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Chapter Text

As the Ghoul approached the weather-beaten porch, a sudden, sharp sound pierced the air. A bullet whizzed past its head, narrowly missing its hat and leaving a trail of tiny craters in the ground beside it. Before Coop could even process what had happened, two more bullets halted it in its tracks, sending spurts of dust and sand past its spurs to settle on the ground.

A pang of something like betrayal, sharp and unexpected, lanced through Coop.  Here it stood, weathered by the desert sun, just like the ramshackle house in front of it, a faded Stetson clinging precariously to its head. Its once-dapper duster, now a patchwork of blood stains and cracked leather, hung loosely over a lean frame.

"Woah, woah! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Coop exclaimed, its voice filled with a bravado that did little to mask the underlying hurt. It held both hands in the air in a gesture of peace. The Ghoul squinted through the harsh desert sun, its eyes narrowing as it studied the blurry figure on the far side. It couldn't make out anything through the glare, but it could hear the unmistakable creak of a rocking chair.

"You're forty years and three husbands too late to be callin' yourself a friend!" A thick, accented voice called out, followed by the cocking of a shotgun.

The Ghoul winced.  "Calamity, always the firecracker," it muttered, its voice barely audible over the desert wind. Memories, both warm and bitter, flickered in its mind's eye – stolen kisses under a star-dusted sky, shared laughter echoing through dusty canyons, and finally, a wedding interrupted. "Look, I know it's been a while, but—"

Another shot interrupted Coop. This one went wide, kicking up a small cloud of dust near its feet. The Ghoul sighed, a puff of dust escaping its own lips.

"Alright, alright! You win! Geez, you haven't gotten any less trigger-happy over the years, have you?"

The creaking of the rocking chair grew louder, then stopped with a thud. A moment later, a weathered woman with sun-baked skin and eyes like chips of flint emerged from the gloom of the porch. She gripped the shotgun in her calloused hands, her gaze never leaving Coop's face.  Her once vibrant dress, the one it remembered dancing with her under the desert moon, now hung limp on her frame, faded and worn like a forgotten dream.

"You got a lot of nerve showin' your face around here, Coop," Calamity said, her voice like gravel scraping against rock. "Especially considerin' the last time you did, you left a trail of trouble a mile long."

Coop raised its hands defensively. "Now, Calamity, that ain't entirely fair. I meant to come back—"

"Spare me the excuses," Calamity snapped. "You may have gotten by with your fancy gadgets and whatnot back in the day, but time don't erase nothin'. You want somethin', or are you just here to stir up trouble like a sandstorm in a teacup?"

"Alright, alright, Calamity. You win on both counts. I do need somethin', and trouble seems to follow me like a buzzard after carrion." It took a deep breath, the desert air hot and dry in its lungs. "Look, I'm headin' out to the Mojave. Got a job, well more like a proposition, and I was hopin' you might be able to spare a room – or at least a corner out of the wind – for me and my associate." As if on cue, a young girl stepped out from behind him, and waved sheepishly.

The young girl was young, younger than she had been, a little skinnier too by the looks of her. Calamity studied Lucy with a gaze that could curdle milk. The girl shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, her eyes darting between Coop and the shotgun. 

Calamity's eyes narrowed further, the distrust in them like a physical barrier. "Associate, huh? Seems your taste in girls runs young these days, Coop. Always did have a way with the ladies, even if you never stuck around long enough to see them past their prime." Her voice dripped with a kind of bitter amusement that stung Coop like a scorpion's barb.

Taking a deep breath to quell the rising anger, the Ghoul clenched its fists. A scathing retort hung on its tongue, but before it could unleash a verbal tirade, the young woman stepped forward.  A saccharine smile plastered on her face, she drawled, "Howdy, ma'am," in a voice far too sweet for the wasteland.

"My name's Lucy," she continued, "and it sure is a scorcher out here, ain't it? Coop was just sayin' how much he admired your, uh, rocking skills. Real smooth, those were."

Lucy fluttered her eyelashes, laying on the innocent charm so thick it could be smothered on toast. Internally, the Ghoul groaned. The act was so over-the-top it bordered on painful.  Calamity, however, seemed momentarily speechless.  She squinted at Lucy, her gaze flickering between the girl's hopeful smile and the Ghoul's pained expression.  A flicker of something – amusement, perhaps? – sparked in her steely eyes.

"She some kinda snake-oil salesman, Coop?" Calamity finally rasped, her voice losing a bit of its earlier bite.

Instead of Lucy launching into another overly enthusiastic spiel, the Ghoul interjected. "Not exactly," he said.  "We're just two travellers lookin' for a safe haven for the night. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Cala-Ace."

Coop's words hung in the air, a silent plea wrapped in a promise. Calamity studied them both for a long moment, the lines on her face deepening with thought.  Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the desert itself, she muttered, "Alright, alright. You two can stay for the night. But one wrong move, and you'll be wishin' for that sandstorm instead of my hospitality."

Beaming with joy, Lucy exclaimed, "Oh, bless your heart, Calamity! You won't regret this! We'll be quieter than a—" 

Before she could finish her overly enthusiastic promise, Calamity reacted with the swiftness of a desert viper.  She shoved Lucy back with a hand as rough as sandpaper, the force nearly knocking the poor girl over.  Then, with a disdainful sniff, Calamity spat a glob of brown tobacco juice onto the parched earth.  Finally, she shouldered her shotgun and stomped into the house, the slam of the door echoing through the dusty air.

Stunned speechless for a moment, Lucy stared after the retreating figure with wide eyes. Turning to Coop, she finally whispered, "What was that all about?"

The Ghoul offered a tight smile that didn't quite reach its eyes.  "Just a little desert hospitality," it said, the words laced with a sadness that seemed to stretch back as far as the endless dunes themselves.

They followed Calamity inside, the heavy wooden door groaning on its rusty hinges. Stepping into the cool gloom, it was like entering a tomb – a mausoleum of memories. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that speared through a grimy window. Peeling floral wallpaper, once vibrant and cheerful, hung in limp strips from the cracked adobe walls.  A rickety wooden table stood crooked in the centre of the room, its once-polished surface now dull and scarred, propped unevenly on mismatched legs. Sun-bleached books, their pages brittle with age, served as shims beneath the sagging floorboards.

Coop remembered long, lazy evenings spent by the fireplace, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls that were now bare and cold. Laughter echoing through the room, the scent of freshly baked bread in the air – memories that felt like a lifetime ago, yet lingered like the faint scent of lavender from a bygone summer.  Here, in this desolate shell, the Ghoul saw not just a house, but another life that had slipped through its grasp like desert sand.

"Used to be different," Coop finally rasped, its voice barely above a whisper.  "A lot different."

Ace slammed a shot glass down on the scarred wooden counter, the amber liquid sloshing precariously before settling. The saloon buzzed with the usual Friday night crowd – weary cowboys drowning their sorrows, prospectors boasting about non-existent platinum veins, and a gaggle of saloon girls with more feathers on their costumes than wit in their heads. Ace, however, barely registered the noise. Her frustration simmered like forgotten stew on the back burner.

"Another one, Deputy?" The bartender, a portly man named Hank whose moustache seemed permanently stained with beer foam, asked with a practised smile.

Ace shook her head, the thick braid of her dark hair slung over her shoulder, brushing against the worn leather of her holster. At 29, she was the youngest and only woman to ever earn the badge of Dusty Plains. Her fiery spirit was a constant battle with the expectations of a dusty frontier town, a battle reflected in the way her brown eyes narrowed with a mix of annoyance and determination. "Not tonight, Hank. Just a headache waiting to happen."

The saloon doors creaked open, momentarily silencing the boisterous crowd. A tall figure, shrouded in a long duster the colour of desert sand, sauntered in.  His face, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed Stetson, scanned the room, lingering for a moment on Ace before settling on an empty stool at the far end of the bar. Even from that distance, Ace could see the worn leather of his holsters hugging his hips, the glint of a silver star pinned to his chest.  Another bounty hunter, she thought, with a sigh. Dusty Plains seemed to attract them like flies to a sugar bowl.

"Whiskey," the newcomer rasped, his voice low and gravelly. Hank scurried over, his grin wider than usual.  Bounty hunters, especially successful ones, meant good caps.

Ace narrowed her eyes.  There was something about him, an undefinable swagger that irritated her.  Maybe it was the way his hips swayed ever so slightly as he walked, or the way he seemed to effortlessly command attention without so much as a cough.

"New in town, bounty hunter?" she asked, her voice laced with practised indifference.

He finally turned his head, the brim of his hat tilting up just enough to reveal a pair of piercing eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of a thousand sunrises. A grin, slow and mischievous, spread across his face. "New enough," he drawled, his voice a melodic baritone. "Heard there was a little trouble brewing around here. Figured I'd see what all the fuss was about."

Ace snorted. "Trouble is what we excel at in Dusty Plains, Ghoul," she practically spat the word out, her tone dripping with unmistakable disgust. "What kind of trouble are you lookin' for?"

His grin widened further. "Maybe the kind that involves a pretty deputy with a temper hotter than this desert sun." He winked, a gesture that felt more like a punch to the gut.

Ace's cheeks flushed as the room seemed to fade away, leaving only them.  This wasn't supposed to happen.  She was the law in Dusty Plains, not some saloon floozy to be charmed by a smooth-talking outlaw.  Yet, a warmth spread in her chest, defying her better judgement.

"You're asking for trouble," she warned, a smile playing on her lips despite herself.

"Maybe I am," he drawled back, his eyes holding hers. "But sometimes, the best kind of trouble is the kind you don't see coming."

And with that, Coop raised his glass in a silent toast, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.  Ace fought back a smile, a feeling both exhilarating and terrifying swirling inside her.  Dusty Plains was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

A shaft of unforgiving sunlight speared through the dusty window of the Sheriff's office, casting a harsh rectangle on Ace's desk. Outside, the midday sun beat down mercilessly, turning the deserted main street of Dusty Plains into a shimmering mirage. The air hung heavy with the smell of dry earth and distant cooking fires – a familiar yet unsettling aroma that only tightened the knot of unease twisting in Ace's gut. Every creak of the weathered floorboards, every sigh of the wind through the cracks in the walls, made her jump. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tapping of her boot against the worn wood.

The arrival of a ghoul, feral or not, always caused a stir among the townspeople. But this one was different. Word had spread like wildfire through Dusty Plains: the ghoul wasn't just passing through, it was lingering. Sightings turned into stories, growing wilder with each retelling.  Ace had received frantic calls on her shoddy Bakelite radio over the past few days. Voices choked with fear and barely veiled prejudice. It seemed the ghoul had brandished its gun at every citizen, eaten every cat and dog within a three-click radius, and single-handedly brought about the end of civilisation as they knew it.  Of course, whenever she investigated, the ghoul, Cooper, would be sitting innocently, a picture of grotesque charm.

Just then, as if summoned by her anxious thoughts, a figure materialised from a swirling cloud of dust across the street. With each step, the dust rose and settled, revealing the source of the town's unease. Its leathery skin, an unnatural shade of mottled grey, was stretched taut over a protruding skull and skeletal frame.  Ace's eyes were drawn to a gaping hole where its nose should be.  But it was the ghoul's eyes, pools of unsettling blue, that held a chilling intensity.  Despite its monstrous appearance, there was a dangerous allure to Coop, a charisma that both repelled and intrigued her.

"Well, well, well," the ghoul's voice echoed, a gravelly rasp that rattled the dusty air. It sauntered into the Sheriff's office, its movements unnervingly fluid, the sharp angles of its emaciated form barely concealed by tight leather. "Look who decided to grace the Sheriff's office with her presence. Did you miss me, Deputy?"

Ace slammed her palms flat on the desk, startling even herself. Coop's attempt at charm felt as abrasive as sandpaper. "I thought I smelled something rotten," she deadpanned, her voice laced with a forced lightness that barely masked her irritation. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike some who seem to specialise in collecting tumbleweeds and scaring old ladies." She arched a sardonic eyebrow, daring it to try again.

"Alright, alright," Coop chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rustling. "Seems the Sheriff's department's got a feisty side. Maybe I like that in a woman." It winked, a grotesque parody of a human gesture that bordered on mockery. Ace swallowed hard, a strange mix of revulsion and fascination twisting in her gut. There was just something about Coop, an unsettling magnetism that made her want to roll her eyes and pin it to the wall at the same time.

"Like it all you want," she retorted. "Doesn't change the fact you're still trespassing on Sheriff's property." She tapped the badge pinned to her chest, a firm reminder of her authority, however meagre it might be in this frontier town.

Coop's skeletal grin widened. "Touché, Deputy," it drawled, its voice a teasing purr. "But seeing as the Sheriff themself seems mysteriously absent, perhaps you could offer a lone bounty hunter a cup of that famous Dusty Plains hospitality?" It gestured towards the saloon across the street, its crooked sign creaking in the desert wind like a tortured soul.

There it was again, that infuriating charm, seeping from its decaying form like a noxious vapour. A part of her, the reckless, thrill-seeking part, wanted to take it up on the offer – to see what secrets lurked beneath that worn Stetson and those painfully tight leathers.  But the other, more sensible part, knew better. Getting involved with a ghoul could only lead to trouble, and Dusty Plains already had enough of that.

"Hospitality," she scoffed, "is for law-abiding citizens, not for bounty hunters with questionable motives and even more questionable intentions."

Cooper's grin faltered momentarily, a flicker of something like disappointment crossing its decaying face. Amusement quickly returned. "Touché again, Deputy," it conceded, raising its skeletal hands in mock surrender. "Seems I still have a lot to learn about this town, and maybe even its law enforcement."

The Ghoul took a step closer, its voice dropping to a low rasp that prickled the hairs on Ace's neck. This close, the stench of decay was almost overwhelming. "Tell you what," it continued, those unsettling blue eyes alight with mischief, "how about a deal? You answer a few questions about this little neck of the waste, and I'll, well, I'll try my best to come up with less..." It paused, a twisted smile playing across its lipless mouth, "…repulsive lines for next time."

Ace couldn't suppress the chuckle that escaped her lips. Maybe a little harmless bantering wouldn't hurt. Besides, the thought of witnessing the ghoul flounder for a decent compliment held an odd appeal.

"Alright," she said, amusement lacing her voice, "you've got yourself a deal. But don't expect me to be givin' away any trade secrets now."

Coop's answering grin was a flash of yellowed teeth against its deathly pallor. "I wouldn't dare entertain such a thought, Deputy," it replied with a slight bow, gallantly opening the door for her. The unexpected act of gentlemanly behaviour caught her off guard. A pleasantly surprising change of pace from her ex-husband's less... civilised behaviour.

"Please, after you," it gestured graciously.

With a playful roll of her eyes, Ace turned and stepped towards the saloon, Cooper trailing close behind. The midday sun beat down fiercely, but for a moment, the day seemed a little brighter, the edge of her unease momentarily dulled.

The swinging doors of the saloon creaked open with a groan, momentarily plunging them into cool darkness.  As Ace's eyes adjusted, the usual scene unfolded: a scattering of weary cowboys hunched over poker hands, a lone figure nursing a drink at the bar, and the ever-present haze of tobacco smoke that clung to the air like a stubborn ghost.

"What can I get you, folks?" A gruff voice boomed from behind the bar, shattering the stillness.

Coop turned towards Ace, a mischievous glint dancing in its unsettling eyes. "On the house, I trust, Sheriff?" it rasped, the question more of a playful challenge than a genuine request.

Ace snorted. "In your dreams, I'll take a sarsaparilla, nice and cold."

Coop's grin faltered momentarily, genuine surprise flashing across its decaying features. It shrugged, bony elbows scraping against the polished wood of the bar in a sound that made Ace's teeth ache.  "Suit yourself then. Make it a double whiskey for the undead gentleman here."

Despite Ace's best efforts, it was impossible to ignore the palpable tension rippling through the saloon. Conversations dropped mid-sentence, replaced by heavy silence. Eyes, sharp and suspicious, bored into her back with an intensity that felt like hot needles.  If the townsfolk had issues with a ghoul strolling through the market, then him sharing a drink with the deputy was sure to set their tongues wagging.

Coop's voice, a dry rasp against the tense silence, broke the spell.  "A little quid pro quo, Clarice, wouldn't you say?"

"A quid pro what?" Ace blinked, the unfamiliar term bouncing harmlessly off her.

The Ghoul's grin wavered, replaced by a fleeting look of confusion. It straightened, its bony shoulders brushing against a nearby cowboy. The man let out a strangled yelp, scrambling back in his seat with an expression of pure terror.

Sensing the rising tension, Ace sighed wearily, a cautious hand easing towards her holster. "Easy there, Jed," she said placatingly, recognising the jittery rancher. "It's alright. Just me and…" she hesitated, struggling to find a word that adequately described her current companion, "…a visitor having a drink. Everything's fine."

Several patrons huddled closer, casting wary glances their way. A burly man with a thick, sweat-stained moustache slammed his fist on the bar, the wood groaning in protest. Ace tensed, expecting a brawl, but before he could stir up trouble, Coop cleared its throat – a strangely dry, rattling sound.

"Ah, quid pro quo," it muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. Now, its skeletal hands tapped a nervous rhythm against the worn bar counter, a surprisingly human gesture. "Seems my vocabulary is a touch… outdated. Pre-war slang, I'm afraid. Been a while since I've… negotiated with anyone who wasn't a feral or a trigger-happy bandit."

"Pre-war, huh?" A glint of amusement sparked in Ace's eyes. "You must be ancient then."

Coop's bony frame seemed to deflate slightly. "Ancient," it scoffed, a forced bravado creeping back into its voice. "Let's just say I've seen a few sunsets." The Ghoul shifted uncomfortably, clearly avoiding the question.

Ace leaned back in her chair, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, Mr. 'Seen a Few Sunsets,'" she drawled, milking his mood. "Perhaps you could elaborate on this... trouble you're looking for before the good folks of Dusty Plains decide to run you out of town on a rail."

"I'm on the hunt for someone," Coop rasped, leaning forward slightly.

Ace's smirk faded, replaced by a cautious curiosity. "Someone, huh?" she echoed thoughtfully.  "Bounty hunter looking for a mark, I presume?"

The Ghoul shook its head, the movement jerky and unnatural. "Not exactly," it denied. "More like a missing person. Well, not missing exactly, just… difficult to locate."

Ace leaned forward, genuine interest replacing amusement. "Difficult how? Don't you ghouls have, like, a tracking sense or something?"

"Feral ghouls, maybe. But the kind I'm looking for… they tend to blend in a bit better."

