Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ‘Open’ light flickers to life as you stare proudly at the front of your shop. It’s been a long ride, but you have finally opened your own repair garage. The yellow paint spelling out “General and P.A. Repair” is still wet, but you are ready to start your new life.

“Well, look who’s made themselves nice and comfy.”

If only it wasn’t in Goodneighbor. Eh, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Got something for me?” you ask, crossing your arms and leaning against your counter. The man in road leathers is familiar. An extortionist who preys on newcomers to the town. Chances of him actually hiring you to repair something? Two percent, maximum. What was his name again? Sin? Flynn?

“Come on, Finn,” came the raspy ghoul voice of the nearest Neighborhood Watch. “Leave the new girl alone.”

Yeah, Finn, that’s it.

“Yeah, I got something for you,” says Finn, ignoring the guard. His eyes drift to the locked and armed cage in the back of your workshop. “Insurance. You hand over that fancy suit of power armor in the back, or accidents start happening. Bloody accidents.”

His intimidation tactics are subpar.

“Buddy,” you say, unimpressed. “The only ‘bloody accident’ on this street is when your mother evicted you from her vagina.”

The Neighborhood Watch guards around the market cackle in mirth. Finn’s face contorts in anger as he whips out a pipe pistol, aiming it at your head. You could hear the clicks of safeties being taken off, but your eyes never leave Finn’s. A red line beams on Finns hand and a gunshot goes off.

“SHIT!” shouts Finn as a 10mm round goes through his hand. His bloody pistol clatters to the ground. The turret behind you, beeps as it goes back into standby mode on your shop wall.

It amazes you someone is dumb enough to draw their gun on you in front of your shop. Your shop that is visibly armed with two wall-mounted turrets. The 10mm heavy turret at the counter and the laser turret guarding your Power Armor suit cage. Did this guy really think you were stupid enough to set up shop in Goodneighbor without keeping personal safety in mind? Was he high?

Statistically, he probably is.

“Looks like my insurance is a little more effective,” you say, smiling viciously. “Now, hon. Unless you want to become the holiest man in Goodneighbor, I suggest that you fuck off and leave me alone. Ya dig, Jack?”

Finn curses as he picks up his pistol and hightails it further into town, leaving a small trail of blood behind. Most likely he’s seeking out Fred at the Rexford for some chems to fix his hand. The locals all click their safeties back on, including a few customers visiting the market.

“Hell of a show, sister,” snickers the guard appreciatively.

“I’ll be here all week, Jerry!” you wink at the guard before turning around and entering your shop, giving your turret a gentle pat as you pass it. Bullies and con-artists are going to have to try a lot harder than simply using tough words and waving a gun around to get you to submit.

That’s the Goodneighbor welcome for you.

Walking into the small living quarters attached to your workshop, you open up your miniature dresser and pull out a shirt and jeans to change into. The mechanic jumpsuit is great for doing paint jobs and all, but you don’t like the feel of jumpsuits. A pair of welding goggles stay around your neck like a clunky necklace. You spy your greaser jacket hanging off the back of a dining chair. Slipping it on your shoulders, you lightly slap your face to pump yourself up.

Time to get back to it.

A constructed repair shop is nice, but there are two things you are currently missing before you can get into a full swing for business. Good word of mouth and a steady supply of scrap. Scrap is easy, there’s a general store right next to your new building. Daisy will be getting a visit from you shortly. Scavenging scrap yourself is always an option, but that’s time away from the workshop and making caps.

But a solid review? Your gaze flicks over to the Kill or Be Killed sign. You might be able to wing something. Buckling your tool belt on around your waist, you sling your bag of miscellaneous components over your shoulder. Closing the door to your shack, you make your way over to your far neighbor.

“Well, well,” purrs a mechanical voice as you step into the weapons shop. KL-E-O’s optical sensor focuses in on you. “A new customer. Here for the discount violence, or here for me, baby?”

You grin. You like her already.

“Maybe a little of both. Depends on what a woman like you needs,” you flirt, eyeing KL-E-O’s supply of weaponry. She has a good stock of fusion cells and 10mm rounds.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, baby,” flirtatiously warns KL-E-O. You place fifty caps on her counter and point to the fusion cells and 10mm rounds.

“I’d be a bad girl if I did that,” you grin suggestively. KL-E-O’s optical sensor appraises you as she swaps your caps for ammo.

“Would need to be punished,” agrees KL-E-O. “Hmmm...maybe you can help me. I am in need of...servicing.”

Your grin stays, but your eyes appraise KL-E-O. She looks to be an Assaultron in good condition. Her outer body is free from dings and her optical sensors are calibrated. Her hands rotate and function optimally, proven when she handed over the paid for ammunition. A bit of fresh paint and no one would be any wiser that her chassis wasn’t brand new. KL-E-O’s internal diagnostics must have picked something up internally.

“I think I could service a woman like you satisfactorily,” you respond. “Tell me what you need, hon.”

“My diagnostics indicate a three percent efficiency loss in my right arm,” she states. “Happened after the last bunch of raiders decided to be my personal arsenal testers. Hardly an inconvenience, but the thought of a raider boy doing any sort of damage to a woman like me with a pool cue is insulting. Up for the challenge, hot stuff?”

“Born ready, hon,” you grin more genuinely. KL-E-O’s optical sensor focuses on your mouth. “If you don’t mind, I can do the repair at the edge of your counter. I want you to watch me.” You wink.

“Wasn’t going to let you out of my sight, anyway,” purrs KL-E-O. “How much?” Part of you wonders if someone programmed KL-E-O to have this personality or if she programmed herself with it.

“For you, sugar, first time’s on me,” you sweet talk. “Got to make sure you’re completely satisfied, after all. Next time? We’ll work out a deal.” You place your bag onto the counter. Failing here would be an express ticket to hell, courtesy of the Assaultron. KL-E-O hums appreciatively.

“Confident there will be a next time already?” muses KL-E-O. “Alright, tiger. I’m all yours.”

This is going on your list of weirdest jobs. Sweet talked a female identifying Assaultron into letting you repair her.

Pulling up your welding goggles over your eyes, you carefully remove several of your tools. After setting up your makeshift workstation at the end of her counter, you carefully use your fusion cell powered drill to detach KL-E-O’s arm from her torso. All bolts and screws are secured in a tin can. The Assaultron watches you closely as you professionally open up the arm to reveal the circuitry inside. Chips and wires look good for being over two-hundred years old.

One of the sensors inside is dusty. Everything else is in good condition. Best guess, the raider’s wack with the pool cue kicked up some dust internally. You gently clean off the sensor with a clean rag and reassemble the arm. KL-E-O rotates her arm once the last screw is tightened and the metal limb is fully attached again.

“Running system diagnostics,” she says. You pull down your goggles as KL-E-O makes a few quick beeps. “Diagnostic complete. Arm running at full efficiency. Looks like you’re not all talk, after all. Thanks, tiger.”

Job complete, you gather up your supplies. Promising KL-E-O that you will see her again real soon, you move on to Daisy’s Discounts. Daisy is laughing as you walk into her store.

“Hey, sweet talker,” greets Daisy. “Thanks for fixing up KL-E-O. I’m sure she appreciates it, and everyone who got to listen in on that exchange.”

The tips of your ears burn red, but you smile casually.

“Couldn’t help myself,” you giggle, deciding to take an honest approach. “Her personality is too fun. Would look bad for my repair shop if I couldn’t get her back in top shape.”

“As long as you say on her good side,” agrees Daisy. “Now what can I do for a fellow business owner?”

“I was hoping we could do an exchange of services.”

