Archive of Our Own ^beta

When he tells the story later—to their friends, their new neighbors, bank tellers, ladies in the grocery store, basically anyone who'll stand still long enough—Nate always manages to make the whole thing sound like something right out a cheesy Sunday serial. "Well, she rescued me, you know," he'll confide, the corners of his eyes creased up in that smile that always makes people smile back without entirely realizing why. "Here I was trying to play the knight in shining armor, and I turned out to be the damsel in distress!"

"But a very cute damsel," Sole will say back, putting her arm around his waist, squeezing his hip with easy familiarity. "And he forgets the part where he took me home and patched me up afterwards. You find a man that good with his hands, you just gotta marry him!"

The reality, of course, was a lot less romantic. She was fresh off of medical transport, shivering from the cut of the January wind through her shitty, worn-thin fatigues and still smelling vaguely like antiseptic and bleach. She had to her name precisely five hundred dollars, one wool coat, two packs of cigarettes, a scalpel she stole of the medic's tray when his back was turned, and just enough painkillers in her system to keep her headache at 'vaguely manageable' levels instead of 'fucking excruciating.' No bank card, no ration stamps, and no goddamn identification to get either, since the fucking pencil pushers back Sangley Point were taking their sweet time processing her unexpected discharge. The harried medic who shoved her out out of the plane told her that the standard waiting period was five to seven days, and if she had any questions she could inquire at Fort Hagen.

Prick.

The smart thing for her to do would be to find a cheap motel and lie low for a few days. But doing the smart thing was why she was currently standing on the tarmac with a slowly-healing hole in her head and too many stimpaks running through her system, so fuck it. Might as well find the nearest bar and finish the job.

The nearest bar turned out to be a little hole-in-the-wall place slabbed to the back of an empty racetrack, with an air of accumulated misery layered over everything like the grime on the walls. When she walked in everyone looked up, took her measure, and went back to their drinks in syncopated apathy. Perfect, she thought, and settled in at the end of the bar with the happy confidence that no one here would care enough to bother her.

Alas, her confidence was misplaced.

The argument had been brewing for a while, probably, but she was three beers deep and not really paying a lot of attention. This policy became a lot harder to maintain when someone bumped into the back of her chair—right when she was trying to take a sip, too, which meant that she damn near spilled it all over herself. She watched her knuckles go white around the neck of the bottle, heard her pulse in her ears as if from far away... and then slowly, deliberately, relaxed her grip.

"I told you to leave me the fuck alone!" the interloper yelled. He had a high, cracking voice, dry like he hadn't had water in days. Pressed so close behind her, she couldn't miss the acrid stink of chems and days-old sweat. "What the fuck business is it of yours, anyway?"

"All I said was that you needed to leave her be," the other guy said. He had a nice voice, deep and even, deliberately calm in the face of the guy's anger. She could've told him that it was only going to wind the junkie up worse, but hell, it wasn't her problem. "She's a waitress, not a prostitute. If you're looking for that sort of entertainment, there's a club not two blocks down the road."

"It's none of your business, asshole!" the junkie screamed. Yep, right on schedule. "Pricks like you always gettin' in my way, pushing their noses where they're not wanted. Well, fuck you! I'll fucking show you what I do to-"

The click of a revolver put an end to her policy of noninvolvement. Sure, it wasn't her fight, but she wasn't exactly looking to wade through bodies on her first day out of the jungle, either. She pulled the scalpel out of her pocket, turned, and put it to the junkie's neck in one smooth movement, locking his free arm in place when he went still and pressing her foot on top of his before he could get any great ideas about trying to struggle away.

"This disagreement is getting a little disagreeable for my tastes," she said quietly, into the absolute silence that followed. The other guy, the would-be hero, was standing a couple feet away, his hands in the air. Big guy, dark hair, suit, and a pair of sharp hazel eyes, currently fixed on her face. "Howsabout you put down your gun, and I put down my knife, and we all go back to our drinks in peace, huh?"

"Fuck. You," the junkie spat—literally spat, right on the floor. She expressed her displeasure with that bit of discourtesy by grinding the heel of her boot into the arch of his foot, and pressing the blade deeper against the underside of his jaw when he squealed in pain. A thin line of blood appeared on his skin, trickling through the stubble on his throat, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other guy wince.