Ace tapped her fingers on the table, a thoughtful frown knitting her brow. "Alright then," she finally said. "Spill it. Who are you looking for?"

Coop hesitated, its skeletal frame shifting uneasily. The unsettling blue eyes flickered with something resembling nervousness. When it finally met Ace's gaze, the intensity sent a shiver down her spine despite the heat filtering through the saloon's dusty windows.

"A woman," it finally admitted, its voice barely above a whisper.

A sharp, unexpected pang of disappointment shot through Ace. She quickly masked her expression, forcing a brittle smile onto her lips. "A woman, huh?" she repeated, her voice flat.  "Sounds like you might be out of luck then, bounty hunter. Dusty Plains isn't exactly overflowing with the fairer sex."

Oblivious to her sudden shift in mood, Coop's bony shoulders slumped. "That's the problem," it muttered, its voice heavy with a strange melancholia. "She wouldn't be here if she could help it." The Ghoul took a swig of its whiskey, the clink of the glass against the bar the only sound breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

A potent blend of embarrassment and hurt twisted in Ace's gut. The faint radiation buzzing off the ghoul couldn't fully explain the burning sensation in her eyes. She felt foolish, ridiculous even. Here she was, getting flustered over a walking corpse simply mentioning a woman.

"So, this woman you're looking for, anything else you can tell me? Maybe a name, a description, a missing pinky finger? Something?" A sliver of bitterness laced her voice. A small, petty part of her hoped this woman was a hideous, snarling beast with three teeth. Such an image might soothe her wounded pride.

"There is a name," it admitted, its voice a low rumble. "But…" it hesitated, its blue eyes darting across the room before settling back on Ace. "It wouldn't mean anything to you."

This wasn't just some faceless ghoul Coop was searching for – there was a story here, a connection the ghoul was unwilling to share.  Perhaps uncovering that story could be the key to getting rid of both the unwanted bounty hunter and the even more unwelcome feelings it had stirred up inside her.

"Try me," she challenged, a hint of a smirk curving her lips. "You never know, I might surprise you."

"Now," it said, tilting its head slightly, "I believe that makes five questions I am owed."

Of course, a bounty hunter would pull that trick. This wasn't about simple information bartering – its every move felt calculated and shrewd.  "I suppose you're right," she grudgingly conceded, taking a long sip of her sarsaparilla to mask her irritation.

"Perhaps some basic facts to test the waters. Dusty Plains – was it always such a..." it paused, its decaying face twisting in mock contemplation, "...charming town?"

Ace chuckled, a sharp bark that cut through the silence. "Don't let Jed and his buddies fool you. This was a hellhole before the bombs fell, and it's been a hellhole ever since." She paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the table. "Though, with you around, maybe we're diversifying the clientele."

Her barb seemed to strike a nerve in the otherwise composed ghoul. A flicker of something like anger momentarily marred its ghastly features, before it regained its usual eerie calm.

"Maybe, maybe not," it rasped finally, leaning back in its chair. "So, what does keep the good folks of Dusty Plains occupied, aside from spreading gossip and fear, that is? Seems like a thriving little town, despite the... challenging aesthetics," it drawled, waving a skeletal hand towards the cracked windows framing a desolate view of the desert.

"Saloon stays busy. The Sheriff runs errands, breaks up the occasional bar fight, and keeps the more excitable citizens from running out of town screaming about ghouls." Her gaze flitted towards Coop, gauging its reaction. "The rest of us? We try to stay alive, stay hydrated, and hope the raiders don't pay another visit."

"Raiders, you say?" Its voice was a low rasp. "Not the usual bandits and drifters, then?"

Ace shook her head. "No, these are organised. Well-armed and ruthless. They hit us about five years back, took everything they could carry. We lost about a third of the town – either dead or captured." She briefly closed her eyes, banishing the gruesome memories. "They haven't come back since, but the fear's never really left."

"An enemy in common," Coop mused, its skeletal brow furrowing. "Perhaps that changes the equation slightly... tell me, Deputy, does the Sheriff have a habit of disappearing when trouble arises?"

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Ace's lips. "Now, if I told you that, I'd be out of a job, and Dusty Plains would be short a conveniently missing deputy!" There was a hint of defiance beneath the humour – a playful barb to throw the ghoul off-balance. "Besides, wouldn't you ghouls prefer a little lawlessness in your lives? Fewer folks out there enforcing the rules means fewer folks bothering you about… well… you."

Coop shook its skeletal head, a chuckle echoing through the tense saloon. "You humans have a strange way of making things complicated," it mused.  "As for us ghouls, we simply seek survival, just as you do, with perhaps a slightly different definition of the word."

Ace couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. "And how exactly do you 'survive'? Forgive me if I question the nutritional value of saloon whiskey and sunshine."

The Ghoul seemed to consider her question for a moment, the blue depths of its eyes swirling with an unreadable emotion. "Let's just say," it finally answered, its voice dropping to a whisper,  "that ghouls have… resourceful means of sustenance. Means that the good folk of Dusty Plains might find a touch…"

Coop trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air. Ace felt a prickle of unease – she knew those resourceful means, and had seen the aftermath.

"Well," she said briskly, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "that's a conversation for another day. Maybe when you haven't just strolled into town and caused a ruckus."

The ghoul gave a mock bow, a parody of politeness. "As you wish, Deputy," it said. "My lips are sealed."

Cooper's gaze lingered on her for a beat too long. The unsettling blue of its eyes seemed to flicker, softening just slightly. Its skeletal hand remained on the table, and for the briefest, most nonsensical of moments, Ace considered bridging the gap, her fingers almost twitching towards them. 

The barkeep let out a nervous squawk and disappeared through a backdoor, and with his exit, the odd moment of connection shattered.

A chorus of drunken voices and the sudden clatter of the saloon doors swinging open ripped Ace's attention away. Her hand flew to her holster as a group of windblown townsfolk poured into the saloon, agitation etched on their weathered faces.

At the head of the unruly crowd stood the Sheriff, his moustache quivering with anger, and his eyes narrowed. "Well, if it isn't the ghoul that's got the whole town up in arms," he drawled. "Seems you got a knack for causin' trouble, stranger."

The tension, which had faintly dissipated, returned with a vengeance, thickening the air until it became hard to breathe. Ugly murmurs rippled through the crowd, laced with poorly disguised fear and prejudice.

"Bout time you showed up, Sheriff," a burly rancher with a missing ear spat on the floor, his beady eyes fixed on the ghoul. "It's bad enough it drinks our liquor, but now it's makin' eyes at our women!"

Ace felt the familiar surge of rage. She would tolerate a lot, but certain lines were inviolable.

"Coop here's just having a friendly chat, gentlemen," she said, her voice cool and even, belying the fury rising within her. "If you'll excuse us, we were just discussing…"

"Don't you give us that sweet-talkin', Ace," another voice cut in, harsh and unforgiving.  It belonged to Ezra, the saloon's most notorious troublemaker, and a man with a sneer permanently etched on his bucktooth grin. "Word goes 'round fast, and we ain't having none of you consortin' with this…" he paused, searching for a word vile enough, "...this abomination!"

Ace took a step forward, her eyes locked on Ezra's. "Watch your mouth," she warned, her voice low and dangerous.

Ezra cackled, a harsh, ugly sound that grated on her nerves. "Or what, Deputy?" he spat, tobacco chunks and green phlegm splattered across her boots. "Gonna arrest me for the awful crime of tellin' the truth? You gonna bed this radioactive freak and let it take over Dusty Plains?" 

A brawl seemed inevitable, and Ace was sorely outnumbered.

"Now, now gentleman, let us try to resolve this matter in a calm and civilised manner, like respectable men. There is no reason to involve the lady in this dispute-" Cooper's words were abruptly interrupted by the loud and jarring boom of a gunshot.

Her hand flashed to her holster and snapped back in one smooth motion. Nobody saw her draw. A deafening boom split the air, followed by a cloud of smoke blooming from her pistol's barrel.  The saloon fell silent, everyone frozen in a tableau of shock.  Ezra yelped, a look of pure terror replacing his sneer. He clutched at his hand, the shattered remains of a whiskey bottle and three bloody fingers lying at his feet.

Ace let the wisps of smoke curl around her fingers, before blowing them away with a scoff.  "If you're so keen on truth-telling, Ezra," she said, her voice ringing with cold clarity, "Let's start with this one – I never miss."

Chapter Text

Ace continued, her voice steely and cold, "Or did ya'll forget why you gave me this badge in the first place?" She tapped the silver star pinned to her chest, letting the silence stretch for a long moment before she continued. Each word dripping with a quiet fury far more menacing than any drunken shouting match.

"Maybe you forgot how I cleared out that nest of Razor Claws on the outskirts when they had half the town held hostage," she said, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. "Maybe it slipped your mind that it was me who found little Timmy Jacobs when he went missing in the badlands, and dragged him back home safe, just before those sandworms could... well, you get the picture." She paused, her gaze landing on Ezra, her lip curling in disgust. "Maybe it all fades real convenient when your bowl-brewed moonshine gets you riled up about somethin' strange wanderin' into your dusty little corner of nowhere."

An undercurrent of restless shuffling and muttered whispers broke the stunned silence. The Sheriff, who mere moments ago was posturing with all the egotism of a pack rat, now seemed remarkably intent on inspecting the pattern of his boots.

"Ace, now, ain't nobody sayin'..." he began, his gruff voice trailing off.

Ace cut him off with a sharp cluck of her tongue. "Save it, Sheriff. You and your lot owe me an apology, and you owe this man," she gestured towards the Ghoul, who watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and something bordering on... approval? "... a drink. On the house."

The ghoul, to its credit, hid its reaction well. Yet, Ace detected a flicker of confusion in its unsettling eyes. It was as if the age-old roles had flipped upside down. This firecracker of a woman had rescued it – yes rescued. For a creature bathed in radiation and decay, always the hunted, never the hunter, the novelty was disconcerting. There was the instinctual urge to bristle, a sliver of wounded masculine pride, but... the truth was, it was strangely refreshing. Perhaps even... slightly appealing.

A voice rang out from the back of the crowd, the sound of it bringing the simmering resentment back to a boil. "If Eddie were still here, he wouldn't let this stand!" The words, were spoken with an air of misplaced confidence.

If there was one thing more irritating than the cowardly mob mentality, it was the ghost of her ex-husband being dragged into it. "If that lousy, lying sack of turd were still here, he'd be balls deep in rad roaches, and you damn well know it." Her voice dripped with contempt. "Eddie wasn't a hero, he was a smooth-talking crook who cared more about a drink than this whole sunblasted town put together." He'd died on an ill-advised hunt for some pre-war treasure two years back. Turns out, those bunkers weren't all they were cracked up to be.

The farmer's face flushed crimson, but he didn't dare argue further. Ace saw pity flicker in the eyes of some townsfolk, and it burned hotter than any insult. She didn't want their pity, she wanted their respect. But her harsh words did cut through the bluster. Some faces flushed with shame, others shifted uncomfortably. Whatever the reason, the mob quickly dispersed, the Sheriff mumbling vague excuses as they shuffled towards the exit. Soon, only a few stragglers remained, their expressions sullen.

Ace watched the men dissolve back into the saloon's murky shadows, leaving a lingering odour of stale sweat and a sour taste of injustice. It was a victory of sorts, yet it was a hollow one. She sighed, feeling the tension seep out of her. "Well then," she turned to the ghoul, a spark of amusement returning to her eyes despite lingering frustration. "How about another drink?"

The Ghoul tilted its head, the barest hint of a smirk curving its lipless mouth. "If you're offering, Deputy," it rasped, the amusement in its voice growing stronger, "It would be rude to refuse."

Despite the absurdity, Ace laughed. It wasn't a carefree sound, but it lacked the anger and tension from before. "Well, if we learned anything today, it's that manners are in short supply around here."

The ghoul raised its glass in a mockery of a toast. "To unexpected saviours," it intoned, its unsettling blue eyes meeting hers, "and the occasional, much-needed reminder of how little things change."

Ace chuckled, the sound strained. "Here's to that," she said, taking a swig of her sarsaparilla, the familiar sweetness a grounding counterpoint to the absurdity.

Hours melted away in a haze of whiskey and sarsaparilla. Conversations that began with caution evolved into raucous laughter, then simmered down into shared silences, more comfortable than awkward. The ghoul's stories were filled with dry humour, a dark fatalism that resonated with Ace's own spirit.

The pair drank until well past sunset, the world outside the saloon painted in streaks of red and deep purple that barely penetrated the dusty gloom. When they finally stumbled out onto the empty main street, Ace was perhaps a little too wobbly on her toes. She swayed in the cool air, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over her. The world felt strangely tilted, and without thinking, she leaned into a hard, bony shoulder.

A strong, surprisingly gentle hand steadied her, propping her up without question.

"Easy there, Deputy," the ghoul's rasp sounded uncharacteristically soft. "Seems the sarsaparilla has more bite than you bargained for... or perhaps it's the company."

Ace blinked, reality starting to regain its edge. Mortification flared, then faded under the weight of an odd warmth. She hadn't had someone... anyone... take care of her in a long, long time. "Just a touch tired," she mumbled, and though her words were slurred, they rang with a truth deeper than alcohol. 

Then, a sudden flash of clarity pierced through the alcohol-induced fog. "Wait a minute," she said, squinting at the skeletal figure beside her, "Where're you takin' me?"

"To the Sheriff's office, Deputy," the ghoul replied smoothly. "A woman in your condition needs a safe place to sleep it off."

Ace giggled, the sound unexpectedly girlish. Suddenly, she yanked her arm away, her stubborn streak flaring up. "Nope," she declared, taking a few wobbly steps away from him. "Not tonight."

With a theatrical flourish that likely looked more like an unsteady lurch, she pointed towards the very edge of town where a half-dilapidated building clung to existence. It looked less like a house and more like an old, rent-by-the-hour motel that had seen far better days.

"Thasss my place," Ace announced proudly, her grin lopsided. "C'mon, I'll show ya my etchings!" With that, she turned and stumbled towards the ramshackle structure, leaving the ghoul standing perplexed on the dusty street. Hesitation flickered in its unsettling blue eyes, then, with a shrug of its bony shoulders, it followed.

The word 'house' was a generous term for the structure. Even in the dim light, it was clear this wasn't a place anyone would choose to call home. It was more like a battleground, frozen mid-conflict. The floorboards were a haphazard patchwork, broken and warped in places, some sections giving a worrying creak with each step. Large holes gaped in the plaster-covered walls, the remnants of what must have been some furious punches. The few pieces of furniture – a sofa listing at an alarming angle, a scarred table with mismatched legs, and what looked like the remains of a bookshelf – appeared salvaged from various junkyards rather than purchased.

Everywhere the eye landed, there were signs of a life lived hard and recklessly. Discarded magazines, mostly well-thumbed with titles hinting at questionable interests, were tucked under the edge of a spring-sprung sofa bed. On the crooked table, half-drunk bottles were strewn about with careless abandon, signs of countless nights spent drowning in harsh, cheap liquor.

But it was the smaller details that hinted at a shared life here: the pair of worn mugs by the cracked sink, the second, slightly crumpled pillow on the sofa, the lingering scent of cheap men's cologne mingling with burned cooking oil. This had once been Eddie's domain, a kingdom of discarded trash to match his slovenly existence. And still, it was where Ace returned, night after night.

With a drunken sway, Ace ignored the mess and stumbled towards a cracked cupboard. Shuffling through a pile of ragged cloth and what appeared to be old propaganda posters, she triumphantly pulled out a few dingy sheets and a moth-eaten blanket. "Here ya go," she slurred, dumping the makeshift bedding at the ghoul's feet. "The, uh, finest hospitality Dusty Plains has to offer. Watch out for the... the springs," she warned, pointing with a wobbly finger towards the sagging form of the sofa bed. "They, they have a bit of a bite to 'em."

With surprising swiftness, she pulled back the tangled sheets, the sharp metal springs protesting beneath her weight. The blanket followed, the tattered edges releasing a cloud of dust. Ace tried – and failed – to ignore the dark stains on the ancient mattress, the pungent mix of stale sweat and something far less pleasant.

"Ta-da!" She announced, gesturing grandly at the pathetic sight. "One deluxe guest suite, and it's all yours." 

Slumping onto the edge of the broken bed, she stared at the ghoul, her usual spark dimmed. "Usually," she hiccuped, "I don't bring anyone back here. I don't... don't like people seeing this place." A flash of vulnerability replaced the drunken mirth, a raw moment, a glimpse into the reality beneath the façade of careless smiles and easy barroom banter. This was all she had left.

There was a strange echo in her words, a loneliness that resonated with its own, ageless existence. It understood something in that moment, a silent kinship born from shared scars of a different nature.

The ghoul moved closer, a soft rasp echoing in the stillness. "It's not so bad," it lied, a surprisingly gentle cadence in its voice. But its gaze drifted over the decaying walls, the broken furniture, and something deep within its irradiated core ached with a forgotten emotion.

Home. The word drifted through its hollow consciousness, as alien and faraway as the life it had lost long ago. Flashes of a different time, before this wasteland, flickered to life unbidden. A cosy living room filled with laughter, a child's tiny hand in his, the warmth of a woman's touch he barely remembered. These fragments of a past life shimmered and faded, replaced by the stark reality of the ghoul's current existence – a wasteland wanderer, the embodiment of decay itself.

"Places... they are just places," it continued, its voice laced with a bitter truth it was only now fully acknowledging. "They hold echoes of lives, not the lives themselves."

The ghoul reached out, its skeletal hand gently touching Ace's shoulder. The touch was surprisingly light, tentative even, the rough edges of its fingers softened by a strange sense of empathy.

"You are not trapped by these walls, Deputy," it whispered, the words barely audible. "There is... strength in you. A fire that this place, these... ghosts, cannot extinguish."

For a long moment, they simply sat in the quiet of a half-wrecked home, a woman and a ghoul, bound together by a loneliness that transcended any physical definition. Ace, too surprised and too emotionally drained to pull away, felt a flicker of warmth under the ghoul's touch.

Perhaps there was truth in its raspy words. Maybe she was more than this decaying house, more than the ghost of a husband who'd haunted her for far too long. Exhaustion and the lingering effects of the alcohol finally caught up with her. Her eyelids fluttered, and moments later, she slumped against the ghoul, her breath evening out.

The morning arrived as it always did in Dusty Plains - with a harsh, unforgiving glare of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls. Ace groaned, her head throbbing in protest. Slowly, she peeled her eyes open, blinking against the brightness. It took a few disorienting moments for the memories of last night to flicker back to life, images swimming in a haze of alcohol and exhaustion - the saloon, the Ghoul's raspy voice, the surprising comfort of its company.