“Like what?” asks Daisy, the skin above her eye raising.

“If everything pans out, I’m going to need junk and scrap to salvage components from,” you explain. Daisy leans forward on her counter in interest. “I’d like to have first pickings of any new inventory of that kind that you get in. In exchange, I can fix up some of the better stuff you get for cheap for you to resell at a higher price.”

“How cheap?” she asks, slowly. Biting your lip you look up at the ceiling as you do quick mental calculations.

“Depending on the item,” you start, still looking up. “One to ten caps for good junk, two to eight caps for clothing repair, five to twenty caps for most everything else. Could also do some trading for component items or surplus food.”

Daisy stares at you long and hard. Your eyes drift back down to her when she hasn’t responded. Her head tilts slightly as she assesses you.

“You DO realize that I’m getting the better deal out of this?” says Daisy, frowning. “Good junk can easily go for three to ten times that price. Why would you work so cheap when you could fix and sell the items yourself? What’s the catch?”

“I could do that,” you agree. “But you're an established business woman with established connections. If you don’t have the components I need, you have ways to get them quickly. I did the math and long-term it would be a better deal for both of us. Short-term, yes, you’re getting the better deal, especially if my shop fails or fails to bring in enough work. That’s my risk, and my risk shouldn’t cause you a lot of risk for being a supplier to a new business.”

Daisy blinks before a wide, approving grin splits across her face.

“Alright, smooth talker. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Chapter Text

“How’s business?” asks Daisy as she leans on her counter. You lean against the wall of her store. In the few weeks since you’ve opened shop, you have become decent pals with your supplier. During slow mornings when Goodneighbor is shaking off hangovers, you and Daisy like to chat.

“Slow, ain’t making many caps,” you admit, sipping at a Nuka-Cola. “But I ain’t starving yet. People found out I can fix up guns. Scavvers tend to give’em to me for a quick and cheap tune-up before selling them to KL-E-O, getting a slightly better price. I think KL-E-O just appreciates not having to take the time to clean off the blood from the goods.”

“I know I do,” agrees Daisy. “Makes it a little easier to ignore where people may have gotten their stuff from.” You hum in agreement, taking another sip of your drink.

“Any clients giving you a rough time?” you ask her. Goodneighbor doesn’t attract the best people, and more than once you’ve seen people pull a gun or knife on Daisy. The idiots who threaten you get a taste of your turrets. “Can always install a wall turret for ya,” you offer. “Keeps my undesirables out and I get free stuff to sell if they happen to die while trying to break in.”

“And not give my regulars the chance to play hero?” she retorts. This woman’s sass, you love it.

The two of you chuckle, staring at the gate to the town. As a few drifters start wandering the streets, Daisy hands you a box of random things to fix up for resell. Glancing inside, it’s a box of junk. Everything from toys to hot plates. You take it as a hint and head back to your workshop with the box in tow. The damaged toy car at the top will be a good place to start.

You’re restoring a desk fan when the Neighborhood Watch start shooting over the wall. It’s not an unusual occurrence. Goodnighbor isn’t located in the safest part of old Boston. A few of the residents are taking bets on who the watch is firing at this time. Raiders, mongrels, wandering Mirelurks, or maybe even some of those Gunner guys from down the street?

If only.

“SUICIDER!” screams one of the Neighborhood Watch. “TAKE IT DOWN!”

Super Mutants.

The shock wave from an explosion sends the guards flying off the wall, harshly hitting the pavement. Screams from the residents and drifters fill the air as the gate splinters from the strikes of the mutants. You duck under your counter to grab your gun, a modded laser pistol, and switch it on. A chunk from the gate flies and crashes into the side of your shop.

Three screaming mutants run through the broken gate. Goodneighbor fills with the sounds of screams and gunfire.

Your turrets activate sending a spray of bullets and lasers towards the muties. Using your counter for cover, you fire beam after beam at the hostiles. The chip damage only appears to make the Super Mutants angrier as they shoot their automatic pipe rifles wildly in the streets. Several stray shots hit the front of your counter.

If not for a charging KL-E-O being their immediate threat, you’re sure they would be targeting your shop.

“Oh, I’m feral now!” you hear the shout of mayor Hancock, followed shortly by the wind-up of a minigun. Fahrenheit’s shouts are drowned out as she fires a constant stream of 5mm rounds at the mutants. She only stops to reload after the mutants fall dead in the street. You peak over your counter, several residents and guards are trying to hold their bleeding wounds.

“Get that gate blocked off and fixed!” orders Hancock, taking charge. He points to one of his guards. “Jerry! Get Dr. Amari and Allen here! Tell ‘em we need every bit of Med-ex and stims they got.”

“On it, Hancock!”

“Fahrenheit, go hit up my personal stash. If it’s in a syringe, bring it with you.”

“Got it.”

Seeing mayor Hancock is a refreshing change of pace from high Hancock. The ghoul can be a good leader when sober.

“They got Daisy! She’s hurt bad!”

Your eyes widen as you quickly stand up, snapping your attention over to Daisy’s Discounts. One of her regulars has his hands on her chest, trying to stop the bleeding. The blood is pooling under her.

You almost rip the door to your home off it’s hinges in your haste. The laser pistol bounces uselessly on the bed as you toss it aside. Sliding a green metal box out from under your bed, you quickly unlock it and grab the first-aid box inside. You’re out of stimpaks.

You’re out of stimpaks.

“Shit!” you curse as you empty the box onto the floor. A bottle of Rad-X, a blood bag, two bags of Radaway and a can of water lay on the ground where you had tossed them haphazzardly. Damn, it! Radiation drugs aren’t going to help a ghoul!

A ghoul. Daisy’s a ghoul.

Diving back to the green chest, you rummage around and pull out a gamma gun. With no time to hesitate, you grab the blood pack and bottle of radiation drugs. You stumble out of your home, dry swallowing several Rad-X pills.

No sign of the doctor, Fred Allen or Fahrenheit yet.

“Daisy!” you shout as you leap over the stone wall dividing your shops. Hancock and several others are surrounding Daisy. “Move!” You force your way through the crowd, shoving a bald drifter out of the way. The bottle of Rad-X falls from your grip, landing in Daisy’s blood. It goes ignored as you stare at Daisy’s bloody and still chest.

Was it too late?

“Here, hold this!”

“What the he—?!”

You shove the blood pack into the bloody hands of Daisy’s regular, his green hat almost being knocked over from the force. Green hat guy looks stupefied as you flick a switch to arm the gamma gun. The crowd watching shouts at you in alarm.

“Anyone not a ghoul needs to take five large steps back!” you shout, aiming the gun at Daisy’s chest. There’s a buzz of people pushing and shoving. You count to three before firing a blast of radiation at Daisy’s chest.

Daisy’s flesh sizzles as the wounds close. For the first time since this morning, Goodneighbor is quiet. Daisy gasps and coughs up blood. Her breathing is labored, but she’s breathing. The crowd roars in delight as Daisy opens her eyes. Her eyes land on the gamma gun.

“D-did you...just...shoot...me?” she weakly chuckles. You give her a soft smile.

“Don’t take it personal, Dais,” you say, setting down the gun. You look at the guy holding the blood pack. “Blood pack, please.” He blinks at you for a moment before quickly handing it over. You uncap the syringe at the end of the blood pack’s tubing and try to poke it into Daisy’s arm.

Unfortunately, ghoul skin is tough and you’re no doctor.

“Going this fa-far for a discount?” jokes Daisy. “Didn’t think my junk was that good.”

The needle finally takes to her arm. You hold the bag up so the blood flows properly.

