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Chapter Text

It had only been a few hours since you and your companion had returned from Vault 81, having successfully delivered the cure to Austin.  As such, you should have been celebrating - normally you would have, as this was one of the few times conflict in the Commonwealth had a happy ending.  However the triumphs of today was weighed down by the fever that had begun to set in, along with a nasty sinus headache.  

Closing your eyes, and pinching the bridge of your nose, you couldn’t help but let out a pained moan as you fought off a wave of dizzy nausea.  

Ada: Upon noticing the your obviously weakened state, she approached you.  

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah Ada, everything’s fine.”  You rubbed at your temples, trying to smother your throbbing headache.

“I worry that that is not the case.  You appear to be in pain, and your core body temperature is abnormally high at 102 degrees Fahrenheit.” 

“I might have the flu or something, but it’s no big deal.”

“Actually, I believe the correct diagnosis is Mole Rat Disease, contracted from our earlier destination, Vault 81.”  Ada replied matter of factly.

“As such, rest and fluids are in order.  Expected prognosis; a near full recovery save for some perpetual remaining weakness and/or fatigue.”

“Great.” You said dryly - while you normally found Ada’s bluntness quite charming; (or perhaps it was her human emotions being processed through the logical processor of a computer?)  you felt too crummy today to humor her.

“Come with me,”  Ada directed moving in closer so that your hand brushed against the cold metal of her arm.

Immediately, you felt yourself lean in on her for support, and with you in tow, Ada headed towards your home in Sanctuary.

“Thanks Ada,” you gasped, both eyes pinched shut.

“No thanks necessary.  Rest and fluids are though.”

When you felt her stop moving, she let yourself topple over, landing in the middle of your bed.  You groaned.

“Get well soon.” You heard Ada roll away.

Cait: Cait poked their head through the doorway of their run down house in Sanctuary.  

“You alright?”

“I don’t know, “ you muttered.  

You certainly didn’t feel alright, but you knew things in the Commonwealth were rough all around, and the symptoms did remind you of the colds you used to get before the bombs dropped.  A cold on steroids.  With a giant hammer.  That was consistently bashing into your brain, attributing to your pounding headache.  But still, a cold.

Cait pressed a freckled hand to your forehead, “Hm.  Ye do seem to have a bit of a temperature.” 

Feebly, you attempted to swat her hand away.

“S’nothing, Cait, m’fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”  She grumbled, before helping you to your feet.  “C’mon you, let’s get you to bed.”

Embarrassed at your own weakened state, but feeling to crummy to protest anymore, you let Cait guide you to the bedroom you shared with her, and start to undress you.  You shivered as she helped you shed your clothing, despite the heatwave that had overtaken the area in the past week.

Must be the fever.

Cait thought, as she lay you gently in bed, pulling the blanket up around you, and leaving to fetch a wet rag to place on your sweaty forehead.  Cait lay with you for hours, stroking your hair, and whispering sweet comforts to you as you drifted in and out of consciousness.  She knew you’d be fine, but until then, she couldn’t control the worry that ran rampant in her mind.  This was one enemy she couldn’t beat the crap out of for you - you had to fight this on your own, and that terrified her.  But what she could do is stay by your side as you fought it, ready to support you in anyway possible, and that’s exactly what she did.

Codsworth: “Oh dear mum! Are you feeling alright?  You look a bit green.”

You bent over, resting your hands on your legs, hoping they would be steady enough to ground you to the solid ground beneath you - at least it had been solid a few moments before, now if you weren’t crazy, it appeared to be…tilting?  

“Codsworth, “ you rasped, “I think I’m sick.”

“Sick?  Goodness, it must have been the pests from that Vault!”

“Yeah, probably.”  You pinched your eyes shut, trying to fight the dizziness.

“Well, nothing else to it then mum, you must get to bed! C’mon, off you go!”

“Yeah, in a sec Codsworth.”  

First you had to get back up.  You felt around in an attempt to find solid ground to push off of, but upon doing so staggered back; the feverish spinning of the room so violent you were surprised you had been able to get up at all.  You felt a gentle nudge at your side, and without looking you grabbed it to steady yourself.  Smooth, cold, metal.

‘Thanks Codsworth.”

“Quiet now mum, you need to save your energy.  Let’s get you to bed.”

You let the faithful bot tow you to your bed, feeling him draw the blanket over you when you got there.  The last thing you would be thinking about as you drifted off to unconsciousness would be how lucky it was that he was still around, and the first thing you’d wake up to is a hearty bowl of soup, and a glass of clean water.

Curie:  “Mademoiselle, you don’t look so good!”

Right on cue, you leaned forward and threw up lunch’s squirrel bits.

“Then I look about as good as I feel.” you mumbled, cringing and wiping your mouth on your sleeve.

A few moments later, you felt Curie’s cool, practiced hands on your arms, gently prying them away from your face.  

“Let me ‘ave a look, cherie.”

She studied your pale complexion, and running a hand across your forehead, noted the feverish clamminess she felt upon doing so.

The symptoms all aligned with Mole Rat Disease, and it did make sense given their earlier adventures in Vault 81.

“Ah oui, you appear to ‘ave contracted Mole Rat Disease.  No matter, I will nurse you back to health, no?” 

You weakly waved her off, “It’s fine Curie, I’ll be okay, I probably just need to sleep it off or something.”

“Oh but you must let me ‘elp!  I am a doctor after all, and eet eez zhe least I can do after you ‘elped zhat boy een zhe vault.”  

Her eyes pleaded with you - any other time you were immune to those puppy dog eyes - or at least you could be with practice and a little bit of resolve.  However, in your weakened state, that was not happening today.

“Okay, sure, fine, please help.”  You muttered, feeling worse by the second.

Curie wasted no time leaping into action, guiding you to your bed, and running off to get medicine, food, and water for when she managed to break your fever, and work up your appetite again.  

With her attentiveness, you’d undoubtedly be back on your feet within a few days.

Danse: From the corner of his eye, he could see you struggling; the way you pinched at your temples, trying to snuff out the pain that throbbed between them.  The fatigue that was so evident in your movements.  You were tough though, so he was confident you’d be able to muscle through it.

Suddenly, you lurched forward, and threw up.  You winced, coughing, and retching a few more times before shamefully covering your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes pinched shut.

Danse was immediately at your side; “Are you alright?”

You shook your head, tears beading on your eyelashes, not trusting yourself to speak without tossing your cookies again.  One of his large, warm hands came to rest on your back, rubbing small circles.  If you hadn’t been so uncomfortable, you would have blushed.

“Come on,” He murmured, gently hoisting you up, before scooping you up in his arms, lifting you easily.

“Wait, Danse,” you mumbled feebly, halfheartedly trying to push him away; you felt so gross.  Could he smell the bile on you? Was he disgusted?

“Ssh.” He chided, ignoring your weak protests, carrying you to your place.  

Gently, he lay you across the bed.

“You rest up.” 

You felt the bed shift as his weight on it lessened.

“Hang on,” 

With your remaining strength you shot your hand out, needing to move fast to catch him before he left.  You grabbed a fist full of the white undershirt he had been wearing that day.   He froze.

“Please stay,” you whimpered.

Danse wasn’t sure of what he should do.  On one hand, he was eager to do something to relieve you in some way - and you had just told him how.  He didn’t know how to cook, and he wasn’t quite sure what was good for sick people anyways - the Prydwen had always had cooks and doctors for that.  He didn’t know enough about medicine to be useful, and after all, if this was just something that needed to run its course, then there wasn’t much he could do to expedite the process anyways.  On the other hand, agreeing to this felt like a step into unknown territory - territory he secretly dreamed of; accompanied by visions of him holding you, touching you, kissing…but he would never dare admit that.

Danse gently climbed into bed with you, using his bicep to support your head, wrapping an arm around you, so that his whole body seemed to encompass you; protective.  

Wherever it lead - or didn’t lead, he would deal with once he knew you were well enough to deal with it too.

Deacon: Strong arms steadied you as you tipped forward, your left foot catching on something that wasn’t really there.

“Whoa there, you okay?”

“S’fine.” you muttered, the nausea you had been fighting off putting a spin on your words that made them slur.

“I dunno, you don’t look too good.  I mean, you look great, but you also look kinda…sick.”

You swatted at him, “I look better than you do.”

Deacon rolled his eyes, “Not possible.  Even with you being as hot as you are.”

You stared at him - was this some sort of fever dream?

“Seriously - you’re hot.  Like, you’re burning up as I speak.  I think you seriously are sick.”

He cracked a small grin before pulling you closer, and shifting one of your arms so that it was over his shoulders, allowing him to support you better.

“All joking aside, I think you should go and get some rest.”

“Sure, sure.” you mumbled, letting yourself relax and seemingly swirl away.  It took serious effort to keep yourself somewhat steady, and effort hurt when you felt this fatigued.