Soft touch. But then, they wouldn't be in this situation if he wasn't.

"I am having a bad day," she said, very calmly. "My head hurts. Your yelling is bothering me. If slitting your throat and leaving you here for the bums to pick over is what it takes to make you stop bothering me, I've got no problems with that. Are you hearing what I'm saying here?"

For a minute she thought he might be too high to hear anything but the challenge, and was quietly calculating how her chances of dropping him and getting gone before the cops arrived. Pretty good, probably; this wasn't the best neighborhood. Not exactly how she wanted to start out her glorious return to the States, but-

She could feel the exact moment the single burned-out fragment of a survival instinct he had left reared its little head and started yelling, because he cringed against her, the hand that held the gun drooping down in front of him. "Yeah, lady," he whined. "Yeah, I hear you. Loud and clear."

"Good." She reached around him and snagged the revolver out of his slackening hand. "I'm keeping this," she informed him, and stepped back, the pistol coming up to point at his head in the same moment as the scalpel dropped away from his throat. "Don't let me see you again."

There was a wild roll from his bloodshot eyes, like he was thinking about making a grab for it—and then he met her gaze again and went white. "No ma'am," he mumbled, and bolted.

There, she told herself, dropping the revolver into her coat pocket. Now you have a coat, a knife, a gun, and five hundred dollars. She pulled out the roll of bills and calculated her bar tab. Three hundred dollars.

"You're very fast," the other guy observed. She'd almost forgotten him—sloppy, kid, very sloppy—but there he was, hands down at his sides now but still with that soft, clever gaze fixed on her face. "I didn't even see you move."

"God bless Uncle Sam." She drained the rest of her beer, cringing when a spike of pain shot through her forehead, and slapped the cash on the bar. Motherfuck, so much for her peaceful night off. "Welp, this was fun and all, but it's probably time for me to hit the road. See you around, big guy." She grinned and tossed him a lazy salute—she was a civilian now, she doesn't have to give a shit about doing it right—and backed towards the door. "Stay out of trouble."

The air outside was damp with the threat of snow, and smelled like trash and brine from the nearby dump site. She tucked her coat closed around her, cursing the cold, and tried to figure out where she was going next. It was almost dark, and she had just enough left for one night in a flophouse, maybe enough for a cup of joe in the morning. After that, well, she could either find some unfriendly locals in the wrong part of town and shake them down for spending money, or hitch a ride over to Fort Hagen. Records was full of weedy little 4F's that daydreamed about getting out there and causing a little commie mayhem of their own. Surely one of them would be happy to expedite some records in exchange for some tall tales about what she'd done to get herself redacted in the first place.

"Hold up just a moment." She flinched at the sound of the other guy's voice behind her: she hadn't noticed the door swinging open. "Don't worry, I have no intention of harassing you after that display. I just wanted to take a look at-"

She had just enough self control not to break his hand when it landed on her shoulder, but it was closer than she'd like. A vague tinge of guilt made her more biddable than she would have otherwise been when he tugged her around and put a hand to her chin, tilting her face to the light. He made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

"I thought so. This injury is fresh."

And you're touching me, she didn't say. This close, he was actually even bigger than he'd looked back in the bar: at least six inches taller than her, with broad shoulders and big hands. A single lock of dark hair fell into his eyes and he flipped it back with an impatient gesture, prodding at her forehead with thick but dexterous fingers.

"It's not that fresh," she said, only a little belatedly. She needed to get out of here; her instincts were all kinds of jacked up right now. "Anyway, what do you know about it? You some kind of doctor?"

"That's exactly what I am—and yes, it is. Even a few days would count as 'fresh' when it includes trauma this severe." He scowled down at her. "You should be in a hospital."

The urge to get him away from her was fading a little; even with his size she could tell he wouldn't pose much of a threat. Besides, he was really warm, and those broad shoulders were right between her and the wind. It wasn't like she had anywhere better to be—and something about the disapproval on his craggy face made her want to poke at him, just to see how he'd react.