She sat up abruptly, the springs of the sofa bed screeching under her. But the space beside her was empty. A wave of disappointment washed over her, sharp and wholly unwanted. The Ghoul had left. Of course, it had – it was a goddamn ghoul, a bounty hunter, it hadn't been meant to stay. The brief camaraderie they'd shared seemed more like a strange, booze-fuelled dream now, fading away as the day took hold.

Dragging herself to her feet, she paced the ramshackle living room, restless energy buzzing beneath her skin. The silence was suddenly oppressive, the emptiness echoing far louder than any raucous party or drunken brawl. She'd grown accustomed to the hollow silence of this house, and had learned to fill the void with noise and distraction. But now, even the familiar creaks and groans of the decaying structure seemed to mock her.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She'd let her guard down, and allowed herself a brief moment of connection, only to have it ripped away again. Perhaps that was all she deserved - a life lived on the fringes, punctuated by fleeting encounters and the endless, lonely expanse of the wasteland. Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she angrily swiped them away. She wouldn't cry, dammit.

Just then, a rhythmic thudding broke through the oppressive silence. Confused, Ace hesitantly moved towards the noise, half expecting a drunk stumbling across her doorstep, or worse, someone from the mob seeking revenge. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with the Ghoul.

It stood with its back to her, hunched over the broken front door. Tools, rusted and worn, were scattered at its feet. In its skeletal hands was a hammer, each blow focused and precise. With each strike, the door was shifting into place, aligning against its crooked frame. A second hinge, scavenged from somewhere in the ruins of the town, was taking shape.

She stared, a mix of disbelief and a strange, fluttery warmth warring within her. It hadn't left. It was here, fixing the damn door.

"Mornin', Deputy," its rasp filled the doorway. "Didn't figure you'd want folks comin' and goin' with a door that barely holds on by a prayer." It stood, brushing dust from its ragged clothing, looking oddly domestic.

Ace, at a loss for words, could only manage a shaky, "Thank you."

The ghoul gave a short nod, a ghost of a smile playing on its lipless mouth. "Well, a ghoul's gotta find a way to make itself useful, I suppose." It gestured towards the crooked house with a wry twist of its neck. "Besides, seems like this place could use a little fixing up."

"Well," she declared, squaring her shoulders, "guess you won't be working on an empty stomach then!"

Determined not to waste this strange turn of events, Ace hurried towards the kitchen. Dusting off the battered stove with the corner of her shirt, she managed to get a fire going and set a dented coffee pot to boil. Her movements were clumsy, a combination of exhaustion and lingering buzz from the previous night, but there was renewed energy to them.

By the time the rich, slightly burnt smell of coffee filled the air, and she'd managed to wrestle a pair of clean overalls over her dusty clothes, the house was transformed. The Ghoul's presence was everywhere, a whirlwind of practical change.

A trail of discarded bolts, broken bits of wood, and scattered tools led towards the back of the house. With a sense of trepidation and a mug of steaming coffee in hand, Ace followed the path of destruction renovation. Rounding a corner, she froze, her eyes widening in surprise.

The Ghoul was hunched over the table, brow furrowed in concentration, as it meticulously tightened screws and reattached a wobbly leg. It wore an expression of fierce determination that was oddly endearing, its bony form at odds with the homely nature of the task.

He hadn't stopped there, though. The leaking sink now sported a gleaming new faucet. The ancient water filter, perpetually sulking, had been wrangled into submission, promising a stream of relatively clean water for the first time in months. He'd even tackled the toilet, a task that required true bravery, and a triumphant flush announced his victory over the nest of roaches that had long plagued the porcelain throne.

Ace leaned against the doorway, nursing her coffee, a grin slowly spreading across her face. "You know," she mused, surprised by the lightness in her tone, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were... nesting."

The ghoul froze, then slowly turned to face her, a flicker of surprise in its unsettling eyes. "Nesting?" it repeated, the word sounding foreign on its raspy tongue.

"Yeah, you know... fixing up the place, making it... liveable." Ace took a sip of coffee, feeling the warmth spread to her toes. "Kind of like those birds in the books, building fancy nests to attract a mate."

A rattling sound – a chuckle? – emerged from the creature. "Is that so, Deputy? And here I thought I was merely repaying a debt." It gestured at the list propped on the counter, the items scribbled with surprising neatness.

"Well," Ace countered, stepping further into the room, "you're doing one hell of a job. Place hasn't looked this good since..." She trailed off, a pang of guilt twisting her gut. She hadn't lifted a finger to repair the house in years, too absorbed in the daily fight to see beyond the broken walls and the weight of the past.

But seeing the Ghoul here, with its unyielding focus and unexpected determination, something shifted within her. His presence wasn't an invasion; it was a catalyst, a reminder that change and hope could still sprout from the scorched earth, even if that hope came in the form of a radioactive, house-fixing ghoul.

"So," she asked, a hint of playfulness returning to her voice, "What's next on the list, handyman?"

Chapter Text

In the coming days, the steady rhythm of the Ghoul's work became a strangely comforting heartbeat to the house. The lingering smell of decay was chased away by the tang of fresh-cut lumber and the metallic scent of old nails wrenched free by gnarled fingers. Every morning, Ace woke to the rhythmic thud of a hammer or the unsettling rasp of a saw cutting through wood. Seeing the Ghoul perched on the roof like some grotesque gargoyle, patching holes against desert storms, or hunched over a battered toolbox meticulously fixing some broken contraption, became almost... commonplace.

The changes weren't just physical. Ace, after an initial period of awkwardness, found an unexpected ease in his presence. She would wake to find her boots cleaned and oiled next to the door or discover a meagre dinner waiting on the table whenever she returned late from patrol. They shared meals, simple things cobbled together with canned goods and whatever fresh produce she could trade for.

Conversations unfolded hesitantly, punctuated by long, comfortable stretches of silence. He asked about her job, the town's history, and her life – carefully avoiding any mention of Eddie. She, in turn, learned fragments of his past – not names and places, but slivers of emotion and fleeting memories of a world she had never known. And though her curiosity begged her to push for more, to bring the conversation back to his bounty – whoever she was – it was clear Cooper wasn't willing to share.

Evenings held a different kind of silence. With the last rays of the dying sun, the Ghoul would pull out its threadbare sleeping bag and settle in a corner of the living room. Ace would bring extra blankets, tucking them around it with a touch that had lost its initial hesitation.

Of course, there were complications. Radiation wasn't something you could easily ignore. Mornings were filled with the slight sting of Rad-Away on her tongue, and despite diligently popping Rad-X each night, a low hum of radiation sickness seemed a permanent fixture in the back of her mind. 

There were whispers whenever they walked down the dusty street together, stares filled with fear and morbid curiosity. But surprisingly, it bothered her less and less.

Some people, including the two-fingered Ezra and the Sheriff, made their opinions on the Ghoul's presence known loudly, spouting anti-Ghoul propaganda to anyone within earshot, and trying to scare people into believing their everyday ailments were caused by higher levels of radiation in the air. If something didn't change soon, there'd be pitchforks and torches involved.

Today, however, Ace put her worries on the back-burner, slipping her jacket over her shoulders and stepping onto the plain with a smile. Today was trader day; a semi-annual celebration of trading, haggling, and the perusing of fine goods from all across the wasteland - and more importantly, a day where everyone was on their best behaviour. No whispering, no underhanded comments, just a lazy day in the sun filled with the delicious smell of machine oil and petrol simmering.

Dusty Plains wasn't much to look at on a regular day, but this was different. Rickety stalls had popped up along the main street, displaying a motley assortment of wares. Streamers of every colour and hue, or at least as much colour as can be found in the barren wasteland, strung from one building to another, like tinsel wrapped around a radio antenna for Christmas. Traders from neighbouring settlements, their eyes hardened but tinged with excitement, haggled over everything from scavenged tech to surprisingly decent canned fruits.

Ace took a deep breath, the smells of leather, hot metal, and the faint aroma of something that might be edible sending a wave of nostalgia through her. This was her element. Bartering and bantering, the thrill of discovering that one improbable object she never knew she needed – this was a language she understood. Ace exchanged greetings with familiar faces, politely deflecting eager sales pitches for everything from 'miracle' elixirs to genuine imitation leather belts. She had no intention of cluttering her newly-repaired house with unnecessary junk... not yet. 

But buried among the clutter and chaos, something caught her eye – a flash of colour and chrome tucked away in the shadowy depths of a particularly cluttered stall.

It was a television. A genuine, pre-war television, just like the ones Cooper had described, with an odd mix of wonder and nostalgia. Those stories of flickering images and voices carried on invisible waves seemed more like fantastical tales than reality. Yet, here it was, the glass screen cracked, the plastic casing chipped and faded, but undeniably a piece of that lost world.

The trader, a wiry fellow with a gap-toothed grin, spotted her interest. "Ah, see somethin' ya like, ma'am?" he asked, his voice a honeyed drawl. "Finest piece of pre-war tech this side of the Mississippi! Guaranteed to bring the good old days right into your livin' room!"

Ace grinned, trying to mask her enthusiasm. "Don't know about that," she drawled back, trying to sound casual. "How much you want for this thing?"

The trader's grin widened, revealing several more missing teeth. "Well now, a piece of history like this," he began, launching into a practised spiel, "that'll cost ya..."

Ace braced herself for an outrageous price, but even so, the number he quoted made her choke on her next breath. It was more than she'd spend on water filters in a month. She spent the next few minutes haggling, but the trader was stubborn. He wouldn't budge, sensing her eagerness. 

Finally, with a sigh of both frustration and resignation, she reached for a small, worn pouch tucked into her belt. The ring was her last memento of her father, a simple band of tarnished silver with a faded inscription, worn smooth over decades. She'd never taken it off. Not. Once.

The trader took the ring, his eyes gleaming. "Deal!" he crowed, hastily wrapping the television in a tattered blanket.

Triumphant, if a little emotionally poorer, Ace lugged the television away. She'd barely taken ten steps when another treasure caught her eye. Hanging among threadbare blankets and dusty coats was a dress.

It reminded her of the dresses her mother used to make her wear on Sundays, those stiff, scratchy garments that accompanied hot afternoons stuck in a stuffy church. Yet, there was something undeniably elegant about this dress, so utterly impractical, and something Ace wouldn't have worn in a million years. Perhaps the unexpected softness of the material against her skin drew her in. She touched the fabric, a strange longing rising within her. 

"How much for this?" she asked the woman manning the stall, a stout matron with too much rouge and a surprisingly delicate touch.

A price was named, sensible this time, and without hesitation, Ace made the exchange. With a strange sense of anticipation bubbling in her chest, she tucked the dress away, imagining the look on Cooper's face when she emerged from her house in something other than well-worn denim and leather.

A blush, hot and unexpected, crept up her cheeks as she imagined herself wearing it. Maybe Cooper wouldn't even notice at first, his focus always drawn to some broken contraption or a stubbornly leaky pipe. But when he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise, a faint flicker of – what? – a strange sort of satisfaction would bloom within her. Ace found herself grinning like a giddy fool. 

It seemed the wasteland sun was doing strange things to her. Best find a way to cool off before she started entertaining even more ridiculous notions.

Lost in this private reverie, she almost didn't notice the figure shouldering its way through the crowd towards her. Ezra. His beady eyes scanned her purchases, a sneer twisting his lips.

"Well, well, lookie here," he drawled, his voice a slimy mockery of politeness. "Seems the lady's gettin' gussied up. Who ya tryin' to impress with them fancy duds, Ace? That radioactive freak of yours?"

A retort, a thousand curses, bubbled up in her throat, threatening to explode into a brawl right there on the main street. Her hands twitched instinctively toward her holster, but the awkward weight of her purchases stopped her. Ezra knew she wouldn't draw on trader day, and wouldn't break the fragile peace of this one, beloved festivity. It was a cowardly move, and it worked.

Swallowing down her anger, Ace forced herself to straighten, to hold her head high. "My money, my business," she ground out, her voice tight. "One more word out of your filthy mouth," she warned, "and I'll rearrange your teeth so you can suck your canned peaches through a straw."

Ezra hesitated, weighing his options. The crowd was watching, and he relished the attention. But perhaps it wasn't the right moment to push it further. With a final snarl, he stepped aside, muttering under his breath, "This ain't over, not by a long shot."

Ace watched him go, the anger fading, leaving behind a familiar hollowness. There wasn't much satisfaction in these predictable exchanges. But the gleam in Ezra's eye, the way the crowd had edged away as if expecting a brawl, was a reminder of the ugliness beneath the surface of Trader Day's polite pretence. She was changing things, wasn't she? Not just repairing the house, but chipping away at the fear surrounding Cooper. It was slow. It was dangerous. And for the first time in a long, long time, it felt like it might matter.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the dusty plains in vibrant streaks of orange and red, Ace made her way home. Her steps were lighter than they'd been in days, a strange mixture of nerves and excitement buzzing beneath her skin.

Reaching the house, she kicked off her boots with more gusto than usual and darted inside. First, the television. It was an awkward, bulky thing, but thankfully, one of the built-in cupboards had been repaired the previous week. A few clumsy manoeuvres, a cloud of dust, and the television was hastily hidden from sight. Next, the dress. This one she brought up to her room, a small, cramped space on the second floor that had been slowly transformed from a junk pile to something resembling a bedroom. Tucking the dress carefully into the back of the closet, she fought to contain a grin that felt far too wide and just a touch ridiculous.

The smell of something surprisingly edible drifted through the air as she stepped through the newly-hinged door. Cooper, silhouetted against the fading light, stood at the stove, stirring a pot. The familiar hunch of his shoulders, the way his fleshy fingers gripped the ladle, filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the rising temperature in the kitchen. Ace couldn't help but notice the way her hand lingered on the doorknob, or that she'd unconsciously straightened her dusty shirt. Mortified at her silliness, she forced herself into a semblance of normalcy.

"Evenin', Deputy," his rasp carried a hint of amusement, "Back already? Thought you'd be lingering at the stalls, barterin' for every trinket in sight." He turned, and the sight of him, sleeves rolled up to reveal scarred forearms. A worn apron, obscuring his ragged attire, made her mouth go strangely dry.

He set a steaming bowl in front of her. It looked vaguely like broth, with chunks of... well, it was best not to ask.

"Picked up a few things," she mumbled, trying to sound casual as she slid into her usual seat. "How was your day?"

The Ghoul shrugged. "The usual. Roof's patched, leak's fixed. That cabinet in the kitchen was drivin' me mad with its squeak, got that sorted too." He took a seat across from her, resting his skeletal hands on the table. A silence settled between them, not the usual comfortable sort, but one charged with an unspoken question.

"Trader Day was fine," she offered, desperate to divert the conversation away from her increasingly suspicious purchases. "Saw the usual suspects, heard the same tall tales. Nothin' out of the ordinary."

The Ghoul tilted its head, a barely-there quirk at the corner of its lipless mouth. "Liar."

Ace felt a blush rising on her neck. "I... don't know what you're talking about," she said, avoiding his unsettling gaze. The last thing she needed was the Ghoul getting any inkling of... well, anything resembling a surprise.

He didn't press, simply stared at her for a long moment before pushing a bent spoon towards her. "Eat," he instructed. "Gotta keep up your strength."

With a resigned sigh, Ace picked up the spoon. The broth, surprisingly, wasn't half-bad. It had a vaguely familiar taste, probably a concoction of scavenged vegetables and whatever critter Cooper deemed edible. As they ate, the conversation drifted back towards the ordinary – repairs to be done, rumours of a mutant radscorpion spotted near the old highway, the Sheriff's increasingly vocal dissatisfaction with their unconventional living arrangement. Yet, beneath it all, the anticipation thrummed like a live wire.

As normalcy seemed to tiptoe back into the house, a sharp knock echoed through the air. The Ghoul stiffened, bony fingers reaching for something unseen beneath the table. Protective, and alert, he was immediately on guard.

"Who in the devil could that be at this hour?" Ace muttered, rising from the table. It was fully dark now, well past the time for polite visits.

"Don't answer that," the Ghoul hissed, his voice laced with tension.

"Why not? Could be a neighbour in need," Ace replied, trying to keep her voice light. She'd handle this, whatever trouble had decided to grace her doorstep.

Another knock, more insistent this time, broke the tense silence before she could even rise. With a frustrated sigh, Ace stood and strode to the door, bracing herself for yet another confrontation. Flinging it open, she almost tripped over her own jaw in surprise.

"Tessa?" Her eyes widened at the woman on her doorstep, Eddie's younger sister, a vision of bright colours and nervous energy. With her elaborately curled hair, a shade of yellow so artificial it bordered on radioactive, and a dress that screamed Sunday best rather than a trek through the dust-laden plains, she stood on the porch clutching a basket.

Her wide eyes flickered with apprehension, but a timid smile never left her face. It sparked a brief pang of guilt in Ace. She'd barely spoken to the girl since Eddie's... departure.

"Ace, honey, I do apologise for droppin' by unannounced," Tessa drawled in a voice that could strip paint, "but I was hoping we could have ourselves a little chat."

Before Ace could respond, Tessa stepped inside, eyes sweeping over the room with barely disguised apprehension. She gingerly perched on the edge of the sofa, her gaze fixed pointedly away from the Ghoul, who watched the exchange from the shadows.

"I brought you some sweetbread," Tessa said, thrusting the basket towards Ace. "Mama baked a whole batch and insisted I bring you one. Can't have our favourite deputy starving, now can we?" The smile she offered was sweet, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

Ace mumbled a thank you, placing the basket on the table. An awkward silence filled the air. She could practically feel the Ghoul's gaze on her back, heavy with unasked questions. Finally, Tessa cleared her throat, a delicate blush rising on her cheeks.

"Well, actually, that's not all I came for," she blurted. "You see, Tommy – Tommy Jenkins, the one who works at his Pa's hardware stall – well, he asked me to the Maypole Dance!" She clasped her hands together, her excitement at odds with her nervous energy. "Isn't that just the sweetest thing?"

Ace stared at her blankly. The Maypole Dance? A relic of the past dragged into the present, a night of bonfires, bad music, and worse dancing... and an unbearable amount of matchmaking. "Guess that's somethin'," she managed without sounding too unenthusiastic.

Tessa, bless her oblivious heart, misinterpreted this as encouragement. "Oh, Ace, isn't it wonderful?" she gushed. "And, well..." she hesitated, her eyes darting towards the Ghoul, who had shifted to stand in the doorway, a silent observer. "Well, Tommy's a real gentleman, and we could... we could all go together!"