By the time Deacon reached your bed, you were a million miles away, with Deacon.  The other Deacon - the one in your fantasies.  This Deacon was lounging around on a white sand beach - something that existed a million worlds away from the cruel mistress that was the Commonwealth.  With this Deacon, you were strong, confident, and perfectly healthy.  

“Deacon,” you threw your arms around him, pulling him close.  He seemed to melt into your touch, turning to face you, getting closer…

Meanwhile, the real Deacon had just managed to get you into your bed, back in Sanctuary, where there were no white-sand beaches to be found, when he heard your name spill from your parted lips.  Thankfully, you were unconscious, so you weren’t there to witness the pink hue that invaded his cheeks.

Deacon knew you were sound asleep, and that you’d have no memory of calling to him when you awoke.  But he couldn’t help but muse at what sort of things he might be doing in your dreamland.  What sort of things you were doing with him.

Sinking down to the floor, beside the bed, he leaned back against the side, the top of his head just inches from your face.  He supposed he should just chill here a while - just in case you needed something, close enough so that he could hear you, if you called for him again.

Hancock: One moment you were walking side by side with the mayor of Goodneighbor, and the next, you were dropping to the ground like a stone.

Not much phased Hancock, but seeing you drop like dead weight; like a corpse.  It shook him to his core.  

Before he even registered what was happening, he was at your side, cradling you in his arms.

“Hey, stay with me sister.”

You wanted to reach out to him; reassure him that you were fine - just a little under the weather.  Or if you had been feeling more daring, perhaps grab him by his lapels and kiss him silly, taking advantage of the close range.  Instead, you lay there, your breathing labored, lips slightly parted, and flushed with a feverish sheen Hancock hadn’t seen since before he was a ghoul.

“H-Haaan-”

“Don’t talk, save your strength.” 

He scooped you up, starting towards your house in Sanctuary at a brusque pace.  He had been immune to sickness for so damned long, he had forgotten what it looked like on people - and he hated how it looked on you. 

Setting you on the bed, he was a bit at a loss as for what he should do.  He took off your shoes, jacket, hat, and your clunkier gear, but anything else felt like a violent overstepping of boundaries; these sorts of things he’d rather be taking off in the heat of the moment, rather than the heat that radiated off your feverish body.

He pushed the hair back from your face, noticing how it clung to your forehead, damp with sweat.  Did he cool you off?  Or let you sweat it out?  Dammit, he was no doctor…

If he couldn’t help you, he needed to get you someone who could.  As fast as his legs could carry him, he ran to find Curie, distraught.  Scared of doing more harm than good, he watched as she examined you; taking your temperature, and listening to your heart; never daring to touch you, but always lingering near, trying desperately to discern her thoughts through the cluck of a tongue, or a soft “oh” under her breath.

When you finally woke up; it was still dark.  You were the only one awake in these primitive hours of the morning.  Hancock’s arm rested on your lap, and his head on his arm.  You marveled at the ghoul slouched over you, a soft snore coming from under the tricorn hat.  Smiling softly, you leaned back, letting your hand rest on his back, reveling in his warmth, and let your eyes fall shut again, perhaps you weren’t quite ready for things to go back to normal completely.

MacCready: MacCready had had a bad feeling when he found it was infected mole rats you’d be dealing with at the vault.  He’d grown increasingly skeptical when he saw the sweat beading on your skin even in the chilly night air.  Here, under the glow of the Sanctuary streetlights he had helped you erect earlier that very month, he was sure - you were sick.

You on the other hand, were not so convinced.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

He looked you up and down, looked at the odd way you were holding yourself, as if you were a ragdoll forced to stand erect.  He looked at your flushed complexion, something he’d only seen in his darkest fantasies, and now that he was seeing it in real life, he recognized how out of place it was in the open, with you fully clothed.

He reached a hand up to your forehead.  

“Yep, that’s it.  You’re burning up.”

You kicked yourself for not pulling away, but how could you? This was MacCready.

“I’m just naturally hot blooded.”  You tried to flash him a grin, but you were so tired, it came across as a grimace.

“You should have Curie check you out.”

You rolled your eyes, “Mac, I’m not going to go to the doctor everytime I feel a little tickle in my throat.”

“What about when you’re exhibiting symptoms of Mole Rat Disease after exposure?” He shot back.

Guns may be his weapon of choice, but his silver tongue was a deadly weapon on its own.  You knew this MacCready though, this scared, aggressive MacCready who’d spit venom at someone he loved before he let anyone witness his soft spot for you.  His eyes were sharp, and he was frowning deeply, but his eyebrows formed worried arches over his eyes, painting an anxious disposition on his face - not a mean one.

“I’m sure I’m fine, “  You tried to reassure him, “But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go see Curie before I turn in for the night.”

MacCready sighed in relief, flanking you as you beelined towards the makeshift clinic you and the settlers had thrown together in Sanctuary.  Dismissive as you had been towards his nagging earlier, you were secretly glad to see him so worried about you, grateful that he came with so he could hold your hand when Curie rolled in the procedure set full of needles, with syringes full of preventative serums and medicines for lock jaw, infection, and a whole other cadre of scary sounding symptoms that could apparently result from untreated Mole Rat Disease.  

MacCready let you squeeze his hand as Curie administered the shots.

“Told you so,” he mumbled, the pink in his cheeks the only thing stopping you from arguing further.

Nick Valentine: You lay gasping in bed, shaking with chills though your body burned with fever.  Nick stood in the doorway of your bedroom, leaning against the door frame.

“Is there anything I can get you, doll?”

“N-No, I’m f-fine Nick.”

Your voice trembled and your teeth rattled as another violent chill made you spasm.

Nick entered the room fully, and the divot in the bed became steeper as he perched on the side.

“I’m no doctor, but you really don’t seem like you’re doing so well.”

You curled up and scooted closer to him, pressing closer to him, trying to soak up whatever warmth he could produce.  While not human, he was not cold - you reveled in the soft whirring and thrumming that sounded from beneath his jacket, analogous to a heartbeat.  You found it comforting.

“I’ll be f-fine, I just need to s-s-sleep it off.”

“Well okay, if you insist.  Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

You grabbed the hem of his coat.

“Y-y-you.”

He sighed, and raised his good hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

“Sure doll, whatever you want.”

He shifted so that he was in recline on your bed, holding you against him gently, not sure if you missed the natural softness of a human body.  You let the hardness of his anchor you down.  Your head was tucked under his arm, and he wondered if you were comfortable, but the way you clutched onto him said that you’d be upset if he moved, so he remained perfectly still.

Longfellow:  Longfellow had seen a lot in his life.  Seeing so much had made him seasoned, wise, a veteran in the cruelty of the Commonwealth, and so he was unsurprised when he watched you stumble as the two of you returned from your long journey, back to Sanctuary, you starting to succumb to the symptoms of the illness he figured you had contracted.

With the flimsy gear you wore, it was no wonder you’d been bitten, and contracted it.

He would have tsk’ed and shook his head, maybe even added a “I told you so.” for good measure, but based on how you looked, you were learning your lesson.  

Coughs wracked your body, a new bout rattling you with increasing consistency.  You were pink; not in a cute, young, fire in the belly sort of flushed, but a feverish, inflamed red, with a tell-all sheen of sweat.

“C’mon.” He said gruffly, resting a hand on your back, and letting it linger before walking off towards his own house.  You knew to follow.

He gestured for you to sit down at the table in his quaint kitchen.  You watched tiredly as he rummaged through kitchen cupboards and his fridge, surprised when he could collect a series of ingredients that were all not-booze.  You watched as he mixed the ingredients in a large pot, heating slowly on the stove, transfixed as he stirred it reverently.  You didn’t snap out of this comfortable trance until he was placing a steaming bowl of…slop in front of you.

“There,” he said proudly, gesturing to the bowl.

“Bloatfly, mutfruit, and  ash blossom.  My family’s recipe for perfect health.”

You eyeballed it, tired and uncomfortable, wanting to get better, but really not wanting to eat…that.

“I think I’m starting to feel better already!” You said brightly.

“Nice try.  Really though, don’t knock it ‘till you try it.  It’ll make you feel loads better.  It’s hearty, fresh, and full of protein.”

You took a whiff of it and gagged, “No really,” you choked out, “I’m feeling much better.”

“Just give it a try.”

“I really-”

“Try it.”

“I don’t-”

“For Chrissake, try the damn soup already.”

Holding your breath, you lifted a spoonful up to your mouth, and delicately lapped it up, trying to avoid as much contact with the chunky liquid as you could as the vile broth slid down your throat.

“Great, thanks.” You wheezed, really not sure if you’d be able to finish it.

“I just, really don’t think I have an appetite right now.”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, “Get on out of here to bed then, you can have more of the soup tomorrow.”

Your heart sank, but were grateful for the reprieve sleep would grant you. 