"I just came from a hospital," she told him. His mouth predictably flattened down at the corners, and she laughed inwardly, awarding herself a point. "It's fine, Doc. I've got like six stimpaks in me, and the folk back at base said the bone would be done growing back by tomorrow."

"Which is supposed to be done under supervision," he snapped. Despite his annoyance, his hands were still gentle as they probed at her temple. "What in god's name did they use to close this wound? A blowtorch? This is barbaric."

Quick thinking, is what the field medic had called it, when Tig and Benjy dragged her half-conscious body into the tent. She'd been reliably assured by the tired doc shoving her through outtake that her brains would have been left splattered across the jungle floor if her buddies hadn't gotten creative with their sidearms.

"Plasma gun," she told him, in the here and now. "Over there, we call it 'Yankee ingenuity.' I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Not for lack of trying." He finally seemed to notice that he was grabbing at someone who almost committed homicide a few minutes ago and stepped back, though the thundercloud still loomed large on his face. "This is unacceptable. You shouldn't have been discharged for days, and certainly not in this state."

It was sort of sweet, him fussing over her—especially since she could tell it wasn't about paying her back for getting that junkie off him. She was pretty sure he'd forgotten about the junkie entirely, actually.

"I'm fine, Doc," she told him. "Medical does what they can with what they got. It's not like anyone can do any better."

"Allow me to disagree. This sort of neglect is unconscionable for anyone who values their medical license."

The arrogance of it tipped his manner from tentatively charming back over to overbearing, and she scowled up at him, irrationally stung. It was one thing for her to think something like that, even to bitch about it with her boys. It was something else altogether for some jumped-up, know-it-all civilian to talk about shit he didn't know the first fucking thing about. "You wanna show me your commission, asshole? 'cause unless you've been over there-"

Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and handed her his wallet. Dr. Nathan Duvall, said the ident card inside. US Army Medical Corps.

"Huh." It wasn't often she read someone that wrong. Or maybe it was just that all the army doctors she knew were raging assholes. "You look a little young to be retired."

"Discharged to private contract," he said, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. "Research assignment. But I promise you I've done my time. Which is how I know it's unacceptable."

Wow. A true idealist. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd met one of those. Back in boot camp, maybe? "Well, your objections have been noted, Doctor. But I can look after myself." She smiled fiercely at him, ignoring the pounding in her head, abruptly savage with the need to be done with this conversation. "And anyone else who comes along."

"Of… course." The hitch in his voice said he was remembering how this conversation got started, but he didn't look away. "I only meant that you shouldn't have to. On your own, I mean. That's what the army is for."

She studied him for a moment: his fixed, mulish expression, his chin, tipped up like he was about to march into battle. Maybe he was. Maybe he was the kind of man who saw every ethical failure as a war to be won, every lost soul a banner to be carried onto the field.

If so, he was talking to the wrong woman. Ethics were so far in her rearview mirror that she couldn't even remember when they'd vanished on the horizon. You took what you needed, out there in the dark; no one else was going to hand it to you, that was for fucking sure. She was walking proof of that. The medics would have left her to rot with the others, if Tig hadn't put a gun to the surgeon's head. Someone else probably died because of it. She didn't even know how to feel sorry about that, or even if she should feel sorry. She was here because she took care of her people, and they took care of her. Certainly not because of the fucking army.

"That hasn't really been my experience, Doc," she said, and something about the fierceness of his expression made her gentle in return. "But it'd be nice if it were true."

"Yes, well. It should be." He fidgeted a little, restless with his righteous fury and no outlet in the face of her easy acceptance. "Do you, ah. Have you got a place to stay? I know discharge processing may take some time."

The concern tightened something at the back of her throat. Stupid. He was just looking for someone new to rescue, since his last attempt went so sideways. He just didn't realize she wasn't the sort that needed rescuing.

"Why, Doctor," she purred, biting off each word. "Are you offering?"

He cleared his throat. "If you want," he said, endearingly earnest. The faintest hint of a blush burned along his cheekbones. "I do owe you for the assistance, after all."

She gaped at him. "You're kidding."