“No use for a discount without the lovely supplier,” your smile turns mischievous. “But, if you’re offering…”

Daisy laughs, wincing. The sound of Daisy’s laughter eases the crowd, causing some of them to wander off. A soft sigh of relief comes from her regular.

“Why do you even have that gun?” coughs Daisy. “Normal folk don’t go around carrying a gamma gun.”

“Got into a bit of trouble with some Children of Atom a while back and took a souvenir,” you explain with a grin. “Funny story, I’ll tell you about it sometime. It involves me, three Atom nuts, a Mirelurk in a denim dress, and a gunfight. Spoiler, I don’t die and get to walk away with a pretty sweet trophy. Second spoiler, the trophy isn’t the dress.”

“You’re a lousy storyteller,” she chuckles painfully.

Hancock squats down next to you, looking at Daisy.

“Glad to have you back, Daisy,” he says smiling as his fellow ghoul. “Don’t pull something like that again, sister, ya hear?”

“Come on, Hancock,” she grins. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he replies, smirking.

“Wh-what’s all this?!” comes the bewildered voice of Dr. Amari. She wildly looks at your makeshift wasteland medic set up. “Did you...? Did you use a gamma gun to heal her?! We have stimpaks for this!”

“Stimpaks don’t heal dead, doc,” you deadpan. The remaining men around you smirk lightly at your quip. “Nice of you to show up, though. Want to take it from here?”

You stand up, passing the blood bag to the doctor. Dr. Amari pulls out the blood bag needle and injects Daisy with a couple stimpaks. Content that Daisy is in good hands, you pick up your gun and bloody bottle of Rad-X.

“That was some quick thinking, sister,” praises Hancock. The mayor sighs, fishing out a jet inhaler from his red frock. He takes a hit and breathes out slowly, an easy smile coming to his face. “Not many would go so far for a ghoul. Even one as cute as Daisy. Come up to the State House later, yeah? I think you earned yourself a reward.”

You watch Hancock walk away to check on the others with a returning Fahrenheit. Fahrenheit catches your eye and nods to you before trailing after Hancock, holding a box of chems. If only he didn’t love his chems so much, you would like Hancock a lot better. Shaking off the thoughts, you wipe the blood off the bottle of Rad-ex onto your stained pants.

A reward, huh? You hope he doesn’t give you chems. Not your thing. A better idea of the use of his resources fills your head as you look towards the blocked off gate.

Once Daisy heals up, you’ll have to cash that favor in.

Chapter Text

The last time you were in the State House is when you asked Hancock for a place to set up shop. He was high then, too. Probably the main reason he agreed to it in the first place.

“There she is!” says Hancock from his couch. Clearly he’s high on something, but when is he not? “Daisy’s little radioactive guardian angel. What can ‘ol Hancock do for you, sweetheart?”

You decide you don’t like the way Hancock’s eyes bounce from your lips to your eyes. Something about a man on substances looking at you with bedroom eyes brings up memories you’d rather forget. Not that he knows that.

“If you were serious about that reward…”

“Totally am, sister.”

“Or even if you’re not, I’d still like you to hear me out.”

Hancock tilts his head and studies you.

“You have my attention. What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Hire me.”

The ghoul blinks before bursting out in loud laughter. Fahrenheit smirks from where she’s leaning in the corner of the room. Hancock wipes a tear from his eye.

“Damn, that’s good. Okay, I’ll bite,” he says through chuckles. “What am I hiring you for? You’re not exactly responding to the vibe I’m giving out and Fahrenheit is a one woman army. Don’t exactly need any personal protection, sweetheart.”

“You don’t, but Goodneighbor does,” you reply confidently. The skin above Hancock’s eyes raise, while Fahrenheit gives you a calculating look.

“Goodneighbor’s gate fell too rapidly to the muties’ attack,” you state. God, you hope he doesn’t blow your brains out for this. Hancock’s killed people for less. “For a settlement of Goodneighbor’s size, that’s pitiful at best. The Suicider should have never made it that close to the gate, nor should the gate have been breached. I live down at the gate Hancock, it took them five minutes to get in and shoot up the place. Unacceptably quick, and very little time to take cover.”

“And what are you offering?” calmly asks Hancock. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. Too suddenly sober, too suddenly deadly.

“Turrets,” you reply, curtly. “Hire me to build turrets on the walls of Goodneighbor and keep out hostile mobs.”

Hancock goes silent as he leans back on his couch, closing his eyes. He hums as he rests his head. A wide, shit eating grin stretches across his face. His head snaps back to look you in the eye.

“I like the way you think, sister. Thinking of Goodneighbor’s people.”

Well, you’re not dead yet, that’s promising.

“But how do I know you won’t just take the money and run?” he asks, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Besides you knowing where I sleep at night?” you quip. Hancock gives you a dangerous smirk. “I didn’t buy a commercial plot in Goodneighbor for a thousand caps just to bolt for a couple hundred. Can do a half now, half after I finish the job. Would say pay me after I impress you with my guns, but those guns need parts I’ll need to pick up from Daisy’s.”

“And keeping the caps local? You sure know how to win a guy over,” he says, relaxing into the couch. Fahrenheit loses interest and closes her eyes.

“I think our people deserve not to be bombed in their sleep the next time a mutant finds a mini nuke.”

“Our people, huh?” grins Hancock. He holds out his ghoulified hand. “Five-hundred caps for the job. Half now, half later, as agreed. Sound good, sister?”

The tension in your shoulders relax as you shake his hand.

“Acceptable, Mayor Hancock.”

Daisy’s wig almost falls off her head when you tell her you struck a deal with Hancock.

“Looks like you got your work cut out for you,” Daisy smiles. “Whatever you need, I’ll find a way to get it for you. Boosting security is always a worthwhile investment.”

“You’re a real cool cat, Daisy,” you smile. She snorts at you. “I have a list here. How much and when can I expect the shipment?”

“Let’s see,” Daisy muses as she takes the slip of paper. “Damn, that’s a lot of oil, desk fans, telephones and hot plates. And empty paint cans, too? You have the weirdest shopping list I’ve ever seen, hon.”

“All for the job, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” hums Daisy. “Well, I got a caravan coming from Bunker Hill this evenin’. I can get you these things tomorrow night at the earliest. Or the next morning, whichever you prefer. As for cost, since your doing Goodneighbor a favor, and I owe you one, two-hundred and eighty-five caps.”

“Deal, doll,” you say, pulling out the sack of caps Hancock gave you, plus an additional thirty-five from your own stash. Daisy nods as she counts the caps.

“Good luck, hon.”

“Thanks, Daisy.”

The next evening, your shipment from Daisy’s came in, right on time. Several large boxes with your name on them, full of junk. The Neighborhood Watch and several drunk residents teased and laughed at you, watching as you carried boxes of desk fans and broken telephones to your workshop.

“Look out, boys! The lady has a box of fans. Muties will be running for the hills now!”

“Get bent, Jerry!”

They didn’t have much to say, however, when they see you the next morning fitting a heavy machine gun turret to the top of the wall.

“Didn’t you sleep at all, kid?” asks a drifter. You look down at him, mid-drink of your shining blue Nuka-Cola Quantum. You lift up your goggles to get a better look at the man.

“Can’t sleep, have turrets!” you chirp, clearly overtired and buzzed on caffeine. Replacing your goggles, the drifter slowly backs away from you. “Love the hum of turrets in the morning!”

Day four since talking with Hancock, you have three turrets up, and are currently in the doghouse with Daisy. The ghoul is upset at you for not eating or sleeping since the shipment came in. Daisy sits you down in her shop and forces you to eat a bowl of InstaMash.