You spent the night at Longfellow’s that night, he insisted he be there to make sure you finish the damn stew.  But he was also there to ensure you had enough blankets and water, and when you were fast asleep, unaware of your watchful protector, he would lovingly tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.  glad for the opportunity to be there at all.

Piper: She squeezed out the water from a rag, replacing the damp cloth on your forehead with a new one.

You groaned, and she paused her doting to give your hand a soft squeeze.

“Sssh, just rest up for now, Blue.”

Her voice was calm but her face was a mask of worry.  

You had both in the Vault earlier that day, you had both been exposed to the infected mole rats - it could have just as easily been her, rather than you, so why hadn’t it been?

She had seen the wicked teeth of the vermin when it sank into your leg.  She watched as you angrily kicked the thing off, and would’ve gutted the little bastard herself if you hadn’t been so quick.  She had also seen the way you had guarded her though, the way your arms seemed to will some sort of protection over her in that vault.  It had seemed so ethereal until you had outwardly stepped in the path of the rats to ensure that she didn’t have to.  Now it just seemed so stupid, stupid that she was stuck here, watching you hurt like this.

“Don’t…worry.” you breathed, too tired to speak without stopping to catch your breath between words.

“You’ve lost the privilege of telling me what to do.”  Piper glowered at her partner.

“You’re obviously not in the right state of mind to be doing so anyways.”

“But…I…don’t want….you…to worry.” You forced your eyes open, forcing them to hold Piper’s own solemn gaze.

“Who says I’m worried about you anyways?” She shot back.

You raised a feeble hand to gently brush the space between her eyes, crinkled with the tension she held there in habit.

“You…do…” You couldn’t help but grin and laugh your breathy laugh as she reddened.

“Yeah, well maybe you should save your strength and focus on getting better instead of doing dumb things like that,” she muttered, still flustered, “so that way, when you’re better we can really hash this thing out.”

“And…you can write a tell-all about my terrible rodent handling.”

She scoffed, “I can see the headline now; ‘Mole Rat Disease is every Vaultie’s New Pet Peeve.”

“Is that supposed to be a play on words?”

“Shut it, you’re sick remember?”

You cough-laughed.

“Seriously though, get better soon, okay Blue? I need ya out here.”

You smiled, turning so that you could lean into the girl next to you.

“I will Pipes, you won’t have to wait too long.”

Gage: You lay on the plush couch, atop Fizz Mountain, mouth slack, as the fever burned through your body.

Gage sat at the foot of the couch, your feet resting in his lap, as he rubbed and massaged the calloused appendages.

“You feelin’ any better boss?”

“No,” you kept your eyes pinched firmly shut. 

“Can I get you anything, boss?”

“No.”

  He sighed, knowing your short answers were a product of how poorly you felt, and it only made him feel worse about the Vault incident.  It should have been him with Mole Rat Disease, with you at his bedside, bringing him water, stroking his hair with those soft hands of yours.

Not that he’d ever admit to thinking about that.  Still though, even in prying his mind from the gutter, he couldn’t deny that he felt responsible for the hurt you were feeling now.  After all, as your second in command, was it not his job to take those sorts of hits for you, so that you could maintain your power as the Overboss?

It seemed like it should be included in his lists of responsibilities.  And even if it wasn’t as your companion, it should be as your lover.  

Gage sat there, seeing how vulnerable ailment made you out to be, watching each cough shake your feeble body.  He was a big guy.  A tough guy.  It should be him fighting this illness.  Not you.  

“Hey,”  You rasped, unnerved by his bought of quiet.

“What’s going on up there?  You’re a million miles away.”

“I’m here.”  He responded quietly. Not like him.

“Talk to me,” your voice, raspy and weak demanded with a steely tone.  You sat up, and immediately regretted it as you swayed dizzily.

“Lay down boss, you’re sick.”

“Gage, c’mon.”

He stopped his rubbing to reach over and gently try and lay you down, only for you to seize him by his arms, and pull yourself closer.

“Gage, this isn’t your fault you know.”

He didn’t answer.  

“Seriously, there’s risks wherever we go.  It’s a part of what we do.  Look at me though, I’m still here.  A bunch of stupid rats aren’t going to change that.”

You placed a warm hand on his cheek, staring intently at him until he seemed to lean in to your touch, resigned.

“Yeah, okay.”

You let yourself lean forward so that now you were laying on him, head tucked into his shoulder, hands splayed across his chest.

This was better.

You fell into a blissful sleep, when you awoke, the fever would be gone.

Preston:”General!”  Preston called out to you as you stumbled backwards, sweating profusely.

He rushed over to your side, and gently lifted your head to rest on his lap. Taking off your hat, he immediately noted the redness to your complexion.

Heat stroke?

He pressed a hand to your slick forehead.

Fever.

Blindly, he shifted your minuteman duster off your shoulders, and flipped the top of your satchel up, so that he could paw through the contents in search of water.  This proved to be much more difficult with one hand; his other hand was preoccupied with fanning your face.

“Pres…ton, stop.”

You made a lame attempt to push the fanning hand away.”

“Wait,” he murmured, easily dodging your protests, “You’re sick.”

“I’s just a little cold.” You smiled groggily, trying to come across reassuring.

“Still, cold or not, if you felt sick, why didn’t you tell me when you started feeling like this?”

Preston’s eyebrows knit up in worry.

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

You hesitated.  

“Since Vault 81,”  

Preston was silent, and you were almost sure you could feel him seething.

“Preston?”

He was silent, but the fanning never ceased.

“Preston?”  You tried again, to no avail.  

Your lower lip trembled, you didn’t want him to be mad at you, you hated when he was, but you felt too crappy to take this on top of a raging fever right now.

“You’ve got to trust me.”

He finally spoke, and your heart twinged at the hurt in his voice.

“I do, you know I do.”

“No, I mean you have to be able to trust me enough to tell me when you’re not okay.  The minutemen need it, and so do we. Pretending to be tough doesn’t help anyone in the end, especially if you really need help and you have a team who can.”

“Okay,  I’ll do better next time.”

“Get better first,” his voice was gentle, and you relaxed when you noticed the absence of hurt this time.

You let yourself drift, trusting Preston to bring you back to where you belonged.

X6: “Ma’am, how do you feel?”

“About?”

You grinned, your face red with fever, but you were still making jokes so X6 supposed he could take that as a good sign.

“Your current discomfort.  Your temperature is raised, your heart rate is increased, and I sense pain signals along several of your extremities.”

“Yes X6, I am hot, because it is hot here.  My joints ache because I’m old.  And my heart rate is up because….I think you’re cute.”  You flashed a smile, hoping X6 didn’t see it waver as another bout of nausea hit you.

“Ma’am if you’re feeling ill, you should not be making jokes.  It is only 60 degrees fahrenheit - cooler than average for this time of year, and you yourself are still in your prime for an adult of your age.”

“But I do think you’re cute.”

“That’s inappropriate ma’am.”

You giggled, before letting yourself slide backwards onto your butt.

“Yeah, I suppose I feel a bit tired though.”  You reached up to rub the back of your neck.  Dizziness washed over you, and you felt a shiver run up your spine - probably the chills.

“As I mentioned before, your body indicates that you are feeling ill, which could contribute to the fatigue your feeling.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“Ma’am, you should rest so you can get better.”

You groaned, “Seriously?  You of all people are going to tell me to take it easy?  You’re all business.”

“Exactly ma’am, and it is my job to ensure you remain in optimal health so you can run the Institute.”

You snorted.  “I’ll rest because I feel like crap, not for the Institute.”  You leaned back, and let your eyes fall shut.

You felt a blanket fall over you.

“That’s sufficient.”

Chapter Text

Ada: Ada surveyed the scene before her as the sun ascended into a vibrant blue sky.  The spotty patches

of grass Sanctuary was fortunate enough to have were heavy with plump drops of dew.  The settlement blossomed into a flurry of activity as the settlers started their daily routine: starting cooking fires and pumping water wells. Dogmeat started his exciting rounds for the day, loping around the perimeter of the settlement with a satisfied bark.

Life in Sanctuary, Ada believed, was good.  Good because they certainly weren’t bad (according to her own analysis) which meant by Sole’s standards, things were probably really good.  Ada scanned the surrounding area again and searched specifically for Sole.  While there was no sign of him, her optics dialed in on something out of the ordinary: something small protruded from behind a canary yellow house across the street.  It was so slight, Ada was unable to discern what it was, even with the stellar visual drive Jackson insisted on installing in her.  If Ada had a stomach, it would’ve flipped at this rare chance at uncertainty.  Ada started towards the strange thing and the uncertainty morphed into concern as what she was looking at became clearer.

The small protruding shadow turned into a foot, which grew into a leg - a leg wearing a familiar pair of brown trousers.  Ada kept walking, the probability of her fear proving true growing exponentially with every step.