The Ghoul let out a soft rasp that might have been a chuckle. "What's this then?" he inquired, his uncanny blue eyes fixed on Tessa.

Tessa blinked, her gaze flickering nervously between Ace and the Ghoul. She visibly wiped her hand on her skirt, as if the mere act of sitting in this house might have contaminated her. Yet, to her credit, she answered, her voice still laced with a sweet politeness.

"Why, the Maypole Dance, of course! Trader Day doesn't truly end 'til the last bonfire goes out and the music stops. It's a grand old tradition, a time for joy and... well, romance," she finished, fluttering her eyelashes and giving Cooper a smile that held more pity than welcome.

"Well, that sounds... interesting," Cooper said, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.

Ace knew that tone. It was the same tone that preceded him dismantling her stove to re-engineer its inner workings for "better fuel efficiency." Trouble was brewing, and she was right in the centre of the storm.

"Ace, honey, you really should come this year," Tessa gushed, her eyes growing as wide as dinner plates. "Lord knows you haven't graced us with your presence in years. And you were such a dancer back in the day, remember? All the boys swoonin' over those long legs of yours..."

"Look," Ace interjected before Tessa could say more. "I appreciate the thought, but the Maypole really isn't my thing. Besides, I've got patrol duty tonight." It wasn't even a complete lie. Someone had to keep the peace when half the town was drunk and the other half was looking for love in all the wrong places.

Tessa looked genuinely wounded. "Well, I never! After all these years, to miss out on the fun... and it would do you good to socialise a bit, wouldn't you say?" She turned to the Ghoul with a conspiratorial smile. "Don't you agree, Mr...?"

"Cooper, ma'am," the Ghoul replied. "And I do agree. It wouldn't hurt the Deputy to have a little fun. A bit of dancing under the stars might be..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...good for her."

Ace groaned internally. This was far from over. "Look, I appreciate the sentiment," she said, forcing a smile, "but it's really not my thing anymore."

Tessa and Cooper exchanged glances. If looks could kill, Ace would've been reduced to ash on the spot. She gritted her teeth, a silent battle raging within her – between the urge to stubbornly dig in her heels and a strange, traitorous flicker of something... lighter.

Before she could formulate a coherent reply, the Ghoul spoke. "Perhaps I'll join you," he said, his gaze fixed on Ace, the bonfire light glinting in his eyes already a vivid image in her mind. He was challenging her, and it was a challenge she couldn't ignore.

"Fine," she grumbled, with far less grace than she would have liked. "But no guarantees I'll actually dance."

A squeal of delight escaped Tessa's lips. The Ghoul, with a nod that was either polite or slightly predatory, retreated back into the kitchen, the scraping sound of plates being washed floating out. With a final flurry of promises to see Ace at the dance, Tessa departed, leaving a lingering scent of saccharine-sweet perfume in her wake.

As the door closed behind Tessa, Ace let loose a string of curses that would've made a sailor blush. Of all the idiotic, stubborn, meddling... The air practically crackled with her frustration. This was not how she'd envisioned her evening ending – roped into attending a glorified matchmaking shindig with her post-human housemate and sweet-as-pie Tessa.

A rasping chuckle echoed from the kitchen, cutting through her tirade. The ghoul leaned casually against the doorframe, a disconcerting grin playing on his lipless mouth.

"Something amusing, bonehead?" Ace snapped, glaring at him.

"Your language, Deputy," he replied, the amusement still dancing in his unnatural eyes. "Quite the colourful vocabulary you have there."

"Well, pardon me for not bursting into song and dance about this blasted Maypole nonsense," she retorted, her irritation fuelled by a sudden surge of panic. 

Great. Now she had to make herself presentable.

She grabbed her brush, determined to at least tame the wild mane that was her hair. Minutes ticked by in frustration. The strands tangled at her fingertips, refusing to be coaxed into anything more elaborate than a tangled mess. Frustration mounted, mirroring the prickling sensation that crawled across her skin. This... this uncomfortable anticipation, this urge to... preen? It felt alien.

With a defeated sigh, she let the brush fall and ran her hands through her hair, letting it tumble loose down her back. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. It was then, in the reflection of the dusty mirror, that her gaze snagged on the half-open cupboard door across the room.

A hesitant hand reached out, slowly creaking the door open. Maybe... just maybe...

Once Ace gathered the courage to, she took one last look in the mirror and sighed. The stairs creaked under each step, echoing in the quiet. Ace's hand gripped the railing, its worn wood both familiar and foreign under her palm. Every step brought a strange knot of anticipation and a rising tide of panic. This, it seemed, was far more nerve-wracking than facing down a gang of rabid dogs. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm in her ears, an echo of the thrumming blood pulsing in her temples.

She'd always hated dresses - despised the way they clung, the way they made her feel trapped and breathless. Yet, as she stood on the landing, the unfamiliar softness of the fabric against her calloused hands was strangely reassuring. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she forced her feet to obey and descended the final few steps.

The Ghoul was waiting in the living room, his back still turned towards her. He seemed to be studying the flickering fire in the grate, his hunched form radiating an unexpected tension.

"Well?" she finally managed, the silence stretching into an uncomfortable eternity.

Slowly, the Ghoul turned. Ace held her breath, bracing herself for a look of pity, maybe even polite revulsion. Yet, what she saw mirrored the flurry churning within her. For a long moment, he simply stared. The unnerving gleam of his eyes seemed to burn brighter, his taut mouth worked as if forming words, yet none came. A strange hitch in his usually raspy breath echoed the wild beating of her own heart. 

It was the most alive either of them had ever looked.

Time itself seemed to freeze, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the vast silence between them. Ace fought the childish urge to tug at the unfamiliar hem of the dress, her hands curling into nervous fists. He wasn't just looking at her. He was seeing her, through the dust and grit, beyond the usual fire – the vulnerability of this unexpected gesture shimmering between them.

Finally, a word floated across the room, a raspy exhale more than a spoken sound. "Ace..."

When he spoke, his voice was filled with a curious question and a touch of unadulterated amazement, causing a chill to run down her spine. The tension, the anticipation, was finally broken. For a heady instant, she wanted to bask in it, let the surprise, the stunned softness, wash over her.

But Ace wasn't built for soft things. A familiar wave of stubborn defiance rose within her. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she managed a wry grin. It felt crooked, out of practice, but there was a hint of her usual self-assured smirk peeking through.

"Well," she said, trying to inject a lightness into her voice, "I cleaned up alright, didn't I?" She gave a slight twirl, the movement awkward, but not entirely without grace.

The Ghoul didn't answer directly. Instead, his gaze skimmed over her again, taking in the unbound cascade of her hair, the flash of bare skin where her neckline dipped slightly lower than usual. His eyes, always so unnervingly expressive, held something new. Not quite approval, not fully admiration, but a spark of recognition that caused an unexpected heat to bloom in her cheeks.

"Let's just say," he spoke, his voice deeper than usual, holding a strange cadence, "that if the goal was to render a man speechless... well, mission accomplished."

A genuine laugh burst from Ace, shaking off the last of the lingering nerves. That was more like it. A playful challenge, a touch of sarcasm to ground them back in the familiar territory of their strange friendship.

"Well then, I reckon it's about time we get this show on the road," she quipped, turning towards the door. "If those fireflies start glowing any brighter, they'll put the bonfires to shame."

The Ghoul paused, a flicker of mirth dancing in his eerie eyes. "Yes, ma'am," he rasped, the words oddly formal coming from him as he straightened his posture and extended his arm with a surprising flourish. His demeanour suddenly took on a more gentlemanly air. "Shall we?"

Ace blinked, a laugh caught between surprise and giddiness. The contrast between the Ghoul's ghoulish form and this act of old-fashioned gallantry was so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that it cracked through the last of her lingering doubts.

"Why, Mr. Cooper," she drawled, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and throwing him a playful smile, "I do believe you're starting to clean up nicely yourself."

For a moment, he was frozen, the fingers gently encircling her own. But then, to her amazement, he reached up and, with an impressive degree of delicacy, lifted his battered Stetson from the hook near the door. Tilting it in her direction with the smallest hint of a bow, he said, "Lead the way, Deputy. It seems like we've got a dance to attend."

Chapter Text

They stepped into pandemonium. The main square of Dusty Plains was barely recognisable, transformed by colourful streamers and mismatched lanterns swaying in the night breeze. The usual air of resigned monotony had been swept away, replaced with an infectious energy that thrummed through the air.

Laughter rang out, and children playfully chased each other through the bustling market, weaving between half-dismantled stalls and filling the air with the irresistible aroma of sizzling roasted meats and delectable sweet treats. As the bonfires flickered and crackled, illuminating the night sky with a warm glow, couples swayed and twirled in a blur of vibrant colours, their movements filled with an infectious sense of joyful abandon. Despite herself, Ace felt a spark of excitement ignite within her.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all... 

The Ghoul seemed to sense her shift in mood. His bony hand tightened on her arm, a silent question in the gesture. She glanced at him, then back at the crowd, her resolve faltering. It was one thing to brave the stares in the light of day, with a gun and badge, and quite another to be the centre of attention in this whirl of civilian celebration.

For the first time in a long, long time, the Ghoul was the one beaming with enthusiasm. His eyes danced with delight, and there was an almost childlike eagerness in the way he leaned slightly forward as if trying to absorb every sight and sound at once.

Her heart clenched at the sight. Damn it all, she'd be the one to ruin his night. 

But the moment they stepped fully into the crowded square, the joyous buzz died down, replaced by a silence that pressed in from all sides. Conversations faltered, music stuttered, and the colourful crowd seemed to part before them, leaving an empty circle around the unlikely pair.

Every eye was fixed on them. The stares weren't of open hostility, more of stunned disbelief, followed by whispers that carried even over the dwindling music. A wave of heat washed over Ace, prickling her face and neck with shame. Suddenly, the dress felt like a costume, a punchline to some cruel joke; it was all wrong.

A muscle worked in Coop's jaw, and the light faded from his eyes. "Perhaps this wasn't..." he began, his voice low.

"Let's just... go home," Ace muttered, turning to retrace their steps.

Then, a voice chirped through the tense silence. "Well I never! Ace, Mr. Cooper, you two look just... wonderful!" Tessa, a swirl of pink and yellow, pushed her way through the crowd, her smile impossibly wide.

The shocked silence shattered. Tessa, seemingly oblivious to the tension, grabbed Ace's hand with surprising strength. "That dress is just perfect on you!" she exclaimed, "Why, I was just tellin' Tommy how you were the prettiest girl in all of Dusty Plains, wasn't I, sugar?" She looped her arm through a bewildered-looking man, who offered a shy nod and a mumbled greeting.

And then, the spell was broken. 

Slowly, conversation resumed, the curious stares morphing into sly smiles and knowing looks. Tessa, pink-clad and bow-ified, bustled them towards the bonfire, chattering non-stop about the music, the food, and the various eligible bachelors who had 'sadly been scooped up already'. Ace, still slightly dazed by Tessa's whirlwind energy, let herself be carried along in her wake. The Ghoul trailed behind them, his expression a curious mix of bewilderment and a stoic amusement that was painted onto his slender face. 

As soon as they stepped away from the bar, the curious stares resumed. Ace could practically feel the eyes tracking their every move, hear the whispered speculation swirling around them like dust devils.

"Well, I'll be..." Mabel from the general store muttered to her companion, loud enough for Ace to clearly overhear. "I never thought I'd see the day Ace cleaned up that nice for any man, let alone..." she trailed off, her voice dropping into an almost reverent whisper, "...one of them."

"Bet he's got a stash of caps hidden out in the badlands," an old codger perched on a wobbly crate opined, stroking his scraggly beard thoughtfully. "Must've sweet-talked the Deputy into helpin' him dig it up. She always was a gold digger."

A wave of unearned guilt washed over Ace. The stares weren't of open hostility, but of a bizarre, avid curiosity. The Ghoul stiffened next to her, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his sleeve. He caught her eye, the blue depths swirling with a question she couldn't quite decipher. A surge of defiance ran through her veins. If they wanted a story, she'd give them one to remember.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Ace reached out and looped her arm through the Ghoul's. It was oddly comforting, the cool solidity of him against her own warmth. She tossed a coquettish smile over her shoulder at a particularly shocked cluster of matrons.

"Just can't keep my hands off him, can I?" she stage-whispered, loud enough for the entire square to hear.

The Ghoul let out a startled snort. It was somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, but undeniably amused. Taking his cue, he leaned slightly down, a whisper of his raspy voice tickling her ear.

His next move, however, wasn't what anyone expected. With surprising grace for such a skeletal form, the Ghoul dipped her. One hand splayed against the small of her back, keeping her steady, while the other gently cupped her forearm. Ace let out a startled yelp, her body reacting before her mind caught up. The sudden rush of blood left her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding against her ribs.

His breath, warm against her cheek, tickled a blush that started at the tips of her ears and spread like wildfire. Closer... closer still... his lips were almost touching hers. For one breathless moment, she thought... no, she hoped... that he might bridge the gap. Just when it seemed the unthinkable, the outrageous, was about to happen, he gently set her back on her feet. A ghost of a smile, teasing and just a touch wicked, played on his lipless mouth.

A wave of dizziness washed over her; adrenaline, embarrassment, and a strange, fluttering excitement. The music blared louder, the crowd's chatter an indistinct blur. All Ace could focus on was Cooper, the subtle tremor in his hand, where it still rested on her waist. When he spoke, it was a hushed whisper meant only for her.

"Tempting," he rasped, the word thick with an emotion she couldn't name, "but perhaps not for their entertainment."

"Just try not to drop me next time, alright?" she muttered, unable to fully disguise the tremor in her voice as she adjusted her dress.

With a low chuckle, the Ghoul offered his arm again. "Lead the way, Deputy," he rumbled, a flicker of warmth dancing in his unsettling gaze. The stares hadn't gone away, but now they held a touch of awe along with curiosity. Ace wasn't sure if she cared.

The evening took on a dreamlike quality. Tessa, the self-appointed social director, dragged them through a whirlwind of introductions and dances. There was Hank, the bartender with hands like hams, who nearly crushed Ace's fingers in a good-natured attempt at a waltz. Myrtle, the town gossip, twirled the Ghoul with such enthusiasm he looked positively dizzy. Even the Sheriff, a sour frown permanently plastered on his face, managed a stiff two-step with Ace, muttering darkly about "public decency and upholding the law."

When the pace changed, a ripple of excitement went through the dancers. Couples pressed closer, conversations faded into whispers. It was time for the slow dances, a time for stolen glances and whispered promises under the starlight.

Before Ace could protest, a burly fellow with more teeth than sense grabbed her hand, sputtering out a clumsy proposal to "show her a good time". The Ghoul moved with surprising speed, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her away from the over-eager suitor with a silent snarl that made her feel dizzy.

"This one's mine," he snarled, his voice slicing through the music and drawing every eye in the square towards them.

A collective gasp echoed through the crowd, quickly followed by nervous laughter. Taking her cue from the Ghoul's boldness, Ace tossed the disappointed suitor a wink and let herself be led towards the centre of the dance floor.

The music wrapped around them, a mournful melody that seemed to mirror the strange mix of apprehension and anticipation racing through her veins. The Ghoul extended his slender hand, an invitation she accepted hesitantly. His touch was cool, but there was a surprising gentleness in the way he held her. As they began to move in time with the music, the Ghoul's awkwardness faded, replaced by an odd grace born from his post-human frame.

They danced, swayed really, in the flickering light. The crowd became mere blurs at the periphery, their gossip a distant hum against the steady beat of her heart. His eyes, that impossibly blue, held hers with a focus that made her feel weightless as if at any moment they might drift away into the star-freckled sky.

"Never thought I'd see the day," he murmured, his voice so low she barely heard it over the music. "You... like this."

A retort hovered on her lips, something sarcastic and defensive, but honesty burned through the bravado. "You haven't seen much of me at all," she countered, her voice barely a whisper.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "That," he stated, his voice tinged with newfound warmth, "is something I intend to remedy."

His hand moved lower on her waist, the barest hint of pressure sending a jolt through her entire body. She tilted her head back slightly, offering her throat in a silent gesture of trust and a willingness to take another step into the unknown. His gaze flickered over her features, tracing her jawline, and the curve of her lips.

"Getting a bit warm in that dress, Deputy?" His question was breathy, a teasing challenge playing at the edges. He knew exactly what he was doing, how the cool touch of his fingers against her heated skin sent a shiver of foreign longing through her.

"Cooper," she warned, but the playfulness in her tone could not disguise the catch in her voice, "Don't start somethin' you can't finish." The air thickened as something wild and unpredictable danced between them. He leaned closer, his ragged breath a snarl against her skin.

"And how do you know," he rasped, his voice a husky promise, "what I can and cannot finish?" 

A quiet whimper caught in her throat, which forced him to the edge of feral. The music faded entirely. He swayed with her, his hand skimming lower, the warmth radiating through the thin fabric of her dress. There was a roughness to his raspy voice, an undeniable heat in the gaze that held her prisoner. The crowd, the whispers, the world outside this tiny orbit of firelight and intoxicating closeness – it ceased to exist.

The melody abruptly ending was a jarring interruption, like a bucket of ice water on barely contained desire. Yet, a strange relief washed over Ace. The crowd, the expectant stares, faded back into focus. This was the part where she pulled away, offered a polite nod, and scurried back to her usual prickly routine.

But the Ghoul's hand lingered on her waist, his fingers tracing small, meaningless patterns against her skin. The flicker in his blue eyes wasn't mockery, but a question suspended in the thick night air. He was waiting for her to make the call.

"I... uh..." Her voice cracked, "I think I saw my flask somewhere near those crates." It was a weak excuse, but it was something.

His rasp of a laugh was surprisingly warm. "Let me help you find it, then," he murmured, a hint of amusement laced in his tone.

With a curt nod and a silent prayer to any gods listening that she didn't trip in front of half the town, Ace peeled a path through the remaining crowd, pulling the Ghoul in tow. Each step further into the shadows brought a strange mix of fear and rash anticipation. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the fabric of her dress. Every sense seemed heightened - the scent of bonfire smoke, the feel of rough, callused fingers brushing against her own. Her heart thundered, drowning out the distant strains of music and the fading murmur of gossip.

They reached a makeshift supply stack – crates, barrels, a canvas tarp strung to provide some cover. It was deserted, offering a sliver of privacy in the chaos.

"Well," Ace forced a brittle laugh, "Guess I lost it after all."

