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High-key, Low-key

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“You’re General now, Preston. This is the job you should’ve always had.”

“But I guess I can still be the voice of the recruitment beacons,” Roxanne said with a wink.

 

“Desdemona, what will you do when the Railroad is no longer needed?”

“Who knows, Whisper. Maybe change our focus. Maybe retire. I have too much on my mind to think about that now.”

“I bet you do. Maybe I can do something with it in the future...”


The couch groaned as Roxanne laid down. She stretched a bit, then rested her head on Piper’s lap. She licked her lips, the taste of Nuka-Cherry still lingering in her mouth. The pounding in her head subsided little by little, as her breathing started to steady to match Piper’s. Roxanne looked up at Piper and thought, they could definitely use more days like this.

Steel rang through the still night, as Roxanne dropped her worn blade. Shoulders slumped, she stepped over the downed raiders and stumbled onto Cait, who had been wiping her gun. Without a word, they pressed their foreheads against each other. She deeply inhaled the smell of gunpowder on Cait, intoxicated. As Roxanne pulled away, she absently wiped at the blood that Cait had inadvertently smeared on her face. Neither of them will acknowledge this moment after, yet they'll both think back on it from time to time. 


The well-seasoned brahmin steak sizzled on the grill, filling Home Plate with a pleasant aroma. Nick Valentine, leaning against the armchair, paused for a moment. “Y’know, this–” he tapped his nose– “hasn’t worked as it should in a while, but that takes me back. Jenny used to get hers medium rare. I was always more of a medium guy.” Roxanne grinned. “I know you don’t really need it, but do you want me to whip up another one for you?” Nick laughed. “Medium rare, please.”

The uniquely unpleasant brahmin-shit stench of Jet filled the air of the State House living room. Roxanne lazily pulled out snack cakes out of a box. Nowhere near what they used to be, but she had started to get sick of the cloying taste by her mid-30s anyway. Still, the texture was similar enough that chewing on them remained a comfort. She listened to Hancock's droning snores as he slept off his high, snickering at the particularly crunchy ones.