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Nobody celebrates Valentine’s Day anymore, not since the bombs fell. In fact, I think a lot of people have forgotten the holiday even existed. I guess once love could no longer be pre-packaged, chocolate-covered or wrapped in cellophane, there wasn’t really much point anymore. At the very least, it made selling the pun on my name tricky.
At least nobody fussed when I filched the neon sign out of the dumpster behind the dugout. I wasn’t Detective Valentine then, just Nick, but when I found that heart, preserved so perfectly beneath the layers of trash, I couldn’t put it down. I carried it with me to my shack. I gathered up all the test tubes I could find and melted them down, reshaped them painstakingly into each letter of my name—“Valentine”. I looked up at the old calendar hanging over my borrowed workbench and saw it there too–February 14. My day. Seeing that sent me into one hell of a mental hangover: I remembered that Nick used to take his wife out on dates–to Red Sox games, to the cinema, to her favorite musicals and concerts. I remembered the rise and fall of her chest beneath them when they made love. I remembered the softness of her body and her singing: “You’re my funny Valentine…”
I remembered eventually that all that hubbub went back to Saint Valentine, some ancient Roman schmuck with a soft spot for romance. Saint Valentine wasn’t just a symbol of love though–I found that out after doing my own research on the guy. It wasn’t as if I had much else to do, after all, and any clue about myself was better than none. On a broken-down shelf in the Old North Church, I found one of those “Know Your Patron Saints!” pamphlets shoved between the molding pages of a scorched New Testament. According to that little slip of paper, Saint Valentine stood up for lovers, married couples, epileptics, sufferers of the plague, and travelers. Wanderers. People like me. Plagued with a life I never knew, cast out of a home I never wanted.
At this point, I was really beginning to wonder if I was just stuck in some ham-handed soap opera.
Over time, reality reasserted itself. I made myself a home, set up the business, and hung up my sign. It wasn’t just a snazzy way to bring in the dough–it was a beacon, a reminder. My personal guiding star. This city needed a saint, someone to stick up for them when no one else would. Maybe this sign would lead someone else to hope. No crusty metal man with a bad attitude could win these people over, could really be a hero…but I could try.
That’s where you come in. Dusty and grimy, your eyes bloodshot, radiating life like I’d never seen before. I can see the blood caked on your Vault suit, the cuts and bruises on your knuckles. Beneath all that, the softness of your palms, the trail of tears left in the dirt on your cheeks. You tell me you’re a time traveler, but you look nothing like those handsome stiffs in sci-fi pulp novels, wasting alien thugs and misshapen freaks of nature–though I have no doubt you’d done your share of that on your way.
You beg me for my help and I give it. It’s what I’m here for, after all. In exchange, you become my “partner”, but as I watch you move through this Wasteland with the purpose of a starving wolf, I think to myself that before long, I’ll be the one playing second fiddle. As it turns out, you’re already a celebrity around these parts–thanks to Piper and her insatiable pen, folks look at you with something like awe…or fear. The patron saint of impossibilities, Vault Dweller, out of time. They envy you–hell, so do I, sometimes. God knows most people would have rather sat through the apocalypse in a Frigidaire. Once I understand what you’re up against, I change my mind real quick.
The more I learn about you, the more astonished I become. How can you move through this hell with such unflinching surety? How can you blow a raider’s brains out with the same hand that tends plants and builds walls? How can you hold onto the parts of yourself that you lost and still keep your eyes forward? I can’t figure it out, with all my artificial brains and clever sleuthing. I can only conclude that somehow, the Wasteland knew it needed you, and it called you out in the cruelest way possible.
Eventually, and much to my own terror, I realize that I need you too.
Today, it’s Valentine’s Day, you tell me: your Pip-Boy keeps track of the days, even gives you quaint little notifications when a holiday comes around. It’s bitterly cold this year. You help the settlers in Sanctuary Hills insulate their homes against the wind and acid rain, help them harvest what little food remains in their garden. You take me on a trip to Diamond City for resupply, drag me all across the Commonwealth looking for fuses and hot plates and boxes of Salisbury steak. I want to kiss you. I want to hold you in my arms and listen to you breathe. I wonder if I could make you feel the way your spouse did, knowing full well that I’d be a damn fool if I tried.