"My apartment isn't much," he said, as if he thought she needed to be convinced, "but I've got a couch. And breakfast, if you want."

"You're… not kidding."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "You'll need extra nutrients for the next week, while the stimpaks work to absorb extra mass into the bone regrowth. Which," he added pissily, "the doctors should have warned you about, before you were released into your own care."

They probably had. She hadn't been in much state to listen. "Well, I dunno," she said, rather than admit as much. She had a feeling he'd take it the wrong way. "You got any beer?"

He looked so hilariously offended that she wanted to laugh. "Absolutely not, unless you want to hinder your recovery." He peered at her, suddenly concerned. "You don't, do you?"

"No worries on that front, Doc," she told him, laughing softly. Her, commit suicide? Fuck, she wouldn't give dear old Dad the satisfaction. "Fine, no booze. You've at least got coffee, right?"

"I do, though I can't say much for the quality."

"Anything's better than army coffee." She gave it another moment, and when her instincts didn't yell at her, tipped her shoulder into a shrug. Fuck it. Man that sweet shouldn't be wandering around getting fights on his own, anyway. He clearly needed someone to look after him, even if it was just for a day or two. "Hell with it. Sure, Doc, I'll take the sofa." She winked at him, big and showy, ignoring the spike of pain in her temple. "Or anything else you might want to offer."

"I, ah."

He blinked, long dark lashes fanning against his cheek. She'd said it in jest, more or less, but now she could feel the tug in her belly that said, maybe.

And then: "I hadn't meant-"

"Right, yeah," she said, pretending that the thought never crossed her mind. "Just joking, Doc, no worries on that front-"

"But I could," he interrupted. Fast, graceless. His gaze was fixed somewhere just a little past the ruined stump of her right ear. "If you- Well. I wouldn't… be opposed."

"You wouldn't, huh?" Was that her voice, so soft, so teasing? "Doc, you don't even know my name."

He looked so startled for a moment, she couldn't hold back the bubble of laughter that welled in her throat. "That's easily sorted," he argued, though an answering smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. "You could introduce yourself."

Still chuckling softly, she held out her hand. "Nora Bennett," she offered, and clasped his bigger hand in hers. He had a good handshake, firm and warm, with callouses on his palms. A working man—or he had been, once. Before he set out to save the world, one lousy soldier at a time. "But my friends call me Sole."

"Sole," he said, turning it over on his tongue. "It suits you."

"Thanks." She grinned up at him. He hadn't dropped her hand, and she wasn't in any hurry to retrieve it. "You do this often, then? Pick up strange women in bars after getting rescued from junkies?"

"Ah, no."

"Just me, then." He still wasn't breaking eye contact. "Must be special. Or did you just like being rescued that much?"

He flinched, and for a second she thought she'd overstepped, hit too close to home maybe, but then:

"Yes," he said, and held her gaze, though the blush burned dark on his cheeks. He swallowed, and she watched the bob of his throat like a wolf tracks the step of a wounded deer. "It was- You were. Very good."

"You're very welcome," she said, low. "Anytime."

The worst part was, she even meant it.

The sun wakes Sole the same as it always does, though it has a hard time finding her through the grimy windows at the Rex. Magnolia's still asleep next to her, sprawled out across most of the bed, half on her belly with her face to the wall. Sole rocks up onto one elbow in the little bit of mattress that was left to her and looks down, smiling quietly. There's a woman who's obviously used to having the bed to herself.

Sole leans over, presses an affectionate kiss to her shoulder, but Magnolia doesn't stir. Must've worn her out.

I needed that, she thinks, rolling out of bed. Wasn't exactly what she was looking for when she went into the Third Rail last night—or, more specifically, who—but she's not going to complain, either. It was one hell of a night on the town.

She gets dressed in the murky semi-dark, watching the rise and fall of Magnolia's bare shoulders out of the corner of her eye. When she's done, she roots around in her bag until she finds her notebook. Thanks for the music, she writes, scribbling quickly in the empty corner she tears from one of Sturges's diagrams. If you need me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you? Just put your lips together… and blow.