Sole leaned back against the side of the house, his head lolled off to the side deliriously as his limbs sprawled out around him.  He was pale and clammy, his breathing so weak that the rise and fall of his chest were only perceptible if one made a point to look for it.

“Sir!”

Ada beelined towards his form.  Against her flawless statistical algorithms predicted result, Sole stirred at the title.

“…Ada?”

His eyes fluttered but remained shut as his chest thrust with newfound effort, as if he struggled to draw in air.  A holographic blue light flickered from the output device right below Ada’s optical interface, and scanned over Sole’s ghastly face.  Meanwhile, fever had Sole’s consciousness untethered, floating a million miles away.

“From my analysis, I have concluded that you have contracted Mole Rat Disease.  While we are not in possession of the last known cure, we have caught it relatively early in the disease’s life, and should be able to swiftly combat the symptoms to mitigate any permanent side effects.  I predict that you will make a near-full recovery, save for minimal weakness in some or all limbs.”

Sole moaned, his head lolling off to the other side.  Despite his discomfort though, Ada identified the relief she felt easily.

“I will now transport you home so that you may better recover.  Course of treatment includes bed rest and fluids.”

Sole’s head already swam, and so he did not notice the clumsy motion with which Ada lifted him.  He only sighed in relief at the sensation of the cool metal pressed to against his cheek, which radiated heat.

“Ada,” Sole gasped again.

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”

“Your gratitude, while appreciated, is not necessary.”

Ada started her trek back to Sole’s house, as he hung in her arms like a ragdoll.  The picturesque Sanctuary day in full swing, at her back.

Cait: Cait wrung out a damp towel thoroughly, her nails digging into the tattered fabric; the only outlet for the distress that gnawed at her gut.  Cait folded the towel, before she smoothed back the hair that fell across Sole’s clammy forehead.  Sole’s skin seared her knuckle as it brushed against it in the process.

Creeping from the room, Cait gently shut the door behind her, before making her way to the main living area.  Cait sat down on the battered couch in the living room of Sole’s Sanctuary home, sighing heavily.  From somewhere distant, a whirring noise signaled Codsworth’s arrival.

“How is he today, Ms. Cait?”

Cait shifted uncomfortably on the couch cushion; still unused to the vast cast of supportive people that inquired worryingly about Sole.  Not that she could blame them, she was one after all.  Still though, it contrasted starkly with her cast of one; Sole was it for her.

“No better or worse than before.  ‘Fraid his fever jus’ won’t break.” Cait grimaced.

“Oh dear, poor Sir,” Codsworth lamented, “I do wonder though…this does seem to be a bit more aggressive than the common cold or flu.  Do we know for certain what ails him?”

Cait shrugged, frustratedly pressing her knuckles to her temples.

“Have no idea.  ‘m no doctor.”

“Perhaps we should seek counsel with one,” Codsworth advised.  “Ms. Curie for an example might be able to help.”

Cait’s eyebrows drew together, as bitter rage curdled her stomach.  Cait had always beat the crap out of anything that posed a threat to her; it’s how she survived as a child.  Through early adulthood, it’s what allowed her to coexist with the scum that took to the Combat Zone.  When she had met Sole, she’d decided she’d kick the teeth in of anything that threatened him too.  This wasn’t an attacker she could fend off though, and it was maddening.  Cait swallowed her bile, and pressed her mouth into a thin line to steady her temper.

“Yer right Codsworth, that would probably be best for ‘im.”

“Splendid!  You wait here Ms. Cait, I’ll go fetch Ms. Curie!”

Cait was grateful Codsworth took it upon himself to talk to Curie; Cait had nothing against her, no more than anyone else anyways, but she was barely keeping it together as it was, as anxiety and frustration stormed on inside her.

By the time Codsworth returned with Curie, Cait had already counted to ten, seven times, and had employed several deep breathing techniques; all things Sole had told her supposedly helped with an unruly temper.

“Ah Cait!  Eet eez good to see you again!”  Curie gushed, bringing her hands merrily together.

“Uh, hi Curie.” Cait forced a smile.

“Now, I ‘eard zhat Sole eez sick?  Where is ‘e?  I’d be ‘appy to take a look.”

“Right this way Ms. Curie!” Codsworth called, as he started down the hallway, Curie in tow with a box of medical supplies tucked beneath her arm.

Cait lingered silently in the living room for a few more minutes, knowing she would be next to useless hovering at Sole’s bedside.  However, she was unable to content herself with just the agitated drumming of her fingers against the couch arm.  Cait entered the room meekly, like a dog with its tail tucked beneath her legs.  Curie turned at the sound of the door clicking quietly shut behind Cait, a syringe in hand.

“Cait!  Du temp parfait! Sole should ‘ave someone ‘ere to hold his hand!”

Cait’s eyebrows drew together.

“Why?  What’re ye goin’ ta do?”

“Ah…it seems as if Sir has contracted Mole Rat Disease, and Ms. Curie was able to scrounge up another cure!  However, it’s not a…pleasant process.”

“Eet eez effective, although quite primitive compared to the one ‘e gave to zhe boy in Vault 81.  I gather it could be quite painful, in zhe time eet takes for zhe serum to take action,” Curie agreed.

Cait looked apprehensively to the foreboding size of the needle again, before turning to Sole’s bedside.

“Right then, let’s get this over with.”

“Oui, the sooner we get zhe cure into ‘im, zhe sooner ‘e should start to feel better.”

Codsworth moved so that there was a clear spot at Sole’s bedside, and Cait knelt.  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she reached to tentatively take his hand in hers, suddenly very aware of the thick calluses that roughened her alabaster skin.  A few small clinking noises sounded from behind Cait as Curie readied her supplies, and Cait decided to press her other hand comfortingly against the back of Sole’s hand.  She fixed her eyes on Sole’s face, peaceful in his unconscious face.

“We can start whenever,” Curie announced, the syringe in her hand now loaded with a silvery liquid.

Cait tightened her hold on Sole so that his hand was firmly sandwiched between hers.

“Right.”

Curie nodded and moved in, using one hand to gently brace Sole’s arm, before the other jabbed the tip of the needle into the skin discolored by the vein that snaked closely below it.  Immediately Sole tensed beneath them, the muscles of his arm flexing hard, all the way up to his jaw, which was clenched tightly; Sole’s peaceful masque contorting into an anguished expression.

“Keep ‘im still, please,” Curie murmured, careful to keep the needle steady.

Cait squeezed at Sole’s hand. “H-hey, it’s alright,” she chided weakly.

Sole let out a pained gasp, before he began to strain from his position on the bed, his back arching as he attempted to throw himself off of it.  Cait caught his shoulder as it rose up off the mattress, pressing him firmly back down as he fought viciously against her and Curie.

“Cait!” Curie snapped.

Cait rose so that she could throw most of her weight onto Sole, effectively pinning him to the bed. Her hands left his arm to brace themselves on either side of his face, as her forearms kept him steadied.

“Hey, Sole,” Cait called more forcefully.

Sole’s returning groan was pained.

“I know this hurts like hell, but ye’ve gotta take this now, so that ye’ll feel better later.”

Sole gasped, his writhing lessening as he tried to latch onto the meager comfort Cait offered.

“Right, c’mon now, we’ve done worse than this, yeah?” Cait urged.

“Almost done,” Curie called.

Sole whimpered, his weakened body failing him, as he brought his free arm up.  Cait took this opportunity to thread her fingers through his hand, both of them squeezing so tightly their knuckles whitened as the skin stretched tautly over the joints.

“When yer better, we’ll make sure to hunt the little blighter who did this to you down, yeah?”

Sole let out a ragged ghost of a laugh.

“I’m done,” Curie said, removing the needle from his arm, the vial of the syringe now empty.

Sole grimaced, and looked shakily at Cait.

“After this, I n-never want to see another mole rat again.”

Cait laughed weakly. “Yeah, that can be arranged.”

Her other hand reached up to gently stroke at his cheek.  Sole’s eyes fluttered shut and his body relaxed, but his hold on Cait never faltered.

Codsworth: “Sir?”  Codsworth hovered outside the door in the dark hallway.

“Sir?” Codsworth hovered outside the door in the dark hallway. It was well past midnight when loud retching altered his sensors. Codsworth waited until the sickening noise subsided before he tried again. “Sir?”

Vicious coughing and hacking grated from behind the worn wood.

“’m fine Codsworth.” Sole’s voice was raspy and weak.

“With all due respect Sir, you don’t sound fine.”

“I’m just –“ Codsworth heard a retching sound “-down with the flu or something.”

“I’m no doctor, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the flu in the Commonwealth,” Codsworth remarked.

Silence.  In Sole’s current state, the lack of response was not surprising. Codsworth could probably walk Sole to the point he was trying to make and he still would not see it. .

“Say, Sir, humor me.  Have you recently been to any strange places?  Or…encountered any strange creatures?”