The Ghoul, in his eerie silence, refrained from responding with words. Instead, he extended his hand towards her, gently cupping her chin in his palm. With a subtle tilt of her head, he directed her face towards the sliver of moonlight that managed to pierce through the thick tarp surrounding them. In the dim light, the harsh shadows cast by the moon's glow only served to accentuate the already gruesome features of his face - the deep crevices and hollows that made up his ravaged contours, the taut and almost translucent skin stretched tightly over the sharp jut of his bones.

"Can I...?" She gestured vaguely towards his face with her eyes.

He nodded once, the movement sharp in the dimness. With a hesitant and trembling hand, she cautiously traced the taut line of his chiselled jaw, marvelling at the sharp angles and unexpected resilience that met her touch. His skin, rough and textured like worn leather, held a strange warmth that sent shivers down her spine. As his eyes fluttered closed, a soft and contented sigh escaped him.

Her breath hitched. The apprehension was still there, but a different kind of heat now coursed through her veins. "Cooper," she murmured, the name a hesitant caress, "Tell me where... what..."

His eyes snapped open, the intensity in their glow almost frightening. "Your hands..." he rasped, tilting his head to provide better access. "Here... and here..."

With gentle guidance, he placed her fingertips on a ridge of exposed bone below his ear, along the strange hollow where flesh met the unnatural frame beneath. A ragged pulse thrummed beneath her touch. Her movements became more confident, exploring the unfamiliar contours of his scars. There was a strange beauty to it. Each touch was a wordless question, a seeking not of answers, but of connection.

The Ghoul shuddered, a raspy groan escaping him. "Strong hands," he whispered, then, as if to himself, "Should have... expected that..."

His words ignited a flare of defiant, uncontrolled heat within her. Strong hands, yes, for survival. But they could be... so much more. She continued her exploration, her movements became more daring, and traced the harsh line of his broad shoulders, her fingers trailing over the unexpected curve in the bony column of his spine.

His hand found hers, gently guiding it downward to rest against the tattered fabric of his trousers. "Here," he rasped, the word rough against her ear, "you can be less gentle. I can take it."

Ace hesitated for a moment, her mind racing with uncertainty, before finally giving in and obeying the command. As her hand reached out to touch the rough fabric, she felt it give way beneath her touch, causing a strangled gasp to escape from her lips as she realised the hard shape hidden beneath. She could feel his body shudder in response, a tremor running through his entire body. "Gods... Deputy," he choked out. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

Feeling emboldened, she explored further, her fingers tracing his shape even as a wave of heat washed over her, leaving her breathless. She leaned into him, drawn to the strange mix of strength and vulnerability emanating from his wiry frame.

His hand tightened on her hip, steadying her as the exploration went both ways. His fingers danced along the soft, exposed skin at her waist, their touch so delicate yet electrifying that it sent shivers down her spine. With each movement, he seemed to uncover a new layer of sensation within her, causing her nerves to tingle and her breath to hitch. As he dipped lower, tracing the edge of her dress with his skilled fingertips, she couldn't help but surrender to the overwhelming pleasure he was bringing her.

He paused, his gaze burning into hers. "Are you sure, Ace?" His voice was low, a hint of concern cutting through the desire swirling between them.

She nodded, unable to form words. Yes, she was sure. Terrified, exhilarated, but more certain of this one thing than she had been of anything in a long, long time.

As the first rays of dawn illuminated the sky with a stunning display of pink and gold hues, the two lovers remained intertwined in a heap on the dusty ground. Ace's head lay peacefully on his chest, her ear pressed against the bony surface as she savoured the unfamiliar, erratic beat of his heart. Despite the exhaustion that weighed heavily on her body, a raw and untamed energy pulsed through her veins, sparking a charged atmosphere between them.

Finally, she stirred, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "So," she murmured, tracing a fingertip across a particularly jagged scar, "think you can handle another round, or am I gonna have to carry you home?"

His answering chuckle was a rumble against her ear. "Don't tempt me, Deputy."

Chapter Text

Time after the Maypole Dance had taken on a strange, liquid quality. Days blurred into nights filled with stolen moments and breathless whispers. Weeks were measured not by sunrises and patrols, but by the heat of his hands, the scrape of his voice, a rhythm of desire that pounded beneath Ace's skin. It was exhilarating. It was impulsive. And with each shared touch, each desperate gasp, a part of Cooper burrowed deeper within her, a terrifyingly precious seed planted in the barren soil of her heart.

Once, when a gang of raiders tried to ambush a caravan on the outskirts of town, she'd found herself distracted mid-firefight. Her focus splintered, replaced by a flash of his hands on her waist, the rasp of his voice in her ear, the heat pooling deep in her belly. She took a bullet to the arm that day, a painful reminder that the wasteland wouldn't stop its brutal waltz just because she'd learned the steps to an entirely different dance.

Nights were even worse. They now shared her bed – a necessity at first, after a particularly raucous night sent a broken shelf crashing to the floor, waking half the town. Sharing a bed seemed more acceptable than explaining their midnight trysts to a scandalised Dusty Plains.

But once established, the habit stubbornly remained, even on quieter nights. They lay, separated by a careful sliver of space, bodies curled away from each other. Yet, she couldn't shake the sense of him. His scent clung to the pillow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his ragged breathing filled the silent room, and the cool touch of his hand seemed to linger ghost-like on her skin. Sleep was a fitful, frustrating thing these days.

Cooper seemed equally affected. She caught him staring at her in moments of stillness, his usual stoicism replaced by a strange, unguarded vulnerability. There were new habits too - a hesitant brush of skeletal fingers against her arm as they passed in the cramped kitchen, a lingering gaze as she fixed her hair in the cracked mirror each morning.

Neither of them spoke of it. They existed in a bubble, a fragile truce between logic and longing. The future loomed over them, an unspoken threat. The thought of him walking away, disappearing back into the vast, unforgiving desert, left her with a hollow ache that rivalled any old gunshot wound. This wasn't just a fling, a bit of reckless fun to break the monotony. It was deeper, sharper, and far more terrifying because, for the first time in a long, long time, there was something precious enough to lose.

Ace stared at her reflection in the bathroom's cracked mirror. The woman staring back looked familiar, yet not. Her eyes, always sharp and guarded, held a haunted softness like flickering embers still smouldering with residual heat. Dark circles marred the skin beneath them, evidence of sleepless nights and relentless thoughts that spun in endless circles. A lock of hair strayed across her cheek, and with shaking fingers, she pushed it back.

Fuck. She'd always been practical. Clean boots, a loaded gun, a steady hand. Yet, now her fingers trembled at the simple task of brushing her hair. Everything felt... fragile. Achingly tender bruises bloomed along her arms and neck – not marks of violence, but love bites painted in shades of yearning and unspoken desperation.

"Damn it," she hissed, the sound reverberating against the chipped tile walls. How had things gotten so out of hand, so quickly? How did one go from breaking up bar fights and chasing off rad scorpions, to obsessing over the scent of decay and dust that clung to his skin?

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, pausing at the door. Before she could compose herself, it swung open. Cooper filled the doorway, his skeletal form surprisingly graceful, even clad in tattered jeans and a worn Henley. He held a mug in his hands, steam curling from its rim.

"Coffee?" he offered, his voice the usual rumble, but a thread of hesitation ran through it. He didn't cross the threshold, as if waiting for permission, or maybe fearing rejection.

Her throat tightened. They hadn't spoken of... well, of anything remotely important since that first stolen night. Yet, unspoken rules had shifted, boundaries dissolved with a single caress. Sharing coffee on a dusty morning now felt as intimate as sharing a bed in the moonlit darkness.

Ace willed her fingers to uncurl from their death grip on the chipped porcelain sink. "Thanks," she croaked, turning to accept the mug. The warmth seeped through the ceramic, a lifeline in the sudden chill that seemed to permeate the room.

He didn't leave. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving her face. The silence stretched between them, charged and suffocating.

"Ace..." he began, his voice a rough scrape, "we should..." But the words seemed to catch in his throat. He drew a ragged breath as if steeling himself.

Fear, icy and irrational, coiled in her gut. This was it. The moment their fragile ceasefire shattered, the inevitable confrontation she'd known was coming, hanging over them like a storm cloud waiting to burst. He was going to walk away, leave her with a fistful of stolen nights, and a heart cracked wider than a canyon.

"Please." Her voice cracked, the single word laced with a vulnerability she hated, but couldn't disguise. She wasn't ready, not yet.

A flicker of surprise, then something like relief, crossed his features. "Coffee," he finally rasped, "it's getting cold." It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was a reprieve. Grateful, she took a sip, savouring the bitter warmth.

He pushed away from the doorframe, taking a hesitant step closer. "You, uh..." he cleared his throat, "you got a bit of a..."

He reached forward, his weathered fingertip brushing a smudge of dirt from her cheek. The contact, gentle and unexpectedly intimate, made her breath catch.

His hand dropped, then retreated into the safety of his pockets. "Patrol starts in an hour," he muttered, the words as rough as his voice. "You should..." He gestured vaguely towards the door, then turned and disappeared into the hallway.

Ace stared at his retreating form, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. No declarations, no promises, no heartbreak. Just a shared mug of coffee, a smudge of dirt, and a tentative truce that could shatter with a single, careless word.

Adjusting her Stetson, Ace's brim cast a shadow over her eyes. Patrol should have been a mindless task, a rhythm as familiar as breathing. Instead, each creak of leather, each clink of a spur, felt like a countdown, a tightening of the noose around her neck. Her fingers twitched towards her holstered gun, not out of necessity, but from a jittery energy she couldn't shake.

The wasteland stretched before her, a monotonous expanse of sand and withered scrub. But beneath the familiar dullness, an undercurrent of unease rippled through her. Cooper's words, the unspoken plea in his eyes, echoed in her mind. We should... what? Finish that sentence? Talk? Leave? Get naked? The unknowns were enough to make a seasoned lawbringer want to run screaming in the opposite direction.

Dusty Plains materialised from the shimmering heat, a ramshackle collection of buildings defying both logic and gravity. The usual hum of activity seemed eerily subdued. General store shutters banged in an absentminded rhythm, and the saloon remained stubbornly closed, even though the sun was high in the sky.

As she rode down the main street, necks craned from behind dusty windows. Conversations faltered, and footsteps retreated into the shadowed interiors of homes. The silence felt accusatory, prickling the back of her neck with an uncanny sense of being watched, and judged. She reached the Sheriff's office, the familiar wooden structure more ominous than usual. A nagging feeling, a buzzing at the back of her skull, told her something was off. Too quiet, too still.

Before she could knock, the door swung open with surprising force, nearly hitting her in the face. Sheriff Wilkes stood in the doorway. His expression was a mixture of grim satisfaction and contempt that made her stomach churn.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Deputy," Wilkes sneered with a voice that sounded like a rusty growl, his lips curling into a malicious sneer. "Reckon, this saves me the trouble of comin' to find you."

Suspicion prickled at the back of her neck. A flash of unease tightened her grip on the worn leather of her gun belt. "Mornin', Sheriff. Something I can help you with?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

He didn't answer directly. Instead, his beady eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down with undisguised disgust. A knot of dread settled in her gut.

"Just come on in, Deputy. Got some folks who've been keen to have a word." Wilkes stepped aside, gesturing vaguely into the darkened interior of the office.

Ace hesitated. Every instinct within her urged her to turn and retreat, to continue with her patrol as if everything was perfectly normal. But deep down, she knew that pretending had already led her to this moment. With a deep inhale, she gathered her courage and straightened her posture, before bravely crossing the threshold into the unknown.

As soon as her worn boots made contact with the dusty, creaking floorboards, a sinking feeling of dread washed over her. To her horror, it seemed as though every able-bodied man in the small town of Dusty Plains had gathered inside the cramped space, their intimidating presence causing her heart to race and her palms to sweat. As they all turned to face her, their eyes narrowed in a dangerous combination of anger, disgust, and primal hunger that sent shivers down her spine and made her blood run cold.

Ezra stood at the forefront, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. Hank, and the usual culprits she knew by name, several faces she'd seen from the dance, even the usually meek shopkeeper. They were a vicious, unified front, and she was hopelessly outnumbered.

"What in the hell is this?" Ace demanded, her voice a brittle echo against the tense silence. She scanned the faces, hoping for a flicker of hesitation, a sign of sanity, but found none.

"This," Wilkes spat, his voice laced with venom, "is a reckoning. You've brought shame to this town, Deputy. Sullied yourself with... with that abomination."

A ripple of agreement ran through the crowd. Hateful murmurs grew louder, the words 'unnatural', 'filth', and 'betrayal' cutting the air like knives.

Ace fought the urge to retreat. No, she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear. She stood tall, her chin high, meeting their stares with icy defiance.

"And what if I have?" she hissed, her voice dripping with venom and defiance. The Sheriff, bless his black heart, may have been the one in charge, but deep down she knew he was nothing but a coward. She could take him down, maybe even a few of those puffed-up idiots surrounding him before the rest of them inevitably overwhelmed her. She knew, somewhere in the small sliver of her rational mind, that even her impressive sharpshooting skills wouldn't be enough against these overwhelming odds. But still, the flicker of fight seared through her.

"You dare..." the Sheriff spluttered, face turning an alarming shade of puce. Then his expression hardened. "Ezra," he barked, "give the lady what she's earned."

Ezra, leering and eager, stepped forward. Ace took a half step back, ready to dodge the blow she knew was coming. But the fist didn't land on her face. Instead, Ezra, with two other men flanking him, closed in and grabbed her arms, pinning her in place.

"Looks like the mighty Deputy needs some help rememberin' her place," Ezra snarled, his putrid breath searing against her cheek. And in an instant, the world erupted into a blinding burst of excruciating agony.

His fist crashed into her jaw with bone-jarring force. Ace staggered, her vision blurring. But before she could recover, another blow landed, this time on her ribs, forcing a gasp from her lungs. She fought, kicked, and snarled like a cornered dog. But against the weight of three grown men, she was helpless.

"Ezra!" a voice barked, cutting through the haze of pain. It was Wilkes, his voice sharp with authority. "Don't kill her. Yet."

Ezra paused, a frustrated growl rumbling in his chest. He threw a disappointed glare at the Sheriff but released his grip on Ace. She slumped against the wall, her ribs aching, a metallic tang of blood filling her mouth. Her vision swam, the faces of the men surrounding her warping and blurring. 

A rough hand clamped over her mouth, stifling a startled cry. A bag was yanked over her head, plunging her into darkness, the scent of burlap and sweat choking her. Rough hands bound her wrists, and pulled her arms behind her back. Terror crashed through her, cold and paralysing.

"Never shoulda messed with that ghoul," someone snarled in her ear, the words muffled by the scratchy fabric. "Shoulda stuck to your own kind." A heavy blow landed behind her knees, sending her sprawling to the rough wooden floor.

"Sheriff," the deep voice ordered, laced with an impatient growl, "chain her up, we'll wait till nightfall. Then, maybe the boys can have some... fun." Please. Please, dear god, no. Please.

A chorus of cheers and lewd jeers erupted around her, the noise swirling and disorienting. She thrashed, a desperate animal caught in a trap, but the bonds held firm. Rough hands dragged her across the floor, the sound of her own choked sobs muffled by the suffocating bag. Metal clanged around her wrists, the cold steel biting into her skin.

Hours had stretched into eternity since that hesitant morning, that unspoken plea in her eyes, the shared mug like a tenuous ceasefire. Cooper sat perched on a wobbly kitchen chair, staring at the cold mug of coffee on the table. Stale, undrinkable, bitter with the aftertaste of disappointment. Of self-loathing. 

He'd been a fool. A selfish fool to think he could taste this kind of warmth, this fragile normalcy, and walk away unscathed.

Every ounce of his irradiated, ancient being screamed it at him. Getting involved with Ace, sharing her bed, her smiles, her stolen breaths... it was a mistake from the start. This wasn't just some passing fancy, a desperate attempt to drown out the echoes of loneliness in the warmth of another body. It was... deeper. Something he didn't have a name for, something he hadn't felt since... well, since before the bombs turned him into this.

His fingers tightened around the mug, a flare of frustration at his weakness, battling the icy logic in his brain. He wasn't some lovesick boy. Sentimentality was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a purpose, a quest... something to keep him going aside from mere survival.

With a frustrated growl, he hurled the mug at the far wall. The fragile porcelain shattered with a satisfying crack, but it did nothing to alleviate the ache in his chest. He paced the narrow hallway, hands clenched in the tattered pockets of his jeans. The house creaked and groaned in protest, echoing the complaints of his restless soul. There was nowhere to hide, not here, not from himself.

He was a fool. This... whatever fragile truce they'd maintained, was a house of cards waiting for a desert wind to raze it to the ground. He was supposed to focus on finding answers about Barbara, about his little girl, about why everything had been taken from him. Instead, he planned meals around her patrol schedule, anticipating the sound of her boots on the porch, the warm weight of her body curled next to his in the darkness.

The memory of her hand tracing the scars on his chest, a touch hesitant yet filled with fierce acceptance, tightened his throat with an emotion he couldn't name. Love? That seemed too grand, too clean, for the desperate need that raged within him. Yet, it was the closest word he had.

The floorboards creaked under his restless pacing. He'd tried to busy himself, fixing the leaky faucet, and reinforcing the rickety porch rail. But the motions were empty, devoid of purpose. The gnawing dread that usually kept him moving, always on guard, was now replaced by a strange hollowness that echoed with every creak and groan of the ageing house. It wasn't the fear of being hunted, of facing death at the hands of raiders, or the unforgiving desert. It was the fear of what he'd lose if he walked out that door, the knowledge that he'd never find a home like this again.

Beyond the wind whistling through broken shutters, there was the steady tick of the old grandfather clock in the hallway, marking time more relentlessly than the movement of the sun. Ace should have been back by now. Patrol was usually a predictable rhythm - a few hours, a few scuffles, a whole lot of complaints from the usual suspects.

Suddenly, a scream shattered the tense silence of the house. His breath hitched in his throat. That voice... harsh, defiant, and tinged with a terror he'd never heard before.

"Ace!" The word tore from him, a raw, animalistic sound. Before the echo died, he was out the door, feet moving faster than his mind could process.

The front porch was empty, the dusty street deserted. Which way? Where could they have taken her? He cast about frantically, his senses straining for a clue, a noise, anything. Then, Tessa, tears streaking her face and her pinned curls in tatters, burst through the doorway, her face white as a sheet.

"Mr. Cooper!" she sobbed, grasping at his threadbare sleeve. "They... they took her! I heard her scream, oh God, just now, up the street..."

The rest of her choked explanation was drowned out by the icy wave of fear cascading through him, punctuated by the roar of blood pumping in his ears. Love, betrayal, fear, rage – they coalesced into a single, terrifying clarity. His blurred vision focused on the broken door, the shards of sunlight shimmering ont he trampled earth beyond.