When we get back, you plop down on your threadbare sofa and turn the dial up on the radio– “This song is so romantic,” you tell me as you close your eyes and curl up beneath your tattered blanket. It’s nearly midnight and I force myself to smile, sit next to you. You hum along for a while, your voice cracked but right on key. “It’s kinda funny that you’re here on Valentine’s Day with me, isn’t it?” you ask.
“Funny? That’s one way to put it, kid.” You stare at me for a moment. Your eyes are searching for something.
“Nick…come on, don’t look so sad, huh?” You move closer, place your hand on my shoulder. “Not on a holiday.”
“Heh, not much of a holiday anymore. Don’t have any flowers or chocolates or little paper cards. Just outdated sentiments and memories.” A long silence. I kick myself for being such a cynical bastard.
“You know, actually, Nick, I…um…” You stutter, fumble around in your pocket and pull out a stained, grubby packet. “Here. This is for you. It’s a–”
“You made me a valentine?” I sound more incredulous than I should have—you try not to look disappointed.
“Well, it’s not really a valentine in the traditional sense. Just…can you read it?”
“Sure thing, kid.” I unfold the note, and several clippings fall out–newspapers from ages ago, from articles I don’t remember. Beneath it all, on an oily sheet of what looks like sandwich paper, you’ve written “Happy Detective Valentine’s Day” in red ink. It’s the most obvious, awful pun that you could have come up with, and I can’t help but laugh.
“They’re about Nick Valentine. The old one, from before the War. I thought you might like to see them since…” You sigh and run your hand through your hair. “You’ve been having so much trouble finding who you are. I thought you’d read these, and maybe…you’d realize that you’re good in your own right. That you’re living up to what Nick wanted to achieve and more.” I can’t answer. I can’t even think anymore. Like an automaton, I move wordlessly and brainlessly toward you, press my lips against yours. You take a shuddering breath, but don’t try to move away.
“God…” I breathe against your lips. “How did I ever…what did I do to deserve you?” I say, as if I own you. It’s a damn stupid thing to say, but you don’t argue. You answer with your body, pull me closer and push your tongue into my mouth.
I make love to you clumsily–you tell me what to touch and how hard to push, and I follow your orders. I feel like I’m learning a new language–I speak with my mouth and hands, you answer in fluttering breaths and open legs, pleading with me to hurry, hurry please. For the first time since I woke up in my trash heap all those years ago, I learn to use the parts of me that so far had no purpose. You whimper when I push inside of you, and you reassure me that you’re fine, just a little rusty.
“That’s my line”, I mutter against your ear, and you giggle. “You okay?” You nod, and I caress your thighs, press kisses to your chest and neck.
“Please, Nick…please don’t stop.” I oblige, ease you onto my lap and you do most of the work, rolling your hips around me and throwing your head back. I try my best to keep myself from getting lost in the sounds your making, the expressions on your face. For a brief second, I wonder if I might get struck by lightning, that I’ll be punished for corrupting the last beautiful thing in a dead world. You gaze down at me open-mouthed, your cheeks flushed and eyes unfocused, and I know better. When you come apart, I hold you close and let you muffle your screams and moans into my shoulder, stroke your hair with my fingers.
“Guess that was a winner, huh?” I chuckle and kiss your cheek.
“Mmmph…mmhmm…” You remove yourself from me reluctantly, kiss me long and slow. “Nick…my Valentine.”
“That’s right, sweetheart. From here on in, that’s what I’ll be—your servant, your saint, whatever you need” You giggle and curl your body around me, letting your eyes fall shut.
“That’s awfully catchy, Nick. Maybe you should have written that one down.” We lay together and I listen to you breathe in your sleep. I watch you dream, and hope that I’m right there with you.