“In a radioactive wasteland? Impossible.”

Codsworth tsked. “I could do without the sarcasm, Sir.”

“Right, my bad,” Sole said. “ No, there haven’t been any.  I’ve been running mostly with he Minutemen these days.  The only other thing I’ve done lately is help that sick boy in Vault, ah…what was it?”

“Eighty-one?”

“Yeah, right, eighty-one.”

Realization struck Codsworth like a blown fuse.

“Didn’t Mr. Travis report recently on a disease outbreak from that very vault?”

The silence that followed was underscored by the sound of the pieces coming together in Sole’s mind, and dread at what such a realization meant.  Something solid thunked heavily against the door, and Codsworth bet it was Sole’s head.

“Mole rat disease,” he moaned from the other side.

Suddenly the door cracked open, and Codsworth could spot one of Sole’s sickness-yellowed eyes, shining in the dark.

“Codsworth…”

“Sir?”

“Could I…could I get some water, if we have any?” His voice was sheepish.

“Of course, Sir,” Codsworth responded cordially. Itt was unbecoming to say ‘I told you so’, after all.

“Shall I whip up a bowl of that soup you like?”

“Please.”

Curie:   Sole lay back in his bed, hovering agonizingly between too dizzy to be awake, but too sick to fall asleep.  A fever hung over him and chills wracked his body.  Every few minutes, he’d toss his limbs in another arrangement in an attempt to find the cold spots left in his bed. Anything to provide some semblance of relief.

A knock at the door reached Sole through the haze of his delirium.

“Come in,” he croaked, cracking an eye open despite that he already knew who it was.

“’Ow are you doing my love?”

Sole’s eyebrows drew together at the strange, tinny quality to Curie’s voice.  He mustered the energy to crack one eye open.  Standing in the doorway, with a tray that held a steaming bowl of soup, purified water, and a stimpak, was Curie, clad in a hazmat suit.

“Good…how are you?”

Curie made a sympathetic face. “I’ll be better when you are mon cher.”

Both of Sole’s eyes were open now, staring bewilderedly at Curie’s strange getup.  Curie looked down, already feeling at home in the roomy suit, and laughed in realization.

“Oh zhis?  Pay no mind mon coeur.  Zhis eez just so I can help you while protecting myself.”

“Protect yourself?”

“My new human body eez much more susceptible to diseases zhan my old Miss Nanny body was.” Curie stroke a pose. “Voila! Zhis was my solution; good, no?”

Sole smiled weakly. “Sure doll, you look great.  But…you do realize I have mole rat disease, right?”

Curie stared blankly at him and Sole flushed.

“I’m no doctor, but isn’t mole rat disease only transmitted via…well, mole rats?”

Curie chuckled. “Zhat is what zhey want you to think! In reality, zhere eez much about zhis disease that we don’t know about.”

Sole made a face, but bit back his snarky comment.  Curie brought the tray to his bedside.

“Now, eat zhe soup, drink zhe water, and take zhe stimpak.   I’ll be back to check on you een a few hours.”

Sole shifted so that the tray sat comfortably on his lap, watching as Curie inched out of the room.

“Curie?”

“Hm?”

“What are you up to?”

Curie’s expression sombered slightly. She still smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes anymore.

“I’m working on a cure for you.”

Sole’s eyebrows flew up.

“A cure?  You said in Vault 81 that there was only one, and you couldn’t make anymore.”

Curie grimaced. “Well, zhat was before traveling with you.”

Sole’s chest squeezed, as a bright crimson suddenly seized Curie’s complexion.

“I mean zhat now I have more information due to our travels, and per’aps a cure eez possible now after all.”

“Right.” Sole couldn’t hold back the grin that spread across his face.

Curie’s face only reddened further at his assuming expression, paired with the ridiculous looking hazmat suit, Sole couldn’t resist the wily laughter that bubbled in his throat, shaking his weakened frame.

“You’re sick, so you should be getting rest!” Curie scolded softly.

“Yeah,” Sole coughed, “got it, doc.”

“I’ll see you later.” Curie’s voice was warm, and her gaze softened.

“Go make science, or whatever it is you do,” Sole teased, before another cough overtook him.

Curie returned to her lab, her mind cold and focused, and her face still hot.

Danse: Danse first thought something was off at the Castle, when he helped Sole reclaim the Minutemen’s old base, as Radio Freedom blared behind them.  He remembered it vividly rather liked Radio Freedom, and despite whatever qualms he’d had with the Minutemen, he respected their efforts and eventual success in gaining back some ground.  He remembered wondering about the Brotherhood having their own Radio station; something Arthur would’ve deemed frivolous if it had no direct merit to the Brotherhood.  That was when he noticed Sole, standing alone amongst the throng of celebratory Minutemen.  It was brief, an instant, maybe less, but undoubtedly real.  Sole looking wobbly and green, fingers pressed tersely to his temples.  Danse would’ve checked on him then and there, except for the next time he looked over, Sole appeared fine.

It wasn’t until a few days later when he’d walked in on Sole and a syringe of Psychobuff, that he felt that something was very wrong.

“What the hell?” His eyebrows had drawn together.

Paired with his severe bone structure, he appeared more angry rather than concerned.

“Danse, I can explain.” Sole skittered to his feet, steadying himself before raising his hands in a ‘whoa there’ motion.

“Whatever the explanation, it’ll never be a good enough reason to justify putting that crap into your body.”

“Look, I know it’s crap.  I’m not doing this for kicks. I…need it.”

Shame burned Sole’s cheeks as his own eyebrows drew together.

“That’s what addiction makes you think — ” Danse shook his head “ — we need to get you to a doctor so –“

“No, I mean I need it.  I need the health and endurance boosts.”

“You’re sick?” Danse demanded.

“Yeah. Or maybe…I don’t know.  My symptoms aren’t terrible yet, but I’m weaker than usual, and I still have to find Shaun.” Sole’s face sombered, the thought of his son absolving him of his brief shame at getting caught with chems.

“If you’re sick, you need a doctor.” Danse frowned.

“If…it is what I think it is, a doctor won’t be able to do much.  What I need is to accelerate my timeline, and given how I’m feeling now, this crap is my best bet.”

“What’s going on, Sole?” Danse’s voice lowered.

Sole’s chest squeezed, seldom did Danse use his name.  If Sole was correct though, there was no cure coming for him anytime soon, it’d be beneficial to take on Kellogg sooner rather than later.

“I…it’s nothing.  Just trust me for now.”

Danse shot Sole a concerned look, but said no more on the subject.

Looking back, if Danse had the chance to do it all again, he would’ve dragged Sole to a doctor the night he’d caught him with Psychobuff.  Hell, he might’ve done it the day the Minutemen took the Castle.  Better safe than where he was now; peering at Sole’s frail frame, as it lay in a bed, with tubes protruding from his forearm and throat.

Curie had told him that the disease itself wasn’t life threatening. Mole Rat Disease – pesky, without a cure, and debilitating.  Still certainly not enough to put Sole where he was now.  It was the damned knife; Pickman’s gift as he called it.  Sole had used it in a scuffle against some mangy raider; all had been going smoothly.  Danse had been getting into it with someone in a burlap hood with crude eye holes cut into them, while Sole had been duking it out with a horse-faced woman with a set of pilot’s goggles.  From his peripheral vision, he’d watched as Sole effectively dodged a swipe from the woman, before his own hand cracked upwards against her elbow, sending her pistol skittering away.  Sole kicked it further away to ensure it was out of her reach before lunging once again towards the woman.  Though it looked as if he had been winning, Danse knew better; knew of the feverish glimmer in his eyes, and the trembling of his exhausted muscles, spent.  The woman could see this too, which is how she knew to risk meeting Sole’s lunge halfway, disarming them, and stealing Pickman’s blade back, before sticking it firmly into Sole’s abdomen.

Now he was here, waiting helplessly at Sole’s bedside.  All he wanted was for Sole to wake up, for him to wake up so that he could apologize. He didn’t even need to forgive him.  Danse sat pressed tightly into himself beside Sole, a stoic calm, but inside him, a storm raged.

Danse willed Sole’s eyes to open.  They did not.

Deacon:  A sharp rapping at the door jerked Sole from his deep, feverish slumber.

“Come in,” he croaked, peeking an eye open.

The entire room seemed to spin, and Sole had to fight off another wave of nausea.

“Hey.”

A familiar voice eased in through the doorway as the door cracked open.  One lens of a pair of sunglasses was visible.

“Deacon,” Sole coughed, “Go away.”

The door opened fully, and Deacon stepped in.

“You’re always such a pleasure when sick,” he teased.

Sole’s head spun, only adding sickening gasoline to the irritable flame he burned with.  He hoisted himself to a semi-sitting together, leaning heavily on the conglomerate of pillows smushed behind his back.

“I mean it.  I just need to rest.”