He didn't need to hear the rest of Tessa's words. They took her. And now, they'd answer to him.

Chapter Text

The primal energy swirling around the ghoul wasn't merely rage. It was a whirlwind of anguish, a maelstrom of self-loathing. In his once-familiar eyes, now a monstrous inferno, his tortured spirit blazed. His voice, normally a gentle rasp, echoed with the guttural threat of a caged beast ready to break free.

"Stay inside," he rasped, his voice a jagged blade cutting through the stale air. "Stay low, and for the love of God, Tessa, don't come out until the world stops screaming."

Tessa's heart pounded in her ribcage. Each drumbeat was a spike of icy terror searing through her. Something in the very air had changed, twisting into a suffocating dread. Yet, it was the sorrow in his eyes, deeper than any abyss, that truly broke her.

The workshop door creaked open, then slammed shut with a bone-jarring thud. The air crackled with the smells of splintering wood and scorched metal – a scent as sharp and bitter as her terror. Each crash, each guttural groan, was a whip-crack against Tessa's raw nerves.

After an eternity of agonising silence, the house pulsed with a heavy quiet. Then, the front door splintered inward, the wood reduced to matchsticks under the force of his rage.

He stood framed in the doorway, a gunslinger from a nightmare. In the crook of his arm rested a battered shotgun, its barrel improbably long. A well-worn revolver hung low on his hip, the leather gleam catching the fading light. Across his back, a crude leather strap held a hunting rifle in place.

He was a walking arsenal, and the air around him seemed to crackle with the promise of violence.

With a ferocious snarl, he swept out onto the porch, his shadowy figure casting monstrous, elongated shadows across the deserted street. Tessa cowered in terror, peeking through a crack in the boarded-up window. He was like a storm cloud rolling towards the town, ready to unleash his wrath.

Though Tessa wasn't the praying type, she clasped her hands together, her pleas for salvation tumbling into the quiet.

Dusty Plain materialised in the distance. As Cooper drew closer, shapes resolved themselves from the dust – men, dozens of them, armed to the teeth. Their faces held a strange mix of fear and bloodlust. In the strange stillness, it resembled a clumsy standoff from one of his old movies. But this was real. And they were waiting for him.

Every man in town, and some he didn't recognise, stood armed with makeshift weapons. Guns, knives, axes... and in Ezra's case, the jagged stump of his missing fingers pointed towards him like a gruesome accusation.

And there, in the eye of the storm, knelt Ace.

Blood marred her face, staining her cheeks and lips crimson. Her denim jacket was soaked in it, some patches so heavy with the sticky substance that the iron tang made his stomach churn. Even more gruesome were the bloody handprints leading upwards, leaving a trail of evidence of something far more brutal. He couldn't tell if she was looking at him. One eye was swollen shut, the other slick with red. And pressed against the back of her skull, as if guaranteeing her compliance, was the cold steel barrel of a revolver.

Fury ignited within Cooper, blazing hotter than any desert sun. Every bruise on Ace's face, every ounce of pain they'd inflicted, demanded vengeance. Still, he held his ground, every muscle tense. "Let. Her. Go," he growled, each word a promise of utter violence.

"Now, now," the Sheriff tsked, his mask of cowardice replaced with sinister glee. "Ain't that the way of it? Hero comes to save the damsel. Too bad she's already damaged goods, tainted by consorting with the likes of you."

The mob surged forward, their shouts and jeers a cacophony of hatred. "Stay back," Cooper warned, his voice a chilling snarl. "One more step, and I paint this town red."

The Sheriff raised a hand. "You ain't walkin' away from this, ghoul. Best you drop those weapons, make this easy." He gestured towards Ace. "Or maybe the deputy here'll be gettin' a new hole in her pretty head."

"Don't listen to him, Coop! Run-" A gunshot silenced her plea. Her scream, raw and ragged, echoed in the square, cutting through Cooper like a serrated knife.

With a roar split between rage and despair, he dropped his weapons. The shotgun clattered harmlessly against the cobblestones, followed by the dull thud of his revolver. His heart shattered in his chest. If this was what it took to keep her alive... so be it.

The Sheriff let out a cackle. "That's it. Nice and easy." He paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "It didn't have to be this way, y'know. They warned me about you - that you might come along asking questions."

Men surged forward, armed with chains and a suspiciously dark-stained rag. Even as Ace squirmed against her restraints, trying to warn him again, a harsh blow from the Sheriff's gun silenced her. The gag muffled his cries, turning his desperate pleas into a choked gurgle.

While their focus remained locked on one another, Ace wasn't idle. Each ragged breath brought a subtle shift, a surreptitious twist of her wrists. The cold steel of the chains bit into her bruised skin, but she ignored the pain. With every minute movement, the links loosened, just a hair's breadth at a time. She was a wildcat poised to strike.

Cooper's voice, distorted by the gag, was a muffled rumble of protest. He strained against the ropes that bound him, not to escape, but to draw their attention, to create a distraction. Every futile lunge was a gamble, a calculated effort to shield Ace's careful, unnoticed struggle.

Then, the Sheriff spoke, his voice laced with chilling theatricality. "You see, Mr. Cooper," he drawled, relishing the moment, "we both got... connections. To those folks in the fancy vaults, those who think they're better than us."

He gestured vaguely towards the sky as if the sterile ceilings of a forgotten bunker lay just above the dust clouds. "Those folks... they think the world ended when the bombs fell. But we know better, don't we? Out here, we rebuild. Make somethin' new."

A cold dread seeped into Cooper's gut. This wasn't just about small-town vendettas or his monstrous form. This was about something far more insidious. The Sheriff was a puppet, a madman puppeteered by the lingering tendrils of a monstrous corporation.

"But those Vault folks..." the Sheriff continued, his grin widening, "...they're nervous. Word travels, even out here. Turns out, there's survivors. Ghouls tougher than even they planned for. And they don't like it, see? They think it throws off the whole... experiment." Cooper's mind reeled. Ghouls, survivors, experiments – the gears turned, each terrible revelation feeding one monstrous realisation. His past, Barbara, Vault Tech...

"Now, I like what I've built here," the Sheriff mused, stepping closer. "Quiet life, bit of authority. But they... well, they got a lot riding' on this. A lot of favours to call in, y'understand?"

As the men flanking him shifted uneasily, Ace felt the chains slip. It was just enough. With a burst of desperate adrenaline, she wriggled free, the metal clinking softly. The movement was subtle, lost in the escalating tension, yet to her, it was the roar of a thousand engines.

"See, they told me right from the start," the Sheriff's voice dropped almost to a whisper, yet it echoed through the square, "one thing, one rule. If a certain Mr. Cooper Howard ever showed his ugly mug up... well, that was a problem that needed taking care of."

His eyes searched desperately for Ace. Did she understand? Could she grasp the true horror, the magnitude of the betrayal? Her startled gaze met his, but the clarity in it wasn't fear – it was confusion, a deep hurt twisting her features. To her, it was all a lie. He'd fooled her. Everything, every stolen glance, every shared breath, a sham.

Ace stared at Cooper, the accusation in her gaze slicing through him far deeper than any bullet. "Who are you?" she choked out, her voice barely a whisper above the stunned silence. "Who the hell are you?" Her words were laced with a fury he'd never heard from her, a raw wound exposed by the depths of his deception.

A flicker of shame shot through him, a familiar sting he'd spent years numbing. He tried to answer, to explain, but the gag choked the words. He thrashed against his bonds, a futile attempt to free his voice, to beg for a chance to... what? Deny it? Explain? Justify? None of those words felt right.

The Sheriff let out a low chuckle, a sound more like a rattlesnake's hiss than human laughter. "Seems your little girlfriend has more fight in her than you, Mr. Howard." He could see the calculation in the man's eyes, the cold realisation that this wasn't about revenge or even some abstract order from long-dead masters. This was about power in its rawest form. "Maybe there's hope for her yet."

Ace met the Sheriff's gaze with a defiance that made Cooper's ache with a sickening mix of pride and dread. He wanted to shout a warning, to beg her to run, to save herself, but the gag choked his voice, leaving him a helpless witness to the unfolding disaster.

The Sheriff gestured, and one of his goons stepped forward, nervously offering Ace a gleaming revolver. With a flick of his finger, another man tossed her badge to the ground. The metal clinked against the cobblestones, a hollow echo in the deafening silence.

"Now, Deputy," the Sheriff's voice held a sickeningly sweet tone, "here's your moment. Do the smart thing, save your skin. Take care of that... problem." He gestured towards Cooper with a dismissive sneer. "We all know who the real monster is, right? The ghoul who sank his claws into you, whispered his poison, made you forget where you belong."

Every word was a blow, twisting the knife of Cooper's deception. He thrashed against his bonds, his muffled grunt a desperate echo of protest.

The words hung in the air, a challenge in the face of the mob's nervous whispers. Ace drew herself up. These men... they were her neighbours, some of them, friends. Yet, fear and greed had twisted them into something monstrous. She stared at the gun in her hand as if it were a venomous snake, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold steel. She glanced from the weapon to her discarded badge, then at him – the ghoul, the monster, the man who had shown her kindness when no one else had.

The men around them shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Ace and the Sheriff. The tension was a palpable thing, a noose tightening around them all. The moment stretched, a heartbeat echoing in eternity.

Then, with a swift, defiant movement, Ace raised the revolver. The Sheriff smirked a predator's satisfaction at the corner of his mouth. But it wasn't him she aimed at.

The first shot echoed like thunder, severing the rope that bound Cooper's wrists. The second sliced through the air, followed by a grunt of pain as the gag tore away, releasing a guttural snarl that sent a shiver down the Sheriff's spine.

"Run," she hissed at Cooper, her voice tight with barely suppressed fury. "Don't you dare look back." It wasn't a plea, it was an order, barked by a woman who'd been pushed too far.

Cooper, for once in his long, strange life, obeyed without hesitation. He didn't run – it was more of a desperate stumble, a wounded beast scrambling for cover. But every ragged step took him further from the woman with the gun and the haunted look in her eyes.

"Damn you, girl!" The Sheriff roared, scrambling back as Ace trained the weapon on him. "You think you can defy them? They'll come for you, they'll-"

The threat dissolved into a pained gurgle as Ace squeezed the trigger again. The Sheriff crumpled a look of shocked disbelief frozen on his face, his blood pooling beneath him in a crimson indictment.

"Go," she ordered, aiming the gun at his chest with a steady hand. The crowd scattered, their collective breath a hiss of fear and confusion. "Go, and don't ever come back."

His voice was hoarse, rusty with disuse and betrayal. "Ace, please... come with me... we can..."

She cut him off, the fire in her voice now tinged with a desperate kind of sorrow. "Don't you get it? There is no 'we' anymore. Next time I see you," she levelled the gun, her finger tightening on the trigger, "I won't miss." He flinched the pain in his eyes a mirror of her own.

Then, with a last, desolate look, he turned and disappeared into the gathering twilight, his skeletal form swallowed by the shadows of the wasteland. Ace watched him disappear into the twilight, the gun heavy in her hand. 

It was an unsatisfying ending, a victory that tasted like ashes. She'd chosen Dusty Plains, yes, but it wasn't a triumph. It was survival. It was the weight of a badge tarnished by a choice she never should have had to make.

And as the echoes of his shuffling footsteps faded away, she was alone.

The next morning, Dusty Plain was as it always was – a harsh, unforgiving expanse. Ace surveyed the destruction. The blood staining her hands, the lingering scent of gunpowder, and the chilling realisation that she was now both saviour and destroyer were burdens she was left to bear.

She buried the Sheriff near the church, without sentimental tributes or flowery speeches - just a simple makeshift headstone and a quick spit on his grave as a final farewell.

Chapter Text

So when Cooper stood against the peeling doorframe decades later, his gaze fell upon what used to be the kitchen – now reduced to rubble, with broken cabinets, a rusty faucet, and shattered pieces of two, no three, coffee mugs scattered on the floor. He couldn't help but feel a prickling sensation in his eyes as tears threatened to spill over.

Over the years, he'd wondered what became of the deputy – his deputy. He'd hoped against hope she was happy; she deserved that much. 

Sometimes, a ghost of her would flicker at the edge of his vision – sunlight glinting on familiar hair, the echo of a laugh on the wind. It was fleeting, an ache as real as the pain of a missing limb. Yet, even in his bleakest moments, he never pictured this – her living in squalor, bitterness clinging to her like the stench of refuse.

After a meagre dinner consisting of dented cans of beans begrudgingly tossed their way by Ace, a heavy silence settled over them. The only sound was the faint creaking of the rickety lawn chair where Ace sat, grimly surveying the barren patch that had once been a garden. Not a word had been spoken since their pathetic meal. Lucy had fallen asleep almost immediately, thankful to not be sleeping on the hard ground again. She and Dogmeat curled up on the old sofa bed, its rusty springs poking through the threadbare fabric.

"Judas," Cooper muttered, catching the contented snores from the canine. 

The sight of the two of them sleeping, so small and quiet, was both painful and strangely comforting for him. He blinked back tears and quietly cleared his throat. He then shuffled over to the pile of cabinets on the floor, determined to find a drink. If this was going to be a long night, he figured he might as well be drunk for it.

He found a battered tin cup and a bottle of something rotgut-brown and unlabelled. With practised ease born of despair and too many nights like this, he poured two fingers' worth, ignoring the way the liquid burned a fiery path down his throat. The second drink was smoother, the harshness dulled by resignation. Setting the bottle down, he leaned against the broken counter, the warped wood digging into his back. It was a fitting punishment, he supposed.

"Are you planning on drinking yourself to death?" Her voice, rough and unfamiliar, suddenly broke through the heavy silence that surrounded them. He hadn't even heard her approaching footsteps, so lost was he in his own thoughts.

Cooper didn't turn. "Maybe. Seems better than most other options these days." He took another deep pull from the cup, savouring the numbing heat of the liquor.

He felt her shift, the creak of the chair causing Lucy and Dogmeat to stir before the snores returned. "Didn't figure you for a coward," she scoffed, a venom in her voice that stung worse than the cheap booze.

With a sigh, Cooper turned to face her. He'd hoped the alcohol would dull the pain of seeing her like this. He was wrong. Ace now sat hunched in the fading light. Her eyes, once whiskey-warm, were now flint-hard.

"I ain't no coward," he rasped, the words feeling heavy and thick. "Just... tired."

"Tired of what? Running?" She leaned forward, the accusation sharp as a rusty blade. "Or tired of caring?"

His grip on the cup tightened, his knuckles turning white. Damn her, damn her for seeing right through him. "Both, I reckon," he confessed, the words barely a whisper.

A bitter laugh echoed in the room. "Always did have a talent for leaving, didn't you?" She stood, her movements stiff and deliberate. "Slippin' away, like a thief."

The guilt flared hot. He'd done what he had to, convinced himself it was for the best. But the look in her eyes, the accusation in her voice, chipped away at that fading certainty. "I had..." he started, then faltered. What could he say? That he was a monster? That her safety, her happiness, meant more than his own? He doubted the words would ring true now, not after all this time.

She stalked towards him, her footsteps heavy on the dirt floor. "Don't you dare..." Her voice cracked, the anger giving way to a raw vulnerability that cut deeper than any insult. "Don't you dare act like I was somethin' precious you had to protect."

He met her gaze, unflinching. "Maybe," he admitted, his voice rough, "maybe I didn't get it right. You deserved a better chance than the one I could give."

She closed the distance between them, her face a mask of fury inches from his own. "You think you know what I deserved?" she spat, the words laced with a fury that mirrored his own despair.

"No," his voice was barely audible, "guess I don't."

As the deafening silence enveloped them, he couldn't help but notice the small sounds that seemed to amplify in the stillness - the rasp of her breath, the creak of the floorboards beneath her worn boots. Outside, a distant howl pierced through the quiet, echoing the emptiness and loneliness in his chest.

Then abruptly, she turned and walked away. "Get some sleep, ghoul," she muttered, her voice thick, "You, the girl and the mutt better be gone by sunrise."

It wasn't a dismissal, not exactly. But it was as close to an invitation to stay as he was ever going to get. With a weary sigh, he finished the drink, the warmth spreading through him a poor substitute for the real thing. Maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of the old Ace buried under the layers of bitterness. And maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to fan that spark back to life. Or perhaps it was just the whiskey talking. Either way, sleep, blessedly, wouldn't be too far behind.

He set the empty tin cup down, the clang of metal against warped wood sounding shockingly loud in the silence. Then, before second thoughts or fear of further rejection could take hold, he stepped out of the ruined kitchen and into the twilight.

"Ace..." he began, his voice low and hesitant, before pausing.

She flinched at the sound, but didn't turn. "What do you want?" Her voice was raw, the rough edges barely concealing the tremble beneath.

He took a slow step forward, then another. "I don't know," he admitted, the honesty surprising even himself. "To... apologise, I guess. Even if it ain't worth a damn thing now."

Finally, she turned. Harsh moonlight etched the lines of weariness on her face, the shadows under her eyes like bruises. "Apologies are cheap out here, ghoul. They don't fill an empty belly or fix a broken heart." Her voice held the echo of that long-ago defiance, but it was blunted, ragged at the edges.

"Mine's pretty damn busted too," he confessed, closing the distance between them. He stopped a few feet away, still unsure, still afraid of rejection.

She let out a bitter laugh. "Guess that makes two of us." A beat of heavy silence followed, broken only by the mournful wail of the wind.

He shifted, restless and uncertain. "You shouldn't be out here alone," he said finally, the worry in his voice genuine.

"Don't you start with that," she snapped, her gaze flashing dangerously. "Don't you dare act like you give a damn after all these years."

His shoulders slumped in resignation. "I know, I know. It was wrong to leave the way I did." He ran a hand under his hat, the gesture heavy with weariness. "But the truth is, I never stopped..." He hesitated, searching for words that had eluded him for decades.

"Never stopped what?" Her voice was softer now, but still guarded.

"Never stopped caring," he whispered, the confession hanging in the air between them.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, as if unable to bear the weight of the unspoken, she turned her back to him. The gesture was a dismissal, but not a harsh one. It was a sliver of uncertainty, a flicker of vulnerability in a woman who'd built her life on defiance and solitude.

"You're drunk. Go to bed," she muttered over her shoulder.

Something about the softness in her voice, the vulnerability barely hidden beneath the gruff exterior, snagged at Cooper. He wasn't ready for this fragile peace to settle, not yet.

"Mind if I keep you company for a bit longer... Ace?" He used her name tentatively, testing the waters.