“No!” scolds Daisy, handing you a purified water instead of the Nuka-Cola you ask for. You pout, but crack open the can. “You will drink your water, eat something and get some sleep!”

“But Daisy,” you whine. “This is me working optimally! Look at how far I am already!” Daisy doesn’t need to look to know you’re pointing at the humming turrets.

“Sure, and those bags under your eyes are a fashion statement,” she huffs, cleaning her counter. You sip the water and watch memorized as she wipes down in perfect circles.

The cloth goes around, and around, and…

While zoning out at her counter, fatigue finally hits you like a surprise frag mine.

“Oh,” you say as it dawns on you. “I’m sleepy...”

“Wondered when it was going to finally sink into that brain of yours.”

“Thanks for the grub,” you stagger to your feet, placing some caps on the table. “Gonna go lay down now.”

“You better, hon.”

Despite your brain being foggy with exhaustion, you manage to arm your personal turrets before collapsing in a heap on your bed. Inhaling the scent of grease and garbage, you’re out cold before you finish exhaling.

Chapter Text

Hancock whistles appreciatively as he eyes each of his ten new heavy machine gun turrets. You gave him and the Neighborhood Watch a demonstration and the basic run down of each turret.

“Damn, sister,” says Hancock, impressed. “You weren’t playing around this past week, were ya?”

“I take my work very seriously,” you say, grinning at Hancock. He smirks at you while waving his fingers at Fahrenheit. She pulls out a sack of caps and tosses it at you. You catch the bag and weigh it in your hand. Feels about the right weight for two-fifty.

Hancock appears to like that you don’t bother to count the caps, instead giving him a show a trust that he’ll do right by you.

“Quick and quality? I love it,” praises the mayor. “Here,” he tosses you a red and white object, “a little something extra from me for doin’ good work. Stay free, sister.” He waves at you before returning to the State House with his bodyguard.

You scowl down at the jet container in your hands. Only Hancock would find it appropriate to tip someone in drugs. On the flip side, being given something extra on top of being paid is a good sign. Thankfully, Daisy has no issues trading chems for food. Especially since it’s usually people trading food for drugs and drug money.

You enjoy a Nuka-Cola and some Dandy Boy Apples from her “Is it Food or Not” section.

With the turrets as an advertisement of what you can really do, business begins to pick up.

A few Triggermen have taken interest in your abilities to clean and improve sub-machine guns. They are to the point and pay in full, and you don’t ask why their guns have blood splatters or why they need a bigger magazine. A don’t ask, don’t tell transaction might as well be the true slogan of Goodneighbor.

While it’s not the Power Armor work you hope for, it’s nice to finally be bringing in a steady amount of caps. You turn and look at your caged set of winterized T-51 Power Armor. Someday...someday someone will see it and ask if you can work on their own armor, or a friend’s set. You just have to be patient. Word of mouth takes a bit to travel in the Commonwealth. Just needs time to spread to the right ears.

As you consider closing shop for the night, the opening of the gate catches your attention. An eyebrow raises as you see one of the local drifters lead in a wary looking guy. His greaser jacket and the drifters clothes look shredded. Must have had a shootout with some Gunners or muties on their way into town or something. Would explain why greaser jacket is looking over his shoulder, damn near jumping at his own shadow.

To your surprise, the drifter leads his friend to your shop.

“Hey,” greets the drifter in a low tone. You realize his voice sounds familiar. Have you talked to this guy before? “How much to fix a 10mm?”

The drifter places a wrecked pistol on the counter. What the hell happened to it? You gingerly pick up the gun and check the chamber. Empty, and the slide is sticking.

“Damn,” you whisper to the gun. “Who did this to you?”

Cosmetics—fifty caps, mechanisms—fifty caps, labor—ten caps... Not a cheap fix, not a quick fix. Probably will need to rebuild the gun.

“Honestly, I think it would be almost cheaper for you to get a new gun from KL-E-O…” you say, continuing your inspection. Jumpy greaser jacket’s expression turns distraught. It’s then, on the bottom of the handle, you see a small engraving in the plastic. C2-41? Some kind of pass-code, maybe? “Personalized, so this probably has a sentimental value to someone,” you mumble.

Drifter is staring way too intently at you.

Jeez, okay dude. No need to have that expression.

“I’ll need a couple of hours with it,” you say, after a moment. The gun clinks pitifully as you place it back on the counter. “Looks like someone through it down a mine shaft and made a wish. Cost-wise, I’d say about a hundred and ten caps.”

“Fifty.”

Your eyebrows skyrocket as you give the drifter your best ‘are you shitting me?!’ stares.

“No-ho-ho way, man,” you trill, pointing down to the pistol. “This poor boy needs to be practically be rebuilt. Pretty sure the only thing that isn’t damaged are the screws that are desperately trying to keep their family together. Hundred and ten.”

The drifter frowns thoughtfully at you.

“Would you do it for eighty?” he starts, slowly. “We would still like to eat tonight and have enough for a room at the hotel. Maybe get us some clothes that have seen better days if there’s money left over?”

You stare the drifter down. It would be easier to know if he’s lying to you if he ditched his sunglasses. Instead, you look over at his friend. Greaser jacket looks like someone killed his dog and then threatened to do the same to him. The greaser jacket on your shoulders feels heavier as you stare at the man’s tattered one.

“Ninety caps, and I’ll patch up your friends jacket, too.” you say, finally. “It’s more holes than jacket at this point.”

“Deal.”

“Leave the jacket with the gun on the counter,” you sigh, scratching the back of your head. “Will still need time to fix it. Come back in the morning. Get some sleep and a couple of drinks or something. God knows your friend here could use something to ease his nerves.”

As you turn around to start assembling your tools, you miss the evaluative look the drifter sends your way. When you turn back around, the pair are heading further into town. You start on the jacket first, not wanting to deal with the pistol right away. Mending the holes in the jacket takes longer than expected, leaving you even less time to fix the pistol.

You grab a junked 10mm you bought off a scavver out of your gun parts box and disassemble it. The cosmetics of the junked pistol look good, but the mechanics are shot. It takes all night, but you're eventually able to work the client’s gun into acceptable condition. You’re even able to save the personalized handle.

Morning comes too quickly, but the look on the customer’s face is worth it. Greaser jacket is ecstatic when he sees the gun, checking it over. His mended jacket, still on the counter, clearly not as important to him as his pistol. His confidence appears to be boosted by his repaired gun.

“Haven’t had time to sight it properly yet,” you warn with yawn. “But you should be able to do that on the road.”

The drifter, now wearing some better looking clothes, hands over the caps. You take the money and toss it into your register. When they leave the gate, you lay your head down on the cool counter. As you play with the thought of taking the day off to rest, your hand bumps something light and plastic. Your gaze finds an orange holotape.

When was that put there?

Tiredly, you grab the tape and flip it over a few times. No name on it. Must have belonged to greaser jacket or the drifter.

The tape is tossed into a bin with other miscellaneous holotapes you’ve scavenged. Whatever is on the tape is none of your business. If someone comes looking for it, you’ll give it back. And if they don’t, free holotape to record over.

Chapter Text

“So,” says Daisy, leaning on her counter. “Got any favorite customers yet?”

“You know you’re my favorite gal, Daisy,” you say with a wink. Daisy snickers at your flirtatious expression.

“Don’t let KL-E-O hear you say that,” she warns with a grin. “No amount of stimpaks in the world could save you from her wrath.”

“She’s my favorite mecha-woman,” you grin before taking a sip of your Nuka-Cola. “My relationship with her is built on mutual servicing, I assure you.”