“You know, I may not be a doctor, but I know how being sick works.” Deacon tugged his sunglasses off the prominent bridge of his nose, before hooking them over the collar of his shirt. “And that’s why I’m here to help.”

“Deacon,” Sole tried more forcefully, “leave.”

“Sure, sure,” Deacon said dismissively, before moving in.

Sole eyed the man’s motions suspiciously.  Seldom did Deacon remove the safety of his sunglasses.  Sole’s stomach flipped when Deacon hooked his fingers around the edge of Sole’s comforter, before tugging it down.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sole rasped angrily, too weak to prevent Deacon from coming closer, however.

“I told you, I’m going to help you ride this out.  Now scooch.” Deacon replied casually, looking down at the bed expectantly.

Sole crossed his arms stubbornly. “No.”

Deacon studied Sole for a few moments longer before heaving out a sigh.

“Fine.”

Sole glowered at the man, before suddenly Deacon hoisted two arms beneath Sole, and shifted him firmly over to one side of the bed.

“Hey!” Sole complained.

Deacon slipped into the bed beside Sole, as the latter grumped through Deacon’s clumsy efforts to get comfortable.

“Watch it!”

Deacon fitted himself around the curvature of Sole’s body; his chest to Sole’s back, his knees tucked into the crook of Sole’s, whose feverish hue darkened.

“Deacon, seriously, you’re going to get sick.”

Deacon shifted once more so that Sole’s temple was supported by his bicep.

“Nah, I’ve already had mole rat disease.”

Deacon threw his other arm over Sole’s face, before using his thumb to stroke comforting shapes along Sole’s side.  Sole was glad that his back was towards Deacon, so that he couldn’t see how fast his heart was racing on his sleeve.  Sole’s eyebrows drew together.

“Does that rule…apply to mole rat disease?”

A few moments of silence confirmed what Sole suspected upon the man entering his bed.

“Sure, sure.” Deacon said dismissively, once again, before pressing a sweet kiss into the crook of Sole’s neck.

Hancock:  Hancock sat at Sole’s bedside, his arms folded neatly behind his head, which was tipped downwards, his hat resting over his eyes.  Sole lay unconscious in the bed next to him, probably taking the trip of his life through the delirium of fever dreams that plagued him.  He stirred, his limbs heavy and fatigued, remaining still.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

Hancock started from his own delicate nap, before running a hand tiredly over his face.

“Sole?  You good?”

Sole’s eyes were still shut, his limbs still sprawled uselessly around him, but still, his lips parted and released incoherent pieces of dialogue he was seemingly sharing with someone else.

“…ah, I didn’t know…ther”

What would’ve been Hancock’s brow, furrowed, as he strained to find meaning in the garbled words.

“s’great…”

Hancock’s eyes narrowed.  Hell, he was too sober for this.

“Hancock.”

The ghoul’s eyes widened as amidst Sole’s dizzying sentiments. His name spilled from their mouth, clear as day.  Hancock leaned in closer, unable to dismiss the nagging voice in the back of his head, urging him to discern some meaning.  Suddenly, Sole stirred again, a weird, giddy giggle tearing from their form; eyes still shut, limbs tossed to splay out in a mirage of new directions.  Hancock jerked back, startled, and not wanting to risk Sole waking up and finding himself under the ghoul’s scrutiny.  He wouldn’t know what was more disconcerting; waking up to his ugly mug in Sole’s face, or being watched while he slept.

“…told ya Nora…he’sa good one.”

Hancock’s chest squeezed at the mention of Sole’s late spouse.  He’d shared enough drinks with Sole to hear him talk about her.  The way his eyes lit up at such recollections, the tenderness and pride when he spoke of her; it was the way everyone since the beginning of time had hoped someone talked about them.  Hancock included.

“…like him…”

Hancock frowned. Was Sole likening him to someone?  Was it the ugly duckling?

“I like him.”

Hancock’s chest squeezed again, and if he hadn’t known any better, he’d think he was having a heart attack  The blood roared in his ears as his pulse broke into a breathless sprint.

“…love him.”

The breath caught in Hancock’s throat, as he almost clambered to the ground, completely thrown by the unconscious admission Sole made.  Sole stirred once more as Hancock struggled to regain his balance in silence, his hands fluttering nervously over Sole’s form, as if somehow able to send him back into dreamland.

When Sole continued to snore soundly in the next few minutes, Hancock relaxed, leaning back into his seat once again.  Whatever Sole had meant, he’d get to the bottom of it when Sole was well enough to duke it out with him again.  Meanwhile, Hancock was content in knowing that he came up in Sole’s dreams, knowing full well Sole would appear later in his own.

MacCready: Sole cried out, falling to his knees as a sharp pain split through his head.  Following immediately in its wake, a wave of nausea washed over Sole, and he tucked his head closer to his folded legs, in a vain effort to keep it at bay.  A few beats of silent followed, marked by the throbbing pain in Sole’s head.  Then Sole lurched forward and vomited noisily into the dirt, a dribble of spit hung off his bottom lip, as he pinched his eyes shut, and worked his knuckles into his temples.

“Sole?”

MacCready’s voice sounded muffled, like he was calling out to him underwater.  Sole wanted desperately to call back to MacCready, to tell him how terrible he felt, and cry out for help. He couldn’t risk opening his mouth again, as he feared for the next wave of sick that lurked at the back of his throat.

“Sole.” MacCready’s voice sounded much closer now, feeding Sole’s expanding headache.

Such pain felt like it transcended all space and time; it felt so ingrained into every fiber of Sole, that he at once wondered what it had been like to live without this pain.  MacCready’s warm, spindly hands came to wrest on Sole’s wrists, still raised as he pressed frantically into his temples.  His touch was warm.  Too warm. Hot even.  Sole jerked away, hissing in pain.

“Hey, hold still.”

It was MacCready’s voice, but not as Sole remembered.  When Sole thought of MacCready, it was musing at the hot temper that battled with his iron will to become a better role model for Duncan.  It was laughing as he screamed at raiders that he’d see them in heck, and bellowing a pained darn it when he was nicked by a bullet.  This MacCready was too controlled, too calm for the frenzied pain that shot through Sole like electric shocks.

Sole winced as he felt MacCready’s hot touch smooth over his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured.

“Kill me,” Sole croaked back, his eyes still pinched tightly shut.

In the next moment, Sole felt himself being raised at a dizzying height by a sharp yanking under his arms.  Sole’s stomach heaved at the invisible motion, and he thrust his hands out, clearing a space so he could once again empty his stomach.

“Ssh, c’mon now.”

MacCready’s much-too-hot touch was back, and it was guiding him as he slipped under Sole’s arm, half-carrying him in a direction Sole hoped wouldn’t last for long.

“M-Mac…” Sole whimpered.

“We’re going to get you fixed up, alright?” MacCready soothed uncharacteristically.

Hot tears sprang at the corner of Sole’s eyes.  He would’ve felt shame if he hadn’t felt so awful.

“Because when my boy was sick, you got him fixed up, and he got better,” MacCready’s low voice trembled slightly, “and so now, we’re going to do the same for you, okay?”

MacCready stumbled, as Sole’s dead weight leaned heavily on him.

“Okay,” Sole gasped, clinging to MacCready like a moth to light.

Nick Valentine: Sole hunched over the dingy kitchen table, before him sat a tin of purified water, and a glass with a fine, brown powder at the bottom.  Sole squinted through his throbbing headache, attempting to focus through the haze of his dizzying fever.  This could make that all go away; he just had to finish this last step.

Sole unscrewed the lid of the tin and raised the glass with the powder.  Glass in hand, he made it up to the top of the tin, and tilted it slightly, before a familiar voice shattered his concentration.

“Hey kid, whatcha up to?”

Sole started, nearly dropping the glass.  He fumbled with it before managing to lower it safely back to the surface of the table.

“Jesus Nick, warn a guy!” Sole said irritated.

“Sorry, just wanted to check up on you.” Nick chuckled from behind.  “You seemed like you were falling a bit under the weather.”

Nick stepped forward from behind where Sole was sitting, and coming around to take a seat across from him at the table.  Normally, the hairs on the back of Sole’s neck would’ve pricked under an unknown third-party’s scrutiny, but today they were stifled with sickness.

“What are you up to anyways?  Shouldn’t you be resting?” Nick’s golden gaze flicked between Sole and the brown powder.

“Medicating,” Sole croaked, “radstag antler promotes good general health.”

If Nick had eyebrows, he would’ve brought them into a deep furrow.

“Really?  Now that’s news to me.”

“Yep.” Sole nodded.

“And…a doctor told you this?”

“No…” Sole said carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on the set up in front of him, if only to avoid Nick’s skeptical gaze.

“So…”

“A practitioner of alternative medicine did,” Sole said shortly.

Nick scoffed, “Alternative medicine, huh?”

Sole nodded earnestly, the swimming sensation of his head rattling his brain inside his skull.