She turned, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Then, with a humourless snort, she gestured towards the rickety wooden steps leading up to the porch. "Suit yourself."

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, both lost in their own thoughts. The wasteland stretched out before them, a vast canvas painted in shades of grey and rust. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the occasional distant howl of something in the distance.

"So," Cooper finally broached, his voice cautious. "Dusty Plains... didn't figure that town would last long after I left. What happened?"

Calamity leaned against a cracked support beam, the lines on her face deepening in the fading twilight. "Same as most townsfolk do out here... drifted away." She shrugged, the motion belying the weight of years spent shouldering the burden alone. "Raiders, drought, bad water, or just the simple fact that a broken-down desert town ain't much of a dream to hang onto."

He took another pull of the harsh liquor, relishing the burning sensation. "You, though... you stayed."

"Damn fool stubbornness mostly," she muttered, a self-deprecating smile ghosting her lips. "Or maybe..." A shadow crossed her face, a glimpse into a vulnerability she quickly concealed.

A ghost of a familiar hope flickered in Cooper's chest. Had she been waiting all these years? But before he could ask, she continued, her voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone. "...Then there were the husbands. Figured a lone woman would be easy pickings, so I got hitched. One-by-one, they bit the dust." She gestured vaguely towards a patch of overgrown weeds and wildflowers. "All three of 'em out there."

The casual way she mentioned their deaths sent a chill down his spine. He stole a glance toward the graveyard, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Not three men, all attached to Ace, all ending up buried out back.

"Three husbands seem..." he hesitated, unsure how to tread. "...unlucky."

She snorted. "Unlucky? Hell, it's a curse, is what it is. But don't go feeling sorry for 'em," she added, her gaze sharp. "They were no prizes. Just men trying to survive, same as everyone."

He took another swig from the bottle, pondering her words. There was something off about how dismissive she was, how quick to deflect curiosity about her life after he disappeared.

"Speaking of surviving..." Cooper began, setting the bottle down. "You spent some time on the wrong side of a jail cell in New Reno, didn't you?" He couldn't keep the question at bay any longer. Word traveled fast in the wastes, even rumours about a certain stubborn deputy-turned-outlaw a few states away.

Ace's hand instinctively brushed her side, where her gun holster would have been had she not tossed it aside so carelessly earlier.

"News travels fast, huh?" she said with a bitter chuckle. "Yeah, spent a few years locked up on account of some bad decisions and worse company." Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the railing.

He nodded slowly. The pieces started to click into place – the darkness in her eyes, the cynical edge to her voice. Prison time hardened a person, wore away any glimmer of innocence the wasteland hadn't already tarnished.

"Guess we've both seen our share of darkness," Cooper said quietly. "Doesn't make us bad people though, right?" His gaze settled on hers, an unspoken question hanging between them.

Ace sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. "Right," she echoed. She took another swig from the bottle, the fire of the liquor momentarily warming the coldness in her eyes. "Best we just leave some things in the past, maybe?"

The stars twinkled brightly above them, and Cooper couldn't help but think back to his life before the bombs fell, before the radiation twisted him into a monster. What would that Cooper have made of all of this? He'd have liked Ace, he decided, or at least who she was.

"Tell me about yours," she said quietly, her voice thick, breaking through his reverie. "Your bounties... your hunts... I saw your old posters. THE Ghoul, the wasteland's most infamous bounty hunter. Must've been quite the life."

She said it with curiosity and a hint of bitterness. He shrugged, the ache in his bones mirrored by the weariness in his voice. "Chasing shadows mostly, trying to outrun some that were catching up fast." He ran a calloused hand across his skeletal features, a subconscious gesture he'd been unable to kick.

But amidst the darkness and lonely miles, there had been moments. Flashes of excitement, the thrill of the hunt, even the occasional flicker of satisfaction when justice – rough as it was out here – prevailed. He spun those into stories, letting the warmth of the cheap liquor loosen his tongue. And as he talked, haltingly at first, then with more ease as the memories rose to the surface, he saw a glimmer of something in her eyes.

The night wore on, their voices mingling with the rustle of the wind through skeletal trees. Each shared story was a brick removed from the wall of silence built between them over the years. He spun tales of daring chases, narrow escapes, and encounters with some of the wasteland's most hardened criminals. And, in those half-forgotten memories, a ghost of his once-sharp wit and playful charm resurfaced, coaxing a reluctant smile from her lips.

Soon, the bottle lay forgotten between them, its contents long since drained. Their shoulders almost touched, a comforting warmth in the cold desert night. Silence fell, but it wasn't the uncomfortable kind.

Her gaze, once guarded, now held something like understanding, perhaps even a flicker of the old connection they'd shared. He leaned in, as if drawn by a force beyond his control. Time seemed to slow, each ragged breath, every whispered word hanging heavy in the air.

"Ace," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, "I..."

Her eyes, reflecting the starlight and the ghost of buried feelings, were wide. In that moment, the years seemed to melt away. He saw not Calamity, the hardened survivor, but the woman she had been before life became a series of brutal lessons. He saw the echo of the deputy he loved.

Then, as if a sudden rush of cold water doused the flickering flame, she pulled back. She averted her gaze, the hard lines returning to her face. "Don't," she muttered, the single word laced with a bitterness that stung him deeper than any rejection. "Don't do this."

His heart sank. Of course, she wouldn't, couldn't, allow herself a moment of weakness after building a fortress of cynicism around her broken heart.

"Sorry," he mumbled, the apology bitter on his tongue. "Didn't mean to..."

She rose with a sigh, a weary echo in the desolate night. "It ain't your fault," she said, her voice resigned. "Just too many ghosts, I reckon." 

With that, she turned and disappeared into the dilapidated house, leaving him alone on the porch, his heart as heavy as a tombstone.

The unwelcome glare of the morning sun pierced through the broken boards of the house like a judgmental spotlight. Cooper groaned, squinting against the harsh light as he fumbled for his hat. His head pounded with a rhythm that perfectly mirrored the clatter of tin cans rolling across the kitchen floor. Inside, Lucy hummed a cheerful tune, the tune perfectly in time to the throbbing inside his skull.

"Found some coffee!" she announced with unwarranted enthusiasm. "It's uh... well," she hesitated, sniffing at the murky brew, "it's brown, at least?"

He managed a wry grunt in reply. Beside her, Dogmeat whined, scratching at the door like a furry demon trying to escape.

As the questionable coffee sent jolts of pain straight into his skull, his gaze drifted across the kitchen. Ace was nowhere to be found, her absence a deafening silence amidst the remnants of last night's aborted truce. 

In the harsh daylight, the pathetic feast of dented cans, stale crackers, and the gnawed bones of some long-deceased creature seemed a sad reflection of their reunion. His stomach churned in protest.

"What happened with you and Calamity last night?" Lucy asked, her voice innocent but piercing. She slurped the last of her coffee with a grimace and a retch.

Cooper shifted in his seat, the groan of the rickety chair blending with the groan in his head. "Not much," he muttered, evading her question.

Lucy quirked an eyebrow at him, refusing to be deterred. "It seemed like... maybe you were getting somewhere? You were both smiling."

He tried for a nonchalant shrug, but winced when it sent a fresh wave of pain through his skull. "Old times," he mumbled, hoping to shut down the conversation.

"So is she coming with us?" Lucy persisted, her eyes wide with hopeful expectation.

The question hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. He looked down at his blistered hands, avoiding her gaze. "I... I don't think so, kiddo."

"But why not?" Her voice was tinged with disappointment, and a pang of regret pierced through his hangover haze. "Maybe she just needs a bit of time..."

"Time ain't gonna fix what's broken," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. 

Before Lucy could ask any more questions – and he dreaded the answers he might be forced to give – Dogmeat began barking with a frantic energy that bordered on desperation.

"What's up with her?" Lucy asked, frowning as Dogmeat clawed frantically at the peeling door.

Cooper rose, every movement a protest from his abused body. "Probably just needs to... you know..." He gestured vaguely as he shuffled towards the door, hoping the mutt would settle with a bit of fresh air.

But there was a frenzy in Dogmeat's demeanour that sent a flicker of unease through him. The dog wasn't acting like... well, a dog at all. Lucy, sensing his concern, followed at his heels.

They stepped onto the porch, and the source of Dogmeat's distress became glaringly obvious. The animal was frantically pawing at the overgrown patch of weeds at the edge of the yard. The same patch of weeds that marked the final resting place of Calamity's unfortunate husbands.

"Hey! Cut it out," Lucy chided, tugging on Dogmeat's collar. The dog ignored her, whining and digging with renewed determination.

A chill ran down Cooper's spine. Something wasn't right. Those weeds hadn't looked so dense yesterday. And Dogmeat had been well-behaved... almost subdued, in fact. Now, a sense of foreboding settled over him.

"Lucy, step back a bit," Cooper said, his voice low and cautious.

She obeyed, her expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He approached the graves cautiously, every fibre of his being on high alert. The sun beat down with relentless intensity, the silence broken only by Dogmeat's frantic whimpers.

Then he saw it. A sliver of tattered fabric, the faded blue of denim, poked out from the freshly disturbed soil. And beneath it... the unmistakable glint of bleached bone.

A sudden wave of nausea washed over him. This was not a tidy row of three graves like Ace had claimed. He took a step closer, an icy dread settling in his gut. The mounds of earth were uneven, haphazard – a far cry from carefully dug plots.

His fingers fumbled with the fabric. 

A scream echoed across the wasteland, a piercing cry of terror that tore from Lucy's throat, as he revealed a partially decomposed face, its flesh eaten away in patches, its eyes staring accusingly at the unforgiving sky.

And it wasn't alone. 

With trembling hands, he brushed away more dirt, revealing another body, another, and another. At least a dozen corpses lay entwined in this grim burial plot – men and women, some reduced to skeletal remains, others with horrifying glimpses of flesh remaining.

A twig snapped behind them. Cooper whirled around, his hand instinctively reaching for the holstered pistol that wasn't there. Lucy stood frozen, her face pale as bone, her scream still hanging in the stagnant air.

Then, emerging from the skeletal trees at the edge of the yard, came Ace. Her shotgun was trained on them, a deadly glint in her narrowed eyes. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she snarled, her voice tight with barely controlled fury.

Cooper didn't move, his gaze locked on the weapon pointed at his chest. "Ace..." he rasped, his voice thick with a dread deeper than the grave before him. "What... what is this?"

"None of your business," she spat, her finger tightening on the trigger. "Now get away from there."

He ignored her, his eyes scanning the macabre scene before him. The sheer number of bodies, the way they were buried, this wasn't just putting people to rest. Chunks were missing, like the cheap cuts off a pig. 

"Cannibalism, Ace?" He forced the words out, his voice a guttural whisper.

A flicker of something – perhaps anger, perhaps pain – crossed her face for a fleeting moment before she slammed it shut. "Don't be a fool, Cooper," she snapped. "There's nothing to see here."

But it was too late. The seed of doubt, once planted, sprouted with a horrifying speed. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. The lines etched deep on her face, the unnatural glint in her eyes, a certain stiffness in her movements – none of it fit the picture of a woman weathered by the harsh realities of the wasteland for a mere forty years.

He slowly straightened, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "Funny, you don't strike me as the type to shy away from... a little extra protein."

"Don't you dare..."

He raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze swept over the macabre tableau, a horrifying puzzle slowly starting to piece itself together. 

"Forty years," he murmured, the words barely audible. "That's what you told me. Forty years you've been here, alone."

He locked eyes with her, his own filled with a dawning horror. "But these... these bodies... they tell a different story, Calamity. A much older story."

A flicker of something like panic crossed her face, a momentary chink in her carefully constructed facade. He pressed on, his voice gaining a steely edge. "How long has it really been, Ace?" A cold realisation settled over him, a more chilling truth than the graveyard at their feet. 

"Ace..." he breathed, the name catching in his throat. "You're... you're like me."

She looked at him, a flicker of something like pity crossing her hardened features. "Like you?" she scoffed, a humourless laugh escaping her lips. "No, Coop. I am so much worse than you."

Chapter Text

Cooper’s mouth went dry. He wanted to deny it, wanted to tell himself he’d misread the graves, that it was some wasteland horror with nothing to do with her. 

But her eyes — god, her eyes — told him the truth he didn’t want.

Lucy clutched at his sleeve, whisper-squeaking through her panic, “She’s… she’s not— she can’t be…”

“Go inside,” Cooper rasped, never looking away from the shotgun. “Now.”

Lucy hesitated, trembling, torn between terror and stubbornness. But Dogmeat nudged her, herded her, and finally she stumbled back toward the doorway.

That left only the two of them.

“You hid this,” Cooper said, voice flat, brittle. “You hid it all these years. Why?”

Ace’s lip curled, baring teeth that were just a little too sharp in the sunlight. “Because it ain’t somethin’ you put on a welcome mat, Coop. ‘Howdy, I’m Deputy Ace Matthews, and by the way, I eat folks when the nights get cold.’ That don’t keep raiders off your porch. That don’t keep the lonely outta your bed.”

His hands clenched. “You… married men. Buried ‘em out here. Ate—”

“Don’t you dare make it sound simple.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You think I wanted this? You think I asked for it?!” She jabbed the barrel of the shotgun closer, fury sparking in her eyes. 

“It was after you left. After Dusty Plains fell. Some raider came sniffin’ ‘round, and I was hungry enough to put him down. Then hungrier still the next week. And the week after. And one day… I realised the hunger wasn’t just in my gut.”

Cooper staggered back, bile rising. “You shoulda told someone. Shoulda told anyone.”

Her laugh was a broken thing, hollow as the wind through the dead garden. “Told who, Coop? The Brotherhood? The NCR? They’d have burned me at the stake. And hell knows where you were.”

Something inside him twisted. He saw her not just as the woman he’d left behind, not just as the bitter survivor, but as something else entirely: a ghoul who’d crossed a line he’d never dared.

Her shotgun wavered. For a heartbeat, her face softened, raw pain flickering through the mask. 

“You left me to rot,” she whispered. “And I did. Just… not in the way you thought.”

The silence pressed heavy between them, broken only by the faint shuffle of Lucy’s feet inside, Dogmeat whining low.

Finally, Cooper spoke. “So what now, Ace? You gonna shoot me? Bury me with the rest?”

Her finger tightened on the trigger. Then loosened. Then tightened again.

“Don’t tempt me,” she said, voice shaking. Her knuckles whitened, the leather strap on the stock creaking under the strain.

“You know, Ace… in all my years, I’ve put down more ferals than I care to count. Shot ‘em before they bit someone, before they hurt themselves. Always told myself it was a mercy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You sayin’ I need mercy, Coop?”

“I’m sayin’ I oughta put you down,” he said, voice low, calm, like he was talking himself through the trigger pull. “Would be kinder than lettin’ you keep livin’ like this.”

For a second, she almost smiled. Not warm, not fond — but crooked, mean, like the Ace he remembered. 

“Thing is, ghoul,” she said, cocking the shotgun just enough to make his heart lurch, “I ain’t feral. I ain’t stupid. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna sit still while you play white knight.”

He snorted, a humourless bark of laughter. “Never thought you’d be the one to make me feel like the sane one in the room.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, but the bite in her tone was blunted by something else — fear, maybe, or shame.

They stood there, two relics of a world long gone, the graves yawning open between them. 

For a heartbeat, Cooper imagined it — drawing first, faster than her finger could squeeze. Ending it clean, one shot through the heart. A mercy, like he always said.

But his hand never moved. Because damn it all, she wasn’t some glassy-eyed feral. She was still Ace. Still the deputy who’d kept him honest, once upon a time. Still sharp enough to call him a coward when he needed it.

And maybe still quicker on the draw.

“You’re right about one thing,” he said finally, letting out a slow breath. “I always was good at leavin’.” He took one deliberate step back from the graves, hands raised just high enough to show he wasn’t reaching for steel. “Guess it’s a damn shame I’m still bad at knowin’ when to stay gone.”

Her shotgun didn’t drop, but her eyes flickered — just for an instant. A crack in the armour.

“Get outta my yard, Coop,” she said hoarsely. “Before I decide one more grave won’t make a difference.”

He gave a lopsided smile, sharp and tired. “Thing is, darlin’, you never were good at diggin’ straight. Yard’s lookin’ mighty crowded already.”

That earned him a twitch — not quite a grin, not quite a snarl. And just like that, the standoff stretched on, two ghosts waiting to see which one of ’em blinked first.

Her eyes were iron, her jaw set, but her voice was acid. “You always were good at talkin’ circles, Coop. Problem is, circles don’t end anywhere. Just keep spinnin’ till you drop.”

He barked a laugh, short and humourless. “Funny, comin’ from the woman who’s been sittin’ on this porch forty years, collectin’ husbands like bottlecaps.”

Her lips curled. “Least they stayed longer than you did.”

That one hit, sharp as buckshot. Cooper winced, but he didn’t back down. “Yeah, well. They stayed ‘cause you ate ‘em, Ace.”

Her grip tightened, the hammer of the shotgun clicking back with a menacing snap.

“One more word outta you, ghoul, and you’ll be next.”

“Aw, Ace, you wouldn’t waste the ammo.” He gestured lazily toward the graveyard. 

“Plenty o’ protein sittin’ right there if you get peckish. Guessin’ you like it tenderized first, though?”

For a moment, she looked like she might pull the trigger just to shut him up. Instead, she let out a sharp laugh — bitter, humourless. 

“You still run that mouth like it’s a weapon. Shame it never saved you from lookin’ like jerky hangin’ too long on the line.”

He tilted his head, hat brim shadowing the hollows of his face. “Jerky lasts, Ace. Husbands? Seems they go quicker.”

The air between them was taut, stretched to snapping. Her finger flexed on the trigger. His hand hovered, not quite near his sidearm, not quite retreating.

And that’s when the door slammed open.

“For God’s sake, STOP IT!” Lucy burst out onto the porch, her little fists clenched, her face pale with fury. Dogmeat was right at her heels, barking frantically.

Ace whipped around on instinct, shotgun jerking up — the muzzle a hair’s breadth from Lucy’s nose.

Cooper’s heart stopped. “Jesus, Ace!” he barked, lunging a step forward.

Lucy froze, eyes wide, breath shuddering. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then Ace exhaled, the sound ragged, and yanked the barrel toward the dirt with a vicious curse. “Damn fool kid,” she spat, though the words shook in her throat. “You walk out like that again, you’ll get a hole big enough to drain you.”

Lucy’s lip trembled, but she squared her shoulders. “Then maybe stop pointing guns at people you’re supposed to care about!”

The silence that followed cut deeper than any bullet. Cooper watched Ace, saw the muscle twitch in her jaw, the way her shoulders stiffened like she’d been slapped.