The ghoul snickers at you. Daisy has come to learn that your overt flirtation has no actual heat behind it. A few charming words to get what you want, full of empty promises. Daisy knows you’re just a tease, but it is fun to tease back. A nice change of pace from the chem addicts and psychopaths that visit her shop. She wonders what you would be actually like if someone did catch your attention.

What kind of person would you like, anyway? You’ve only openly teased women so far, and seem to keep most of Goodneighbor’s men at a distance—not that she blames you for that. Daisy wonders if Magnolia would be your type, but you hardly ever visit the bar, so...maybe not?

“How about you?” you inquire. “Marowski sure has been coming around a lot, lately.” You gasp dramatically and place a hand over your heart. “Daisy! Are you seeing someone else?! I thought what we had was special!”

“Ha!” loudly laughs Daisy. “He wishes!”

Laughter bubbles in your throat as the two of you cackle in amusement. While your chuckles die down, you seriously consider Daisy’s question. You suppose you didn’t have any non-business owner regulars that you liked yet.

Bobbi No-Nose has been coming around a bit to get random stuff repaired. She hasn’t hassled you, and she pays without complaint, but she’s not the type to make any unnecessary chatter with. It’s well known in Goodneighbor that there’s always a catch with her. Everything she does has a hidden motive. There’s no room in your life for those kind of problems.

The mercenary Wayne Delancy is certainly a no. The guy paid his bill to get his hunting rifle maintained, but watched you like a hawk the entire time. The feeling of if you so much as sneezed wrong, he would put a bullet in your skull is not exactly an ideal work environment. Unfortunately, you believe you’ll have the displeasure of working on his equipment again soon.

Yellow—the ghoul in the yellow trench coat living at the hotel—would probably the closest thing. He’s paid you twice to fix up that coat of his, but doesn’t seem to like being around you, or anyone in Goodneighbor. Since he refuses you to give you a name to call him, you’ve nicknamed him “Yellow.” Yellow didn’t complain about the name, or offer anything different, so Yellow he will be. A part of you wonders if he even remembers his name.

Most of the town on the Rexford side tend to go to Rufus Rubins for general repairs instead of you. Rubins hasn’t had issue with your moving in on his turf yet. You suspect he’s swamped with work from the hotel.

“Lost in thought?” asks Daisy, seeing you space out. You blink rapidly as you look over to her.

“Just thinking I might need to go on a scavenging run myself,” you deflect, taking another swig of your drink. You’re not sure why you lied, but talking about your thoughts on your customers feels like a bad idea. Too personal and too many wandering ears.

“It’s those circuit boards and targeting cards, isn’t it?” frowns Daisy, crossing her arms. You nod affirmatively, studying the label of your drink. “I’ve sent word through the caravans, but nothing has arrived yet. Must be hot items right now.”

“I’m running low on fuses, too.” you sigh, swirling your bottle. “If someone comes in with an advanced job, something happens to the turrets, or shit—KL-E-O? I’m boned. Probably will take the day off tomorrow and hit up a place or two with some security to disassemble.”

“Alone?” frowns Daisy, her forehead creasing in concern.

“That’s the plan,” you say, drinking.

“You’re bringing that set of Power Armor of yours with you?”

“Not this time. I want to be quick and quiet. Best way to avoid being detected.”

“Honey,” she sighs, heavily. “You do realize that Boston isn’t exactly a safe place to go trapezing around alone? Even the caravans travel the safer roads in at least groups of three. And carrying a full load? That’s just asking for a raider ambush.”

“Nothing I haven’t handled before, Dais.”

“Super mutants,” she continues, “ferals...not to mention the Gunners down the block aren’t exactly friendly. There’s a lot of things looking for a gal like you to be slowed down and unaccompanied.”

“Daisy, I’ll be fine.” you huff. Daisy is acting like you’ve never went scavenging before. “I’ll stick to the shadows and alleys, and will have my laser pistol. I know what I’m doing.”

“So does everything else in Boston looking for a quick meal or quick cap.”

You inhale and exhale, slowly. A headache is starting to throb in the side of your head.

“What do you want me to say Daisy?”

“I know a guy.”

“Daisy, no.”

“He’s a good kid, a regular of mine,” she continues, ignoring you. “Works been slow for him lately, and is lookin’ to make a few caps. Name’s MacCready.”

The cola burns your throat and sinuses as you accidentally choke on it.

“The merc?” you sputter, coughing out some of the inhaled drink. “You want me to hire a mercenary for a scavenging trip? Daisy, are you out of your mind?! What exactly do you expect me to be doing out there?! It’s scavenging, not mutant hunting. I’m not going to go out of my way to look for trouble.”

“Trouble comes whether you’re lookin’ for it or not, hon,” scowls Daisy. She wipes some dust off the corner of her counter. “Better to have an extra gun watching your back, then a bullet in your head.”

“Daisy, I don’t need a mercenary!” you shout. Several of the Neighborhood Watch glance your way at the noise.

“If you don’t bring someone you watch your back,” she growls, low and serious. You try not to flinch back by how feral she looks right now. “I’m tripling my prices for you.”

“Jesus, fine mom!” you surrender, raising your arms up. “But only if he’s actually okay with the job and carrying some of the load. I ain’t paying some random bloke to walk behind me. Men do that for free here in Goodneighbor already.”

“I’ll talk to him when he swings by later this evening,” Daisy smiles, suddenly sweet as can be.

Fucking con-artist, you mentally growl, emptying the Nuka-Cola bottle. Just when you’re starting to save up some caps, too. How much does a mercenary cost nowadays anyway? Couple hundred caps? This guy better be worth it.

“I’ll have dinner at the bar tonight,” you mutter, crossly. “If he’s interested he can find me there. If he doesn’t show, I don’t want to hear a single complaint from you for going alone, got it?”

“Got it, honey.”

Anyone with a nose, and even those without, could tell you the air in Goodneighbor smells like a disgusting urinal mixed with rotting garbage. But the Third Rail? Basically the same, but with a thick cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke trying to mask it.

Magnolia’s smooth jazz music is the only real good thing about the Third Rail. Most of the beer is locally brewed piss-water, the food is mediocre at best on a good day, and you always got to keep an eye on your caps for sticky fingers. At least Whitechapel Charlie’s personality settings amuse you.

You order the daily special—a stew of some kind—and some purified water. Charlie grumbles to himself as he takes your order, complaining about what kind of wanker orders water at a bar. Since it’s Charlie saying it, you don’t find it in you to be actually upset.

The same can’t be said when a wastelander plops down next to you, reeking of cheap booze and jet. There’s something about eating a meal alone at the bar that attracts drunkards.

“Hey, angel,” slurs the wastelander. Oh, boy...this pick-up line. The Third Rail’s go-to. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“No,” you state matter-of-factually. “The calibrated shocks and vents in my Power Armor nullify fall damage.”

“Uhh...what?” The man is clearly thrown. Perfect. “I mean...without the armor?”

“Are you telling me to go kill myself?”

It takes every bit of your willpower not to laugh at the guy’s face.

“I think I should go...” says the wastelander before making a hasty retreat to the back of the bar. Your victorious smirk is hidden by the can of purified water you’re sipping from. One point for you, zero points to tonight’s drunkards.

“Wow,” deadpans a voice behind you. “You must be a real hit at parties.” You swivel around on your bar stool and find the green hat guy staring blankly at you. He’s MacCready?

“MacCready, right?” you greet. You give him a sneaky grin. “You’d be surprised how many unwanted dicks you can make flaccid by combining ‘calibrated’ and ‘Power Armor’ in the same sentence.”

