Well, shut my mouth and call me a mirelurk's uncle. If it ain't a mirage of the dark-haired, sharp-shootin' variety, saunterin' into my little slice of irradiated hell once again.

The tell-tale sign ain't the shimmer of heat off the asphalt, nor the buzzards circlin' somethin' dead yonder. It's the dog. My dog. A fine piece of Enclave engineering I salvaged who's 'bout as subtle as a Deathclaw at a tea party. Sure enough, 'ol Dogmeat’s tail was goin' like a pump-action shotgun, leadin' me right to you, you persistent little cockroach.

I was busy, mind you, meditatin' on the subtle art of pickin' clean a long-dead brahmin and ponderin' the theological implications of a two-headed bear I'd just ventilated near what used to be some high-falutin' Beverly Hills mansion.

"Dog," I grunted, "You give away all my good hidin' spots, I'm gonna start givin' you away as a housewarmin' gift to some super mutant camp."

Then I saw you. Leanin' casual against a busted-up Nuka-Cola machine, lookin' at me with those sharp hazel eyes of yours, a faint smile playin' on your lips. Always wear that tactical vest, don'tcha? Smart. Practical. Allows you to carry and organize a wide variety of things.

"If it isn't my favorite handsome ghoul," you cooed, your voice like a rusty hinge, but I'll be damned if it didn't sound better than most music on the radio.

Handsome. Heh. I ran a deformed, grotesque hand over my face. The skin was tighter than a drum, split in places, teeth bared in a permanent, rotted grin. I looked like a map of the world's worst decisions.

"Handsome," I echoed, my voice a sandpaper rasp. "You keep tellin' yourself that, darlin'. Might convince yourself one day the rest of the world ain't as ugly as me."

You just chuckled, reachin' into your pack. Dogmeat was already sittin' pretty, anticipatin' her due. You tossed her a piece of jerky, thick and dark. She snapped it up, vanishin' into the wreck to chew in peace. A smart dog. Knows when to leave the grown-ups to their nonsense.

Then you started layin' out your tribute. A couple caps here, a full canteen of fresh, clean water there, two Stimpaks (always a welcome sight), a box of .308 ammo, and hell, a Chem-Jet you musta sweet-talked off some smooth-talkin' trader. A king's ransom for a man just tryin' to survive the day.

You slid the goods towards me with a delicate push of your boot. "Just some road apples I picked up," you said, shruggin' those slender shoulders.

I glowered, gatherin' the goods, the weight of your charity startin' to chafe my hide somethin' fierce. "I've told you before," I growled, "I don't like bein' beholden. I saved your hide once, sure. Charged you for the service, too. We was square. This... this is gettin' complicated."

You leaned closer, your hazel eyes glintin' with mischief. "Oh, think of it as payment," you teased, that infuriatin' smile widenin'. "Payment for not killing me out right when you found me. For not trappin' me and sellin' me off to some slaver. Or... well, you get the picture."

The nerve. The sheer, glorious nerve of you. My dead heart did a little jolt, somethin' akin to amusement. I let out a dry, hacking laugh that sounded like I was tryin' to cough up a lung.

“You got a smart mouth on ya, sniper. One of these days, it's gonna get you shot in the other shoulder."

"You coulda done any of those things," you continued, ignore my threat entirely, "but you didn't. So consider this my regular installment plan for your moral restraint."

Moral restraint. I nearly choked on the idea. "There ain't no morals out here, darlin', just physics. The strong survive, the weak die messy. I'm just practical. Dead folk don't carry ammo or Stims."

But the truth was, every time I saw you, a little knot in my gut loosened up. I'd found myself wonderin', in my quieter, more miserable moments, if that crack shot with the dark hair had finally met her match out there. Seein' you alive, kickin' and healthy... well, it wasn't the worst feelin' in the world. It was a damn relief.