“Get back inside, Lucy,” Cooper said softly, steady, his eyes never leaving Ace’s.

Lucy huffed, glaring between the two of them, then spun on her heel and stomped back through the doorway, Dogmeat padding behind her. The slam of the door rattled the rotten frame.

Cooper let out a long, shaky breath. “Well,” he muttered, forcing a crooked grin. “That coulda gone worse. Coulda had to dig two fresh holes.”

Ace shot him a look that could’ve cut steel, but for once… she didn’t fire back. 

Instead, Ace lowered the shotgun all the way. “Fine,” she muttered, voice ragged. “Ain’t no point shootin’ each other when the kid’s right — we’d just be feedin’ the dirt.”

Cooper let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “That a truce, then?”

“A ceasefire,” she corrected, glaring. “Don’t go paintin’ it prettier than it is.”

So they went back through the sagging doorway, into the ruined kitchen with its broken cabinets and bitter-smelling coffee. The morning light slanted across the dust and the rotgut bottle, making everything look uglier, harsher, more real.

Nobody spoke for a long while. Ace busied herself with stacking old cans to fill the awkward silence. Cooper nursed the dregs of the cold coffee Lucy had brewed, the taste about as pleasant as chewing on a boot heel. Lucy sat cross-legged on the sofa bed with Dogmeat sprawled across her lap, staring at both of them like she was waiting for another explosion.

Eventually, Ace broke the silence. 

“You got what you came for. A roof for the night. A drink. Little walk down memory lane.” Her voice was flat, brittle. “But that’s it. Time’s up.”

Cooper’s jaw clenched. “That easy, huh? Just toss us back to the sand like stray dogs?”

“You knew the deal,” she shot back, eyes flint-hard. “I ain’t runnin’ a halfway house. My hospitality’s run dry. My need for nostalgia’s sated.” She gave a humourless half-smile, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Ain’t nothin’ left but the hangover.”

Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Cooper held up a hand. “Kid. Don’t.”

He pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking like rusted hinges. “You heard her. We’ll move on.” He tugged his hat low to hide the exhaustion in his face, then gave Ace one last look. “Thanks for the floorboards. And the reminder.”

Her eyes flicked to his — not soft, not forgiving, but not as cruel as they could have been. “Don’t come back, Coop. Next time I won’t let the kid save you.”

Dogmeat whined, Lucy frowned, and Cooper just nodded. Because they both knew — despite the graves, the shotgun, and the ghosts between them — this was as close to kindness as Calamity had left in her.

The desert swallowed them whole.

Three days of sun beating down like a hammer, three nights of cold that gnawed at the bone. They moved in silence more often than not, the crunch of boots and the occasional bark from Dogmeat the only rhythm they kept. Cooper led them west, though he wasn’t sure if it was the right way anymore. 

Maybe he just wanted his back to Ace’s porch, maybe he hoped he'd turn ‘round and she'd be ten paces behind.

By the fourth evening, they’d made camp in the husk of an old gas station. Roof half-collapsed, pumps rusted to nothing, but there was enough shelter from the wind to light a small fire. Lucy sat cross-legged near the flames, feeding Dogmeat scraps of dried meat. Cooper perched on the hood of a long-dead sedan, hat pulled low, flask heavy in his hand.

She watched him a long while before she finally spoke. “I don’t get it.”

His eyes stayed on the horizon. “Don’t get what?”

“Why she didn’t just… come with us.” Lucy’s voice was tentative at first, but grew sharper, more insistent. “Why she didn’t just say she was a ghoul. It’s not like—” She gestured at him, vague and awkward. “—it’s not like you’re exactly… human anymore.”

Dogmeat gave a soft whuff, like he agreed.

Cooper exhaled slow, the flask dangling from his fingers. “Kid…” he started, but the words caught in his throat. He tried again, softer this time. “It ain’t the same.”

“Sure looked the same to me,” Lucy said. “Skin don’t matter. You still talk. You still think. You still care.” She hesitated, then added, “So does she.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But there’s lines, Lucy. Lines even out here folks don’t cross if they wanna keep a piece of themselves.” He finally looked at her, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. “Ace crossed hers. And once you do that… you don’t come back. Not all the way.”

Lucy frowned, chewing on his words. “So you’re sayin’ she’s too far gone?”

He shook his head. “I’m sayin’ she’s still her. But what she’s done… that’s a weight heavier than any bullet. She can’t carry it with us, and she damn sure didn’t want me carryin’ it for her.”

The fire crackled. Dogmeat sighed and laid his head in Lucy’s lap. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Lucy asked, almost in a whisper, “Would you have shot her? Back there?”

Cooper stared into the flames, jaw tight. “Hell,” he muttered, “I’m still tryin’ to figure out why I didn’t.”

The night pressed in, the desert vast and unyielding around them. Lucy shivered, drawing Dogmeat closer. Cooper tipped back his flask, the liquor burning its way down like a brand, but it didn’t warm the cold sitting heavy in his chest.

Lucy’s brow furrowed, her voice steadier now, sharper. “So what makes you better than her, huh?”

The question hit like a sucker punch. Cooper froze, the flask halfway to his mouth. For a long moment he just stared at the fire, jaw grinding.

“I mean it,” Lucy pressed, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You say she crossed a line, but you’re the one who’s spent decades shootin’ folks for caps. You’ve killed more people than she ever ate. So why’s she the monster, and you… what? Some tragic hero?”

Dogmeat stirred, lifting her head from Lucy’s lap, ears twitching uneasily.

Cooper let out a dry, humourless laugh. “You got a mean streak, kid.”

“Answer me.”

He took his time, sipping the last burn from the flask before tucking it away. “Difference is,” he said at last, voice low and tired, “I don’t think about it.” He gave a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “’Cause if I did, reckon I’d go mad.”

Lucy’s frown deepened. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he admitted, dragging his hat down low. “It ain’t.”

The fire crackled and popped, flames shrinking to embers. Shadows stretched long across the cracked tile floor.

Dogmeat stiffened, ears pricking, every muscle taut. A low growl bubbled in her throat.

“Easy, girl,” Cooper muttered, though his hand slid toward the pistol on his hip.

The growl snapped into sharp, frantic barking. Dogmeat shot to her feet, body rigid, hackles up, teeth flashing white in the firelight. She charged the doorway, snarling at the dark.

Lucy scrambled upright. “What’s she seein’?”

Cooper was already moving, boots crunching on glass as he planted himself at the doorframe. Beyond the campfire glow, the desert was black as tar — but something was out there.

Not just moving. Bearing down on them. Heavy. Measured. Like the earth itself was shuddering beneath its steps.

Dogmeat barked again, furious and terrified all at once.

Cooper hissed over his shoulder, “Kill the fire. Now.”

Lucy stomped dirt over the embers, snuffing them out one by one. The last sparks fizzled, and darkness swallowed the station whole.

That’s when the sound came — a guttural, grinding roar, low and thunderous, vibrating through the tiles under their feet.

The desert night went still. Too still.

Dogmeat’s growls deepened, her body a taut bowstring as she braced against the doorframe. Her barks weren’t warning anymore — they were desperate, panicked.

Cooper had felt raiders at his back, ferals in the dark, even super mutants howlin’ for blood. This wasn’t that. This was different. This was worse.

The first sound was the scrape — claws, long as knives, raking stone as whatever it was dragged itself closer. Then came the thump of footsteps, deliberate and slow, each one sinking into the sand with a shudder that made the gas station tremble.

Lucy’s hand crept to Dogmeat’s collar, knuckles white, though she could barely keep the dog from lunging. “What is that?” she whispered, the words trembling out of her.

Cooper didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

A sour, iron stink wafted in on the wind — blood, old and clotted, mixed with the musk of something pissed-off and hot-breathing.

Then a shadow shifted at the edge of the lot. Huge. Too huge. The outline jagged and hunched, shoulders broad enough to blot out the stars. For one heart-stopping second, the faint gleam of moonlight caught on something curved, something sharp — like horns, or claws raised high.

Lucy’s breath hitched. “It’s—”

“Don’t say it,” Cooper hissed, eyes fixed on the dark. His gut was already screaming the word, but to name it would make it real.

The thing moved again, faster now. A rush of displaced air, a guttural rumble that rolled through the ground like thunder, and suddenly the station’s broken glass rattled in its frames.

Dogmeat snapped and barked, foam spraying from her jaws.

The shape loomed nearer. You couldn’t see its face, not properly, just the gleam of eyes catching the fire’s dying glow. But you could feel it — intelligence burning there, cruel and calculating, not blind hunger.

Lucy whimpered. “It’s lookin’ right at us.”

Cooper drew a slow breath, steadying the pistol in his hands. “…Yeah,” he muttered, voice tight. “And it’s big.”

The first impact rattled the station like an earthquake. 

The rusted pumps outside toppled with a screech of twisted metal, dust raining from the cracked ceiling. Lucy screamed, Dogmeat lunged, and Cooper braced against the doorway just as the thing slammed into the wall.

A claw tore straight through the cinderblock, jagged concrete spraying the room like shrapnel. The sound was deafening — a tearing, splintering screech that made Lucy clap her hands to her ears.

“Jesus Christ,” Cooper barked, firing blind into the hole. Three shots cracked out, muzzle flashes lighting up a glimpse of what waited outside: black scales, slick with gore; claws long as butcher’s knives; teeth glinting wet in the moonlight.

The monster roared, a sound so guttural and enormous it seemed to tear the air itself apart. The floor quaked as it threw itself at the doorway again, the frame exploding inward in a shower of splinters and glass.

“Back! Get back!” Cooper shouted, shoving Lucy behind the dead sedan as the Deathclaw’s hand — God, that wasn’t a hand, that was a guillotine with fingers — raked through the room, slicing a scar across the car’s rusted hood. Sparks flew where steel buckled under its claws.

Dogmeat lunged, snapping at the arm with furious barks. The Deathclaw swiped, the air itself hissing with the force. Dogmeat yelped as the blow missed her by inches, smashing a support beam in two like it was paper.

“Dogmeat!” Lucy cried, scrambling after her, but Cooper yanked her back hard.

The Deathclaw withdrew, only to smash the side of the station with another earth-shaking impact. Walls buckled, the roof groaned. With every blow it was peeling their shelter apart, hungry and methodical, like a shark worrying at the hull of a sinking boat.

Chunks of ceiling rained down. The sedan rocked under them. Another claw burst through the wall, snatching for anything that moved. The stink of blood and musk flooded the air.

Lucy sobbed, voice high and cracking. “We’re not gonna make it—”

“Shut your mouth,” Cooper growled, reloading with shaking hands. He leaned around the hood, fired twice more, and was rewarded with a shriek that froze his marrow. Not pain, not fear — just rage.

The Deathclaw’s head smashed into the breach, horns gouging through drywall, its maw snapping shut on empty air. Teeth bigger than Cooper’s fingers sheared through a cabinet like it was stale bread. One eye caught the firelight, unblinking and hateful.

Dogmeat barked again, darting just close enough to distract it, her body a blur. The monster swiped, demolishing another wall section, but the dog danced back, alive by sheer inches.

“Keep her movin’, kid!” Cooper barked. “Don’t let it pin her!”

The Deathclaw pulled back, then rammed the entire side of the station. The world exploded in dust and debris as half the wall caved in, the gas station shrieking like a dying animal. 

Moonlight spilled inside, framing the beast’s silhouette in jagged ruin — twenty feet of muscle and fury, horns scraping the roof, claws hooked and dripping with fresh blood from gods-knew-where.

And it was coming straight through.

The Deathclaw slammed its bulk against the wall again, the ceiling groaning like it was about to fold in on itself. Dust choked the air, the fire long dead but smoke still curling from broken beams.

“Find us a way out!” Cooper barked, grabbing Lucy by the arm and shoving her deeper into the wreckage.

“There isn’t one!” she shouted back, panic sharpening her voice. She stumbled across the cracked floor, Dogmeat at her heels, both of them dodging falling plaster. “The doors are gone!”

Cooper spun, eyes burning from grit, and spotted the trapdoor by the far wall. A cellar, maybe. Hope flared for half a second. He sprinted for it, Lucy right behind him.

He dropped to his knees, tearing at the handle. The thing didn’t budge. He hauled again, muscles screaming. Nothing.

“It’s sealed!” Lucy cried, shoving beside him. “It’s welded shut!”

The Deathclaw roared, the sound so close it vibrated the floor beneath them. Its arm burst through the roof this time, claws punching down like reapers through dry stalks. One slammed into the ground inches from Lucy, gouging a furrow across the concrete. She shrieked and scrambled back.

Dogmeat barked furiously, lunging at the claws, teeth snapping uselessly against scale. The monster jerked back, then punched down again, tearing a beam loose. The roof buckled, showering them with chunks of timber and rusted sheet metal.

“Jesus Christ, this whole place is comin’ down!” Cooper cursed, dragging Lucy up by the collar of her jacket. His pistol was near useless now; the thing was too close, too big, too everywhere. He fired anyway, the rounds cracking through the smoke. 

The Deathclaw shrieked, thrashing, its claws tearing chunks out of the station like wet paper.

They staggered through the collapsing chaos, looking for anything — a back door, a cracked wall, a miracle. The sedan shifted with a groan, shoved aside like a toy as one claw hooked its bumper and flung it halfway across the room. It smashed into the far wall, exploding in sparks and smoke.

“Run, Coop!” Lucy screamed, pulling at his arm.

“Run where?” he shouted back, voice hoarse.

The Deathclaw’s head punched through the roof, its muzzle snapping, teeth dripping spit as it tried to bite straight into the floor. Its jaws clamped down on a table, wood exploding in splinters as it thrashed, dragging half the ceiling down with it.

Dogmeat yelped as debris crashed inches from her, then bolted, barking wildly toward the half-collapsed service bay at the back.

“Follow her!” Cooper shouted, coughing as dust filled his lungs. “Go, go, GO!”

Lucy didn’t need telling twice. She scrambled after Dogmeat, ducking falling beams, while Cooper staggered behind, firing one last shot over his shoulder.

The bullet caught the Deathclaw in the eye — not deep, not fatal, but enough. The beast reeled back with an enraged shriek, thrashing against the walls, bringing half the roof down in a thunderous crash.

The gas station was collapsing around them in a storm of dust, sparks, and splintering beams. Cooper’s lungs burned, Lucy’s coughing fit echoed through the rubble, and Dogmeat’s frantic barks cut through the chaos like an alarm bell. 

They’d barely made it to the back bay before the Deathclaw smashed through the ceiling as if it were paper, claws punching down and tearing the sedan apart like a tin toy.

Cooper raised his pistol, pulled the trigger — click. Empty. His heart dropped to his boots. He fumbled for more rounds, found none. His pack was gone, swallowed somewhere in the debris.

Lucy’s face went pale. “We’re out!” she screamed, pressing herself against the cracked wall. “We’ve got nothing!”

Dogmeat snarled, planting herself between them and the beast, her hackles stiff, her teeth bared though she looked like a scrap of fur before a hurricane.

The Deathclaw lowered its head through the wreckage, its single gleaming eye catching what little moonlight filtered through the dust. It opened its maw wide enough to swallow them whole, saliva hissing as it hit the floorboards. Its claws gouged furrows through concrete, hemming them in. 

There was nowhere left. No doors. No windows. Just the monster’s shadow looming closer.

Cooper pulled Lucy tight against him, instinctively shielding her with his body. He felt the tremble in her frame, the rapid-fire breaths. Dogmeat growled low, a sound that was as much defiance as it was fear.

The Deathclaw roared, a sound so deep it rattled their bones, and raised one enormous claw for the killing blow.

Then — above the thunder of collapsing walls — came a voice, bright and sharp as a whipcrack:

“Someone lookin’ for an Ace in the hole?”

Gunfire ripped through the night. A dozen rounds slammed into the beast’s side, sparks and blood spraying as the Deathclaw reeled back with a furious screech. More bullets followed, precise and unrelenting, peppering its hide and forcing it to stagger away from the corner.

Through the haze of dust and debris, a figure strode into the ruins with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. Hat brim low, duster trailing behind her, the familiar swagger unmistakable.

“That goddam woman,” Cooper rasped, disbelief twisting his chest.

She didn’t spare him a glance. Her revolvers barked fire in either hand, unloading with deadly rhythm.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’!” she hollered over the roar of the monster and the shattering of stone. “Move your asses!”

Lucy grabbed Cooper’s arm, dragging him toward the jagged opening in the back wall. Dogmeat bolted ahead, barking furiously. 

But Cooper lingered for a heartbeat too long, watching Ace dance with death.

The Deathclaw lunged at her, claws sweeping in a blur. She rolled low, firing up into its exposed underbelly. It shrieked, staggered, swiped again. She vaulted over a fallen beam, slid across the wreckage, and let loose another volley, each bullet finding scale, bone, tendon.

“Run, dammit!” she snarled, voice cracking like a whip.

Cooper let Lucy haul him into motion, stumbling out into the desert night as the gas station crumbled behind them. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Through the hole, framed by firelight and ruin, Ace stood her ground.

The Deathclaw roared, tearing through rubble as if it were kindling. She reached into her belt, holstered her smoking revolvers, and hauled out something so oversized, and vicious, Cooper had no idea where the hell she’d been hiding it.

It wasn’t a rifle. It wasn’t even a shotgun. It was the kind of gun that looked like it could end wars. Rusted, ugly, and loud as hell.

Lucy’s jaw dropped. “What the hell is that?”

Cooper almost laughed, breathless and raw. “That… is Deputy Ace Matthews.”

The Deathclaw lunged, claws outstretched.

Ace planted her boots, spat in the dust, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun thundered, the recoil rattling the ruins. Round after round tore into the Deathclaw, shredding scale, snapping bone, punching holes straight through the beast until it was a silhouette of gore and ruin. Each blast lit the night like lightning, the monster shrieking as its body was torn apart.

The final shot boomed like thunder, and the Deathclaw collapsed in a heap of blood and rubble, twitching once before going still. Silence swept over the desert like a blanket, broken only by the hiss of settling dust and Lucy’s ragged breathing.

Ace stood in the ruins, chest heaving, smoke curling from the monstrous gun in her hands. Slowly, she slung it across her back, brushing dust from her duster with the same casualness one might flick lint from a sleeve.

“Y’all can thank me later,” she drawled, spitting into the dirt. Then she finally looked their way, her eyes catching Cooper’s, something unspoken burning there.

Lucy whispered, awestruck, “She… she killed it.”

Cooper’s throat was tight. He nodded once, slow. “Yeah. Yes, she did."