MacCready appraises you for a second before chuckling in good humor. He takes a seat next to you and orders a beer. Charlie grumbles something about still owing for the last one, but still slides him one. You note that the bar regulars are keeping at a distance from MacCready.

“Although,” you continue, glancing around. “I suppose having a guy like you nearby would accomplish the same.” He snorts into his beer. You swish the water around. “Gotta say, I’m surprised Daisy convinced you this was worth your time.”

“Caps are caps,” he shrugs noncommittally. “Sounds like an easy two-hundred and fifty caps to me.”

Yeah, no.

“How about two hundred instead?” you counter. The mercenary frowns and looks you calculatingly in the eyes. “Wasn’t exactly planning on going into a hot-zone,” you continue while holding eye contact. “And I’m not entirely convinced I need the extra fire power.”

It’s quiet at the bar as you two assess each other. MacCready pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes. You expect him to get up and walk from the job, but instead grins approvingly at you.

“Well, boss,” he smirks. “When I prove you wrong and you hire me again, it’s gonna be the full two-hundred and fifty caps.”

Cocky bastard.

“Whatever you say, hotshot,” you snark, handing over the caps. MacCready raises an eyebrow and quickly counts the caps, finding all two-hundred. You’ve returned your attention to your now cold stew.

“I usually have to tell people to pay upfront,” he eyes you suspiciously. “What gives?”

“Daisy seems to trust you,” you shrug, shoving another spoonful of food in your mouth.

“And that’s enough for you?”

“Not at all,” you state. “But if you take my caps and run...” The merc frowns, watching as you pause to wash the stew down with water. A smirk stretches across your face. “I’m tattling on you to Daisy.”

MacCready’s eyebrows shoot up. Out of all the things you could have threatened him with, you chose tattling? The lady with Power Armor who builds turrets, guns, and could probably sic KL-E-O on him with a few yanks of some wires? He covers his eyes with his free hand and laughs.

“You’re cold, boss,” he grins, trying—and failing—to sound serious.

Maybe this arrangement could work out fine after all.

Chapter Text

Per the agreement, MacCready meets you at your shop at dawn. It’s a pleasant surprise to see the merc leaning against the wall and waiting for you when you emerge from your shack. A part of you still expected him to take the caps and run. Goodneighbor doesn’t exactly have many folk good for their word, but so far he’s holding up his end of the deal.

You double check your scavenging gear. Laser pistol is secured at the hip. The backpack on your shoulders is empty, ready to be filled with salvage. Pocketed leather armor pouches on your legs carry your extra fusion cells, a few small tools, and an emergency stimpak. Everything needed is accounted for.

A quick arming of your security system and the two of you head out into Boston.

MacCready trails after you as you lead him through Boston. He doesn’t ask where the two of you are headed, but from your confident choices in alleys and paths, the sniper figures you know where your going. Several hours pass before the two of you are standing in front of the Boston Public Library.

“The library?” doubts MacCready. “What are you expecting to find here?”

“Been here before,” you say, crouching down and adjusting your leather pockets. “It’s got a surprisingly good security system of turrets and Protectrons. I need their inside bits.”

The inside of the library is trashed. Paper, bookcases and debris is scattered everywhere. If possible, the damage to the library appears worse than the last time you visited. A lingering sent of mold and rotting paper is mixed with something else. Whatever that additional smell is, it’s pungent.

“Lets be careful,” warns MacCready is a low voice. He looks around carefully. “No human being would possibly pile books this way.”

Thundering stomps confirm that.

“I hear something!”

You and MacCready duck down behind a bookcase, drawing your guns. Risking a peak, you glance behind the case. Through the interior windows of the library, your eyes catch sight of familiar green skin.

When did Super Mutants move into the library?!

“Stupid noises!” shouts a different mutant stomping away. The two of you hold your position until heavy footfalls move away from you.

“They’ve moved further into the building,” whispers MacCready. He gives you a shit-eating grin. “Glad I’m here now?”

“Absolutely,” you respond sincerely while looking around thoughtfully. The merc’s grin falters and finds himself thrown by the honest answer. You don’t notice, instead locking your gaze on the terminal. Why isn’t the security on?

“Cover me,” you whisper as you crouch. MacCready raises his gun and watches you duck and weave between pieces of debris. What are you…?

You sneak your way over to the terminal and click away at the keyboard. The sound of heavy thuds nearing encourage you to type faster. A beep comes from the terminal as the password is accepted.

“Huh? What’s that?”

A Super Mutant peaks his head into the room. His head explodes as a gunshot echoes through the library. Floorboards shake from the deafening footfalls of a horde of mutants closing in. The library security system springs to life.

“A security breach has been detected. A lockdown is in effect. All visitors and library staff are to seek shelter immediately.”

MacCready keeps his head down as the Protectrons and turrets hum to life. Machines send a spray of bullets and laser beams into the surprised pack of Super Mutants. The stun doesn’t last long as they fire their pipe rifles back at the hostile robots shouting their war cries. MacCready has to take full cover behind the bookcase to avoid being hit by stray bullets.

The firefight doesn’t last long. A few minutes at most.

“Security breach neutralized. Visitors may now come and go as they please. All employees please return to work.”

MacCready peaks over to see the security systems shutting down. Six Super Mutants lay dead on the floor. Three Protectrons lay destroyed. Several robots remain standing, but powered down. After a minute, he sees you pop your head out from behind the terminal. He snorts when you give him a thumbs up and makes his way over.

“Always thought those computers were a waste of time.”

“Well,” you retort, almost offended. “I think they just saved us a ton of ammo and gun wear and tear.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

You take the time to thoroughly scrap the fallen robots for their components and fusion cells, while MacCready loots the mutant bodies for anything he finds useful. The two of you then proceed to search the room for anything valuable. You find some decent junk and two good condition books. A hidden locked first aid kit rewards you with a stimpak, a can of purified water and a dose of Rad-X.

The sun hangs low in the sky when the two of you exist the library with full packs and pockets.

Boston is not a place anyone wants to be after dark. You decide to take a more direct route back to Goodneighbor to shave some time of walking. Nearing the Boston Commons, you note how quiet it is.

At least, until the first gunshot rang out and ricochets at your feet.

“Raiders!” shouts MacCready, aiming his rifle and dropping a raider with one shot.

“You killed him!” screams an outraged woman raider.

You take shelter behind a concrete road divider in time to avoid being shot. MacCready takes a few more potshots before ducking down with you and reloading. Bullets fly overhead as you fire red beams back at the raiders. The sun is setting, and the beams from your gun are giving away your position.

It takes an average of eight seconds to change out cells to reload your pistol. You’re two seconds in when you see the crazed, stoned eyes of raider behind you.

“Shit!”

MacCready whips around and bashes the stock of his rifle in the man’s face. The psychotic raider doesn’t even flinch, as he flicks open a switchblade and jabs it into the merc’s abdomen. In a flash of red, you disintegrate the man’s head into a pile of red ash. A short lived victory as MacCready holds his wound and slumps against the divider.

“Th-that’s a lot of blood,” he chokes, blood staining his duster.

The gunfire gets louder as the fire line of raiders advance to your position. A frag grenade sits on the belt of the dead raider next to you. Pulling the pin, you chuck it at the incoming raiders. You use the cover of the dust and smoke from the explosion to pick up MacCready and drag him away from the fight.

MacCready goes limp in your arms as you throw open a door to a nearby building.

Chapter Text

You were ready to shoot anything that moved in the club when the elevator doors opened. Fate takes mercy on you as the only resident is a single, easily dispatch-able, radroach.

