robert caldwell

I commissioned the amazing @ummmmandy to draw my Sole Survivor, Molly Caldwell, and her main squeeze MacCready. Ugh, look at these two dorks. I just have no words. This is absolutely perfect, and you should commission her if you can!

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↳St. Elsewhere (promotional photos)
“…The thing that complicates the AIDS problem is that there exists in this country a group like the Moral Majority, which smears information. They say this is a homosexual disease totally, and therefore AIDS is just desserts for that kind of lifestyle. Well, it’s wrong and they’re wrong.“- Mark Harmon talks about how AIDS is being smeared by the media/society in the 80's (his finale storyline on St. Elsewhere made him the first character on a tv show dying of AIDS) 

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↳St. Elsewhere (1982)
“I talked to AIDS victims at the time, and visited some hospices here. It was devastating. Devastating. The thing that was so pleasing about the St. Elsewhere story line, about Caldwell’s AIDS story line, was that the writers were able in two episodes to run the entire gamut of emotions, all of which I saw at the various hospices in different patients. From complete Anger to denial to justification to the reality to death. The thing complicates the AIDS problem is that there exists in this country a group like the Moral Majority, which smears information. They say this is a homosexual disease totally, and therefore AIDS is just desserts for that kind of lifestyle. Well, it’s wrong and they’re wrong.” - Mark Harmon

Molly x MacCready, 315 words. Takes place after A Simple Arrangement. This’ll probably be in the sequel. Also, @basementfestival is an evil encourager.


MacCready thinks Molly’s hands are different. Weird.

Her joints aren’t swollen, made stiff from too much use. Molly winces when he cracks his own, complains that he’ll get arthritis (whatever the hell that is) or make ‘em sore. Like he doesn’t already ache.

When Molly stretches out her hand before curling it around his, her fingers make these neat, straight lines. He hasn’t seen shit like that on anyone except for Vault dwellers. It’s like her fingers’ve never been smashed. Like she’s never had a bone broken or a knuckle popped out.

MacCready wishes he could say the same. Lucy had reset and bandaged his fingers dozens of times since they were kids, using a shattered pencil to try to keep ‘em straight and a piece of boiled shirtsleeve to hold the whole mess together.

Red paint chips off of Molly’s fingernails. It’s a helluva stupid thing to do, painting her nails the brightest color in the Commonwealth. A sniper’d make an easy target out of her. He’s told her so before. Still, he watches every couple of weeks when she takes a little brush dipped in red, and slathers that crap onto her nails.

MacCready’s hand wraps around hers. Molly’s entwines with his.

She’s taken to wearing gloves over one hand, but the one he holds is bare. Skin soft. Clean, too, like dirt hasn’t been rubbed into it for twenty-two years. There’s a few cuts, some scratches, but nothing deep. Nothing permanent. A small part of him, one that aches as much as his joints do, wants to keep her that way.

He runs his thumb over each of her knuckles. One, two, three, four. Her hand is warm as the sun. She grins at him, and he smiles back. Easy. One, two, three, four. One, two, three—his finger catches on her wedding band.

He thinks about the wooden soldier in his pocket.

And quickly lets go of her hand.