“Mama Murphy told me that deer antler is cleansing,”

“C’mon kid, you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

Sole glowered at the older synth. “And if I do?”

Nick paused, selecting his next words carefully.

“I just mean…what’s wrong with a regular doctor?”

“Nothing,” Sole said nonchalantly, “people just jump the gun on that, I think.  Sometimes you can cure things yourself and you don’t need to see a doctor.”

Nick watched as Sole poured the brown powder successfully into the water, before picking up the tin to swirl it expertly.  Sole raised the tin to his lips just as Nick stretched his arm out to block him from going any further.

Sole made a disdainful face.

“Nick, seriously, cut it out.”

“Don’t tell me you’re honestly drinking that,” he murmured.

Sole’s face scrunched even more intensely. “I just want to get better,” he muttered, his voice strained.

“Alright,” Nick coaxed, carefully moving his arm to lower Sole’s with it.  “We’ll get you all fixed up, just trust me.”

Sole hesitated, and Nick’s arm tensed, ready to meet any hasty action on Sole’s part with blunt resistance.

“I…”

“I’ll bet ya whatever the doc has for you, it tastes better than that swill,” Nick pointed out.

Sole wrinkled his nose. “…Okay.”

Sole lowered the tin to the table once again, as Nick let out a sigh of relief.

“Alright, let’s find you a real doctor now.”

Longfellow: Sole lay on his side, fever wracking his body despite the chills that shook him to the bone.  Longfellow watched him gravely, knowing he had to ride it out, and hating every moment of it.  He sighed heavily and stepped into the room as Sole chattered relentlessly.  He tugged the comforter up to Sole’s chin, unsure still if it was the right thing to do.  He didn’t know much.  Back in his day, if someone was sick they rode it out or didn’t, and when they didn’t, they were buried in the family cemetery, now lost to the fog somewhere on Far Harbor.  Longfellow hated the image of a Sole-sized coffin that flashed through his head.  Hated the very notion of even considering a world where he was, and Sole was not. Longfellow placed a hand on Sole’s shoulder, which trembled beneath his heavy, calloused touch.  He sank to the floor at Sole’s bedside, ditching the untouched water on the nightstand in favor of the mug of stale ale sitting slightly off to the left.

“High atop a lonely moor, a Widow lived alone.” Longfellow’s vocal cords rasped on the first few notes, like the way a rusty gate groaned when left to rust for years.  “An Inn she kept, and as she slept, her pillow heard her moan:’Oh, many’s the lonely traveler has spent the night with me, but there’s no a man in all creation gives content to me!”

Longfellow’s voice sounded aged and rustic; like artisanal wine.  An Irishman’s drinking song, usually filled with mirth, sounded akin to a dirge as he intoned somberly over Sole’s frail form.

“Well, some can manage once or twice, and some make three or four; but it seems to me a rarity is the man who can do more.  I’d do anything to find him, in Heaven or in Hell.  And as she spoke these words,

sure, she heard her front door bell.”

Longfellow was taken back to simpler times; he was just over four feet tall, and as spindly as mire grass.  He sweated with a fever as violent as the fire that burned in his old man, still rough with work despite the navy, velveteen sky.  His dear old mom hung over him, a pretty woman, without being beautiful, setting a hot spot of soup at his side, and crooning tenderly to him as his body fought a war.

“And the wind blew cold and lonely across that Widow’s moor, and she never, ever turned away a traveler from the door.”

He liked to think that Sole’s body succumbed to the soothing sentiments he willed as he sang to them, liked to believe that when his shivering subsided, it was because his body finally found peace.  He took a swig of the ale, reveling in the bitterness as it sated his raw throat, keeping the grief that threatened to spill out, tightly at bay.

“But when she called to him that night, no Devil did appear.  For the first time in Eternity, the Devil, he shook with fear.  He said, ‘Of all the torments I’ve witnessed here in Hell, I never knew what pain was, ’til I rang your front door bell!’”

The lone tremble that shook the last phrase in Longfellow’s lung was the only indication of the magnitude of what had transpired over the course of the seaman’s song.  His fingers smoothed over Sole’s forehead, before fluttering uncharacteristically tenderly over his eyelids; they were already shut, there was nothing left to be done.

His work on the island had been fruitful, perhaps the old cemetery wasn’t out of reach at all.  Even if it was, he deserved a hero’s burial, did he not? Right beside papa would serve just fine.  Longfellow bowed his head, so even the moon could not bare witness to the hallowed sob that ripped from his throat.

Piper: Sole toppled to his knees, lurching forward as his stomach heaved so that he could vomit into the dusky Commonwealth silt.

“Oh, Blue!”

Piper rushed to his side, skidding to her own haphazard sitting position so she could rub his back, only able to offer meager support as he emptied the contents of his stomach.  Piper’s mouth turned decidedly down in a worried frown, although she was not surprised.  The investigative journalist inside of her couldn’t help but assume the worst. She saw this coming from miles away.  Since she had lain eyes on that sick boy in Vault 81, in fact.

“Piper,” Sole coughed, “I’m sick.”

“Yeah,” Piper agreed, “seeing as I’m looking at what was once in your stomach, now spattered on the ground, I concur.”

“No,” Sole sputtered, “I…we’re so far…from home.”

“Oh, crap, you’re right.”

They were miles away from Sanctuary or Diamond City, or any settlement for that matter. Sole was on his knees, incapable of being anywhere else in this moment.  Piper stared, wide-eyed at Sole’s crumpled form for a moment, gathering herself before she rose to her feet, and let her rucksack drop to the ground.  Unpacking their sleep packs, she spread them thin across the ground, before coaxing Sole towards one.  She gently latched onto him from under his arm, and tugged, guiding him to a place where he could lay down.

“Wha…?”

Piper shushed him, gently laying him down.

“You can’t go anywhere in your current condition,” she murmured, “so let’s just stay here for the night.”

“Here?” Sole moaned. “Aren’t we…in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yes.” Piper paused, scattering any semblance of fear that attempted to settle in the pit of her stomach.  She needed to pull herself together.  “Yes, but there’s two of us, and we have to.”

Sole didn’t question further, but Piper wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t feel the need to press on, or he couldn’t.  Piper perched a few feet away from Sole’s form and took stock of her surroundings; some twigs and miscellaneous scraps she could probably build a fire from.  The sun was setting to her left, a steady descent in the scarlet entrails of a violent sunset.  They would settle down for the night, here.  Sole would gather his strength, and Piper would watch over them both.  If Sole couldn’t be strong, Piper would be.  For the both of them.  She levelled her eyes on the horizon; Sole lay unconscious next to her.  She would start a fire and try to break his fever.  They would go from there.  Surely, she could do this, she had a knack for getting herself out of sticky situations after all.  Piper traced the path of the first stars in the sky, like she did at the start of every difficult night before.  They glittered boldly, despite how they fought to compete with the sun’s dying glow.

Watch this, dad.

Gage: Gage leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed and eyebrows raised as he observed the scene that played out before him.  Sole was in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest, as he flipped through an edition of Astoundingly Awesome Tales.  An angry red hue clung to his skin, along with a clammy sheen of sweat that glistened in the dying glow of the day.  Still though, despite the fatigued way Sole held himself; the sickly yellow to his eyes, and limpness that clung to his limbs, Gage couldn’t help but be mesmerized.

Sunset at the summit of Fizztop Grille was always spectacular; a private sentiment Gage always held, since long before Sole came around.  But now, he was at a vantage where he could see Sole with it, and words failed him.  The sweat that gleamed on his skin, sparkled, the haphazard toss of his hair, sexy, not ragged.  The bedrest that rendered him still made him look like the subject of one of those fancy old, oil paintings Colter used to hang up.

Gage’s chest squeezed as he studied Sole, who noticed the man’s quiet watchfulness, and raised his gaze to meet Gage’s.  

“Gage?” Sole inquired in a hoarse voice.

Gage snapped out of his meandering train of thought at the sound of his name.

“Something I can do ya for, boss?”

It was Sole’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“I could be asking you that same thing.”

Gage’s face heated, a fact he chose to ignore in favor of salvaging whatever was left of his passionless façade.

“Jus’ comin’ to check up on ya.  Nuka World needs its Overboss after all.”

Sole snorted.

“Nuka World can fucking wait until I don’t feel like throwing myself off that lift over there.”

“’Course boss.”

Gage hung around on the balls of his feet, stalling as he grappled for a reason to hang around.

“Gage?” Sole asked again, more forcefully.

“Is there…anything I can get you?” Gage asked awkwardly, raising a hand to scratch roughly at the back of his head.

“Uh, no, I’m fine,” Sole replied and eyed him skeptically.Gage was not one for charity, random acts of kindness, or anything of the like.“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking for a reason to hang around and watch me in my sorry state.”