Kicking a pair of skeletons off a nice red couch, you almost rip his bag off his back to lay MacCready down. He’s pale from blood loss. You drop your bag onto the floor next to him. Pulling out a stimpak, you inject it into the bloody puncture wound. MacCready breathes easier, but the bleeding does not stop, nor does he wake.

“The fuck?” you mumble, tossing the empty syringe on the near by coffee table. The scavenged purified water is removed from your bag. Cracking open the can of water, you carefully peel away some bloody fabric from the wound, and clean off a bit of the blood with water. You get a better look at the injury. Are those...fresh radiation burns? Was that knife irradiated?

Oh, shit the knife was irradiated, you realize. Just exposure to radiation is bad enough, but direct contact into the bloodstream? Near the internal organs?

He needs Radaway, and he needs it now.

You almost trip scurrying to his pack. Dumping out his loot from the library yields pipe rifles, ammo, caps, one shot of Med-X and a single cigarette. No rad drugs.

Rummaging through the skeletal remains of the former tenants? Wine, empty bottles and cigars…

But no Radaway.

Behind the bar? Wine, empty bottles and some old preserved food…

But no Radaway.

The utility closest? Crate of wine, empty bottles and boxes of papers…

But no Radaway.

“I don’t NEED booze!”

A shout of frustration leaves you as you angrily kick a shelf in the closest. Several dusty boxes fall off from the impact. Through the cloud of dust you glare furiously at the shelf. Your eyes widen.

A wall safe?

“Come on, come on...!”

With a bobby pin from your hair and the screwdriver from your tools, you pick at the lock. A soft click and the safe door cracks open. Throwing it open, you hastily sort through the contents. A yellow IV bag in the back steals the show from the pipe pistol, pre-war money, and single silver spoon.

Bingo.

Swiftly, you grab the Radaway. Dragging over an old coat rack from near the elevator, you hang the IV bag on the rack and prep the needle. Rolling up MacCready’s sleeve, you slide the needle into his arm. This is much easier to do in non-ghoulified skin.

The drug slowly drips into MacCready’s bloodstream. You hold pressure over his still bleeding wound. The bag of radiation medicine is halfway empty when the burns start to clear up. Seeing this, you inject him with your last stimpak. His skin closes and heals as the stim kicks in. Color begins to return to his face.

You sit on the floor next to him and breath a sigh of relief. He’ll be out for a while from the blood loss, but MacCready should pull through. Unhooking his empty IV, you tiredly toss it with the empty syringes.

Better secure the room before you pass out.

The first thing MacCready realizes when he wakes is he’s alive, followed closely by not knowing where he is. Sitting up on the couch, he sees spent stimpaks and an empty IV bag on the coffee table next to an open can of water. He finds you, sleeping in a nearby armchair, arms crossed and feet propped on the table.

MacCready finds himself grateful you didn’t leave him behind, but bitter about owing you a favor for saving him.

His eyes drift around the room. It’s an oddly fancy looking place. Wine bottles and high end dusty couches everywhere. The amount of skeletons for such a small space is ominous. There’s an old liquor bureau blocking the door to the elevator that you must have moved. MacCready pushes himself up into a sitting position. The couch creeks loudly under him.

Damn, he could use a drink.

“Don’t drink the wine in here,” you yawn, the sound of him moving waking you. “Found a holotape in the terminal—it’s poisoned. These wack jobs had a suicide party. There’s some water left in the can.” MacCready grabs the water and drains the remaining liquid inside.

“Well, that explains the creepy ass—er, the creepy wino skeleton party.”

“Thought the saying was ‘wine and dine,’ not ‘wine and die.’”

MacCready lets out a quiet laugh as he examines his now crusty and red clothes. You tiredly watch him as he frowns at the thrown about state of his backpack.

“Sorry, ‘bout that,” you mumble, eyes closing. A few more minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt, right? “Was looking for Radaway. Raider gutted you with some weird rad knife.”

“Damn,” MacCready whistles. “Bet a blade like that could fetch a few caps.”

“Mmm,” you mummer in agreement. “Probably. Didn’t exactly go back looking for it, though.”

“Now that hurts me,” he grins. “Worse than a blade to the gut.”

You giggle tiredly. MacCready looks over at you, watching you lose your battle with consciousness. How long had you been awake? His eyes glance out the dirty window. Dawn is beginning to break. A good time to start packing up and heading back to Goodneighbor.

“Hey, boss?”

“Hmm?”

“...get some sleep.”

“Mm-hmm...”

Chapter Text

MacCready decides the best way to deal with a life debt to a resident of Goodneighbor is to simply keep an eye on them. Goodneighbor is a cesspool of people wanting what others have, and not being afraid to put a bullet between someone’s eyes to get it. It was only a matter of time before someone tries to kill you, he just needs to be there when that time comes.

He learns a lot about you just from watching.

The first thing he’s noticed about you is your obvious addiction to Nuka-Cola. Regular Nuka-Cola on your work breaks. Nuka-Cola Cherry as a splurge item for a bad day or if you’re gearing up for a tougher job. MacCready once watched you jump the stone wall between your repair shop and Daisy’s store because she got a Nuka-Cola Quantum in stock. “For emergency, needed to be done yesterday jobs,” you had said. Daisy could stay in business just from selling to your caffeine addiction. It reminds him of his old friend Zip. You drink so much cola, it genuinely stumps him how you don’t have radiation poisoning symptoms by now.

Your personality, he observed, changes depending on who you’re with. You’re open and flirty to a few of your regulars, and especially with Daisy and—only God knows why—KL-E-O. All male clients are treated professionally with no room for misunderstandings. Hancock tends to make you reserved, but only when he’s high. Which is most of the time. When he’s sober, you relax and even fling a few quips at him. This is how MacCready figured out your aversion to drugs and chems. A weird trait for a gal who willingly moved to Goodneighbor.

Repairing energy weapons tends to bring a smile to your face while you work. You enjoy working on more challenging projects, but you take miscellaneous jobs, fixing up whatever slides across your counter. As long as people are willing to pay your prices, your open to repairing some of the most random things. To date, MacCready has seen you repair and modify a variety of guns, maintain turrets, add pockets to a few pieces of leather and combat armor, mend clothes, restore junk, and keep KL-E-O in top shape.

Your rates don’t change much per job, he’s noted. Generally, you offer a fair rate for your services. That bugs him, because you could be making more caps, but he supposes you do get a lot of return customers. Not something he can say in his business. The only time he’s seen you clearly over charge someone was when they threatened to sexually attack you after-hours. He was going to get involved in that incident, but your turrets locked on the customer and they ran off with their tail between their legs. Hancock had witnessed the incident from the State House and, conveniently, the guy was never seen in Goodneighbor again.

After a few weeks, MacCready figured out you have a routine. He hates it. It irritates his mercenary side. People with routines are some of the easier targets to eliminate. As a shop owner, routine keeps you in business. He understands that, but it doesn’t mean he likes it. It’s what drives him to keep an eye on Daisy so much.

No matter what time he’s seen you head inside your shack for the night, you are always up at dawn the next morning. First fifteen minutes is spent checking your turrets and Power Armor, followed by another fifteen double checking your inventory for the day. On the rare day someone is at your shop early, you dive right into work. If not, you spend the next half hour or so chatting and having breakfast with Daisy.

When you close up shop for the day, you drop off any repaired junk to Daisy. The caps she pays you are almost always given back to her when you buy food from her questionable grocery section. MacCready teased Daisy when he noticed she tends to lax her prices when you buy from her in bulk.