The pack of bubblegum she leaves on top of the note is probably overkill, but hell, she didn't end up in this room 'cause she was subtle. And Magnolia's got a sweet tooth. Sole's all about leaving happy memories in her wake. Makes a nice change from all the bodies.

Then she slides her shotgun in her holster, puts on her shades, and heads out to the face the day.

The Third Rail is almost empty this time of morning, but Charlie's more than happy to feed her breakfast (shitty), beer (also shitty), and information (decent). Yesterday didn't give her much of a chance to get the lay of the land; today she learns that this is where all the ghouls washed up, after McDonough kicked them out of Diamond City, that everybody minds their own unless there's caps in it for them, and that Hancock's word is the rule of the land. Could've figured that last one on my own, she thinks, amused, but doesn't interrupt. It's useful, even if he's mostly telling her things she already knows. Keeps her expectations calibrated, lets her know she's not getting rusty. These days, a single mistaken impression might get her dead.

"Mornin', Charlie," someone says, blowing past her and heading for the back room. "I'll take a beer, when you get a minute."

"You don't get to ignore me that easy, MacCready!" someone else snaps, before Charlie can answer.

MacCready? So he does exist. Sole turns on her bar stool just in time to see the ragged tail of a yellow duster disappearing around the corner, with two big guys in hot pursuit: fatigues, combat armor, forehead tats. Gunners. The taller one, the black guy, turns and flicks a pouch to Charlie, clinking softly with caps, and points at the door to the back room in clear message: don't bother me, I won't bother you. The white guy is already pushing past him, annoyance writ large on his face.

"MacCready! I'm fuckin' talking to you!"

Sole waits till they're gone and then finishes her beer in one quick swig, sliding off the barstool. Charlie bobs awkwardly, like he knows he's supposed to interfere but doesn't want to get in the middle, so she makes it easy for him by dropping another pile of caps next to the pouch on the bar. "Don't worry," she says, with a toothy grin, as one eye stalk bends down to inspect her bribe. "I'll play nice."

MacCready turns out to be a skinny little guy, when she gets to the back room; just about her size and probably about a couple years younger, with the hollow look of the chronically underfed. He's got good eyes, though, and better instincts—better than the Gunners for sure, since he clocks her the second she walks through the door, and they don't so much as twitch. She gives him a little nod of acknowledgement—yeah, I'm here for you, but no, I'm not gonna interfere—and tucks herself away into the corner, lights a cigarette and settles in to listen.

It’s entertaining, she'll give him that. And probably a lot more informative than he'd like. He's got a mouth on him, MacCready does—but not so much of one she can't tell that he's shit-scared behind the bluster, and trying hard to hide it. He reminds her a bit of that cat Nate used to feed off the balcony of his old apartment: a skinny little stray that always tried to play it cool, like it wasn't puffing up in fear every time someone so much as reached out a hand. She came along way too late to figure out what kind of fucker would kick an animal that was just trying to make its way in life, but Sole's pretty sure she's got eyes on some of the boots MacCready's seen from the wrong side right about now.

Winlock, she thinks, committing their names and faces to memory so she'll know them if she ever sees them again. Winlock and Barnes. She's got no love for the Gunners, not after what she heard about Quincy, but she's got just enough of Nate left with her that she needs an excuse. If she's got any luck left, they'll give her one. Magnolia was great, but she could stand to work off some other tensions the old-fashioned way.

Unfortunately for her, MacCready has other ideas. "You finished?" he says, after their latest threat, chin tipped up like he's not shaking in his worn-out boots. Idly, she wonders if anyone's ever put their hand there, on that long vulnerable line of his throat. Maybe they did, and that's why he was so eager to show it off.

The white guy, Winlock, makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Yeah, we're finished. Come on, Barnes."

Shame. Ah, well. She wasn't here for them, anyway.

MacCready watches them the entire way out of the room, skinny little frame vibrating with tension like a plucked bowstring, hands fisted at his sides. Even after they're gone, he still waits a second, just to make sure they don't turn around and come back, before he turns his attention to her.