“Well now, ain’t that just about the stupidest thing you’ve ever said?” Gage scoffed.

“Yeah,” Sole said, a sly grin spreading across his face, “it is, because I look way better when I’m not two days and going, without a shower, and –“

Sole broke off, his haughty smile disappearing as he paled.  Gage watched this strange transformation, half still enthralled with the tiny beauties that riddled Sole; the endearing lopsidedness to his mouth, the focused intensity of his eyes, and half curious as to what might happen next.

In the next moment, Sole lurched forward, and vomited noisily into the bucket Gage had just noticed at his bedside, with practiced precision.  Gage wrinkled his nose as a wily laugh tore from him.

“And when I’m not doing that,” Sole grimaced, wiping a dribble of bile from the corner of his mouth.

Gage nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the next in silent agreement despite the squeezing in his chest that argued otherwise.

Preston: The last thing Sole saw was Preston’s face, alight with worry, as he surged towards him, before everything went black.  When Sole awoke his heart felt like it was lodged in his throat; his jaw dropped, weighed down by the magnitude of the phenomenon he was witnessing.  His home, the home he shared with Nora was just as it was the day the bombs had dropped.  The paint was pristine and chip-free, the old, worn bench outside was new, and enticing to the passerby who wanted to rest their legs, beside Nora’s picturesque garden.

On the plush red couch, unscathed by radiation burns and flame, sat Nora herself, as poised and elegant as she had been up until the moment she was slaughtered in her cryo chamber.  Sole continued to gape at her, hot tears unwittingly budding at the corner of his eyes.

“Hun, shut your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” she teased gently, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that grated against the jagged edges still raw inside the wounds Sole hid beneath his Commonwealth hardened skin.

“Nora,” Sole breathed.

“Come sit with me, darling,” Nora coaxed, scooching over on the couch, and patting the spot beside her.

Sole couldn’t bring himself to test her authenticity with a gaging of the live heat that should’ve radiated from her, or the subtle but unmistakable Nora scent.  He settled for perching on the other side of the sofa.  Nora beamed softly at him.

“So, as always, you’re a magnet for trouble,” Nora began.

“Trouble?”

The alarm that pricked in Sole’s stomach felt muted in Nora’s presence.

“Yes, you’ve let yourself get sick, and now that nice man – what’s his name?  The one in the historical garb?”

“Preston,” Sole answered almost immediately.

“Right – Preston, has to take care of you.” Nora’s smile faded, as she scolded him.

She used to wear the same vaguely disapproving look when he left his clothes crumpled on the floor after a long day’s work.

“What do you mean?” Sole asked, still focused on the very life-like flush to her cheeks, and the brightness behind the windows.

He couldn’t see the serene Sanctuary neighborhood that should’ve resided behind it, but at certain times of day, the sun’s position was in such a way that washed out the background.  

“You’re sick, and you need help,” Nora said firmly, her eyebrows furrowing. “I can…get you back this time, but you need to watch out for yourself more.”

“Honey, you worry too much,” Sole reassured dismissively, his lips knowing the phrase as well as they knew the woman they spoke it to.

The giddiness at being able to say such words again contrasted starkly with the rogue tear that slashed down his face.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not right,” Nora pointed out. “You need to be more careful.  I might not be able to send you back next time.”

Sole heaved a sigh, still in awe, but accepting the inevitable return to reality.  The Commonwealth had readily prepared him for such a transition if nothing else.

“So I have to go back.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, dear.” Nora shook her head. “That’s a good thing, you’ll see.”

“You always say that,” Sole mused, bittersweet.

“Said,” Nora corrected, “and when have I ever been wrong?”

Sole shook his head in wonder. “Yeah, yeah, alright, you’ve made your point.”

Sole leaned back further into the couch, the tension leaving his body as he finally allowed himself to relax.  Such a moment, whether real or not, temporary as it may be, was precious. He wanted to capture this feeling of peace beside Nora, the last he’d ever get.  The opportunity to enjoy it the way he’d failed to before the bombs dropped.  A peaceful silence hung over them for a few moments, and Sole felt it as a sleepy lull in his bones.  Raw grief reared its head when he felt something soft nudge his hand.  He looked down instantaneously, watching as Nora’s lithe fingers edged under his own slack ones.  Sole blinked back tears, swallowing the thickness in his throat.

“I miss you,” he risked a glance in her direction.

“I know.” Nora smiled comfortingly, sliding her other hand over his, effectively sandwiching his between hers, in a comforting squeeze.

“I love you.”

Sole’s vision blurred wetly, his voice ragged as he fought down the hysterical breaths that seized his lungs.

“I know that too.”  

A sharp huff left Sole’s throat, a humorous noise he let instead of a laugh, which he couldn’t trust.  A few moments passed in silence again, and Sole tried his hardest to memorize the feeling of her hands around his.

“It’s time for you to go back,” she cooed, releasing his hand.

Instinctively, Sole opened his mouth to protest, but was unsurprised when a familiar rumble sounded in the distance.  Suddenly the smell of singed grass and smoke assaulted his nose, as the brightness contained outside of the window suddenly blasted through.  Nora was still smiling her small, knowing smile when the blast overtook her, and Sole’s vision went white.

“Sole,” a familiar voice called, muffled.

“Sole!” The voice sounded again, more sharply this time.

Sole felt his eyelids flutter; he hadn’t even realized he’d pinched them shut.  Preston’s face swam into view, and intense relief mingled with the sensation of stones dropping into Sole’s stomach.

“Preston?” Sole blinked in a flurry, feeling himself get shifted upwards, supported into a sitting position.

Sole reached to grip onto Preston’s shoulder.

“What happened?”

“You gave us quite a scare when you collapsed.  Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?” Preston frowned.

“I…I’m sorry, Preston.  I’m feeling much better now though.” Sole’s eyebrows furrowed, his voice thick.

Preston studied Sole’s expression, before his own gaze softened.

“Just…let us know next time, so we can help you.”

Sole nodded, blinking back tears once again, not able to trust his voice.  Preston clapped him on the back, as Sole ran a hand over his face.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Preston asked, the wetness Sole quickly wiped from his eyes not going unnoticed by him.

“Yeah,” Sole choked out, giving him a wobbly smile. “I’m sure.”

X6-88: Sole sneezed viciously, his body jerking backwards at the magnitude of the action.  Meanwhile, X6 looked on in dismay.

“You’re ill, Sir.”

Sole reached into his back pocket for his kerchief; tattered and riddled with strange stains.  He blew his nose noisily before pulling back and making a face at whatever clung to the fabric.

“So it seems.”

Sole crinkled up the used kerchief before stuffing it back into the rear pocket of his trousers.  X6 scrutinized Sole, who despite remaining as active and vigilant as usual, was awash in an angry pink flush, and gleaming under the veil of a clammy sheen of sweat.

“This is most unfortunate.” X6’s eyebrows furrowed.

“X6, it’s fine, I’ll be back to-“

“Perhaps this could’ve been avoided if you had taken the necessary preventative steps,” X6 suggested, cutting Sole off.

Sole cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m sick X6.  It happens. It’s a pain in the ass, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

X6’s expression changed, and even with the cover his shades provided, Sole could tell he looked doubtful.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” X6 deliberated.

“What are you saying?” Sole narrowed his eyes at X6, the contracting of the smaller muscles in his face seemingly intensifying the throbbing in his skull.

“Just that you should be more careful.  Not only in taking preventative steps, but reactive as well.  If you had told me earlier, perhaps I could’ve assisted you in a quicker recovery,” X6 replied matter-of-factly, his voice as impassive as ever.

Irritation hot and intense flashed through Sole, igniting the scalding waves his fever sent through him.

“You always do this,” Sole said heatedly, “everything I do is wrong, and the Institute could always do better.  Why would I want to tell you anything?  If I’d told you earlier, you’d blame my crappy immune system.”

Sole glared molten steel into X6, who mulled this over.  He could’ve chastised Sole for his emotional outburst, or else, given into the secondary urge to lecture Sole on the energy he wasted on said outburst instead of recovering.  But X6 said nothing. Sole was seething, slouching as he leaned backwards into his chair.

“I feel like shit,” Sole moaned.

X6 opened his mouth to say something only to be met by Sole’s furious hand waving, slapping down the words he hadn’t yet spoke.

“Forget it.  I don’t need you making me feel worse,” Sole said glumly.

X6 took this as his cue to leave, rising to his feet, and passing Sole without a second glance.  Wordlessly, he made his way to the door, pausing.

“For what it’s worth, I hope you make a swift recovery, for more than just the Institute’s sake.”

Sole’s eyebrows knit together again as he watched X6’s retreating form, his chest squeezing despite the frustration that clogged it.  Paired with his fever, Sole felt smothered, his breath catching in the collateral of his emotional turmoil.

“Damn it X6, I said I didn’t need you to make me feel worse,” Sole muttered, running his hands tiredly over his face.