person before it exits his perfect mouth and is birthed into words.

“Ready, my Søren?” his voice is a dulcet timbre, and his gaze is nothing but adoring. As I bury my face against his heated flesh one last time, I can feel his eyes burning down through my choppy, windblown crimson hair.

“I am ready.”

He kisses the top of my head, squeezes my hand reassuringly, and reaches for the Fat Man strapped across his back.

We begin to kill.

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to be continued

please review! :) tell me what you think, what i can improve upon, what i can do better, where you would like to see the story go, or even if i should keep writing. i can always use suggestions!