Sole watches him back, curious to see what he'll make of her. She's had a lot of people looking to her, these past six weeks. A lot of people taking her measure, trying to figure out what she's made of, what she's about. None of them have gotten it right, of course, but it's been sort of fun watching them try. She can always see their wrong conclusions shining back at her like so many broken mirror: the contemptuous flick that says drifter, the nervous twitch that says raider, the wide-eyed stare that says savior.

She hates the last one the most.

But MacCready's smarter than the others—or just has better survival instincts, either way. She watches him take her in one piece at a time: clothes, armor, weapons, in that order, and his gaze wanders back to her face only after. It drifts cautiously along her scars and then glances off the empty lens of her shades with a flinch, nerves rising off him like hot air on the asphalt.

But whatever's driving him, it's bigger than his fear, because she can almost see the pep-talk going down in his head. She takes a drag off her cigarette and watches him square himself up, wondering with a vague sort of fascination what he's going to say.

"Look, lady. If you're preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun… then maybe we can talk."

She has to turn and stub out her cigarette even though she's not done with it, biting down on the smile that wants to break free. Can't say he doesn't have balls.

"What makes you think I'm here on business?" she says, when she gets her face under control. "Maybe I got lost on the way to the bathroom."

"I'm an optimist," he says flatly. It gets even harder to bite back her grin. "Either you're here to pay me to shoot somebody, in which case it's two-fifty caps upfront, no negotiation—or it's out the hall, third door on your left, can't miss it."

Just like Nate's stray cat, back in the day. So goddamn busy trying to make himself look tough, he wouldn't know what to do with a helping hand even if someone offered it.

That's okay. Sole remembers the month she spent waiting for her papers to come through, sitting out on that balcony in the weak winter sunlight and trying to remember how to be a real person again while Nate was off saving the world. She remembers what it takes to get a stray to let you take care of it: time, attention, patience…

...and a healthy dose of acting like you couldn't care less.

"Two-fifty's a little rich for my blood," she says, as though the cost means anything to her. What's money, except another tool to get her what she wants? There's always more where that came from. "And I only need you for a single job. Think I could talk you down?"

There's a brief, panicked look on his face, before he smooths it away again. His shoulders square up almost on reflex, so used to fighting for what he's got that he doesn't know any other way. "Am I talking to myself? I said no negotiation."

This time she doesn't even bother to bite back her smile. He'll take it as intimidation, anyway. Hell, he's pretty cute, MacCready is. Irma didn't tell her he was cute.

"Everything's up for negotiation," she drawls, letting her hand linger near her holster, and gives it just a beat for the implicit threat to sink in before she takes pity on him. "But let me tell you the job, first, and we'll see if you're willing to take it."

He will, obviously. He's desperate. But he's the sort that'll trust it more if she makes him work for it.

"I don't do anything with animals, kids, or birthday clowns," he says promptly.

The laugh cracks out of her before she has a chance to bite it back: loud, rusty, and probably more than a little frightening, judging from the way he instinctively flinches back. Whoops. She shoves her shades up to her forehead, since they were making him so nervous. No reason to freak him out more than she has already.

"You," she says, and doesn't bother trying to hide her honest delight. "I like you. I think we're going to get along just fine, MacCready."

He looks a little disoriented but essentially game, which is really all that she can expect. "Yeah?" And then he seems to realize how young that sounds and bam, there goes the chin, tipping up in automatic defiance. "You could at least give me your name, y'know. If we're going to be working together, and all."

He probably meant for it to come out confident, determined—like it's a foregone conclusion that she'll say yes. Probably he didn't mean for there to be a quavering thread of question there, just barely audible under the all the bravado. Like he can't quite believe that good things happen to him.

She knows how that feels. And maybe she's never been much of a good thing for anybody, but she did save that stray, back when Nate first brought her home. And she even saved Nate, once upon a time—even if she wasn't fast enough when it counted. She knows she'll save her son, even if it's the last thing she does.

Don't worry, sweetheart, she thinks, as she straightens from the wall and saunters over. His eyes widen a little, but he holds his ground, and when she offers her hand he takes it. I'm going to save you, too.

If you let me.

"Call me Sole," she invites, and smiles. "It's good to meet you. Say, how'd you feel about breaking into a vault?"