On one or two slow days of the week, you’ll eat at the Third Rail, but only when there are few patrons in the bar. Always orders the special, and is the only time he’ll see you drink water. He’s seen you order Charlie’s beer exactly once. You chat pleasantly with Charlie, offering him a look over, should the robot ever need it. Charlie always huffs at you, and tells you to mind your own bloody business, but tends to keep one of his eyes on you when not tending to Magnolia. People expressing an interest in you are, like he’s seen before, goaded away by your shop talk and wrong answers to pick-up-lines. MacCready finds it hilarious to watch now, knowing your messing with folks on purpose.

You pass a couple caps to Ham every night when you’re leaving the bar. “Keep up the good work looking out for folks,” he heard you say one time. He wonders why you’re trying to bribe the security, but it throws him more when Ham accepts your caps with a small smile. Ham isn’t one to be bribed. Something must have happened that you feel the need to pay him back for.

MacCready wants to know what it is, but knows damn well Ham of all people won’t tell him.

Every night before you turn in for the evening, you check over your suit of Power Armor. Occasionally you will tinker with it, but most nights you glance it over and leave it be. The last thing you do is double check your security system and arm it.

Over all, MacCready can’t wrap his head around why someone like you is in Goodneighbor of all places. What isn’t he seeing?

“See you got a staring problem again, hon,” teases Daisy, watching MacCready lean against her doorway and look over at your shop. She buffs the morning dew off her counter with a grin.

“I think she’s hiding something,” he says, unbothered by Daisy’s jab.

“Of course she is,” Daisy agrees easily, focusing on a particularly stubborn spot of dirt. “So are you. And me. And everyone else in Goodneighbor. I think the real question is, why do you care?”

MacCready frowns. With how much talking you and Daisy do, it bothers him that you never once mentioned to her, or anyone as far as he could tell, about what happened with the raiders. Not that he’s going to tell her he was stabbed and almost died, but why didn’t you? Didn’t you threaten to tattle to Daisy? Why not tell her a story like that? Are you planning on using it as leverage? It would be pretty weak blackmail against him.

“I owe her a favor,” MacCready admits. “Not entirely sure how to pay her back.” Daisy hums as she eyes her customer. She may not have been told the details, but clearly something happened between you two on the scavenging trip. Something that added an extra day to a day trip and made MacCready, a mercenary, feel indebted to you.

The new patch in MacCready’s duster is a pretty big giveaway. Daisy wasn’t born yesterday.

“Morning Dais, MacCready,” you greet as you walk over to Daisy’s store, open bottle of Nuka-Cola in hand. “What’s good for breakfast today?”

“Got a crate of some fresh mutfruit last night.”

“Nice,” you croon appreciatively. A few caps are exchanged for a fruit. Taking a bite of mutfruit, you lean against Daisy’s counter, looking out into the streets of Goodneighbor. The reek of Goodneighbor always seems a little less potent in the early morning.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” frowns Daisy, watching you yawn. You nod, holding up three fingers while taking a drink from your bottle. Daisy looks disappointingly at you. “Only three hours?”

“Well, when you say it like that, sweetheart, it sounds bad,” you flirt. Daisy sighs, but the corner of her mouth twitches up. MacCready watches the interaction with amusement.

“What were you even doing up so late anyway?” wonders Daisy. “I saw you close up on time last night.”

You hum in agreement, mouth full of food.

“Had a surprise job,” you say, swallowing. “KL-E-O’s terminal was acting up. Files going missing and stuff. And she asks me to uh...take a look at it...”

Daisy raises her brow at you. MacCready observes you carefully. You usually speak suggestively when it involves KL-E-O.

“What happened?” prods Daisy. Finishing off your fruit, you wipe your hand on your pants.

“So I did. Took some time, but I restored her files,” you explain, pausing to take a sip. “And I found a file with my name on it. So I click on it, right? And it’s...a contingency plan. How she plans on getting rid of me should the need ever arise and it was...detailed. How to disable my security, deal with my Power Armor, avoid being compromised by me, the whole shebang.”

MacCready scowls. Damn, he’d rather not mess with the Assaultron. Their resistance against ballistic weapons puts him at a disadvantage. Daisy is very quiet as she listens.

“Then I saw the other names,” you continue. “Turns out I’m not special. She has a plan to covertly kill everyone in Goodneighbor. Everyone. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s KL-E-O. She’s very open about murder and killing, but...ya know? Still kinda disturbing to read something like that.” You sigh, swirling the remainder of the cola in it’s bottle. “I’m going to need to put some Assaultron counter measures up around the shop. Want me to put up something here while I’m at it?”

Daisy offers you three-hundred caps to set up some defenses against KL-E-O, should the need every arise. You ask her questions to determine the best kind of defenses. What kind of generator does she draw power from? Is it connected to KL-E-O’s? Does she need her own power supply? Is there another entrance someone could break in through?

The conversation is interrupted by the gate opening to reveal a courier. MacCready perks up as the courier hands Daisy a stack of mail before heading deeper into town. Daisy sorts through the pile and hands a letter off to MacCready. You don’t pay much attention to MacCready as he opens his letter, instead chatting with Daisy about her future defenses.

Something taps your foot and you reach down to pick up a photo of a young boy. You blink once at the image. Deciding it’s none of your business, you hand the dropped picture back to MacCready. Daisy leans over her counter to take a look at the picture as it exchanges hands.

“That him?” she inquires.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Before.”

Suddenly feeling like you’re intruding on a private moment, you turn to head back to your shop, only to have the picture return to your line of sight. MacCready looks like he bit into something bitter as he thinks, but his expression evens out into a subdued one. He’s come to some sort of decision.

“This is my son Duncan,” MacCready says after a minute. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. MacCready didn’t strike you as a father.

Titling your head, you take in the photo more closely. His son couldn’t have been more than three in the picture. It’s a black and white photo, but you could guess the kid probably has his dad’s hair color. The child certainly had his dad’s jawline and nose. There’s no doubt that the kid in the picture is related to MacCready.

“Before he got sick,” he continues. MacCready’s eyes narrow in frustration. “I’ve been trying to get a cure to him, but it hasn’t worked out yet. Damn ferals keep getting in the way.”

He continues to talk about his son’s situation. Kid isn’t doing well from some disease you’ve never heard of. MacCready is working on getting caps and a cure for him. Apparently Duncan is staying with some old friends of MacCready in the Capital Wasteland while he sorts out how to take care of his son’s illness.

It puzzles you why you’re receiving this information. You’re no doctor and barely know him. MacCready doesn’t appear to be the type to trust easily. He’s even excluding certain bits of information, like where he’s been trying to get the cure from, so he doesn’t want you to know too much. Judging by her somber frown, Daisy seems to know this story already. Maybe your relationship with the ghoul has something to do with it? As MacCready stares at you, you realize he’s waiting for you to say something.

What does one say to a story like that? What is someone supposed to do with this kind of information?

“You actually manage to have a child and you name him Duncan?” you inquire teasingly, and a bit awkward. Daisy laughs behind the counter as MacCready looks gobsmacked for a solid second. He must have been anticipating a different question or response. To your relief, the mercenary lets out a relieved laugh.

“Who’s his favorite Unstoppable?” you ask, changing topics.

“Grognak,” MacCready replies with a grin. “Is there really any other choice?”

“I like this kid already,” you say, returning the grin. “How about his favorite—”

Daisy watches the two of you with a smile as you ask MacCready several non-intrusive questions about Duncan’s likes and dislikes. MacCready seems to relax as he talks about his son. Perhaps the two of you could actually become friends? She thinks it would be good for both of you.

Chapter Text

The day had been pretty productive.

Rufus Rubins approached you about a job he had been working on for the Hotel Rexford. He was replacing a standard water pump with a water purification system. The goal was to triple the water output, giving the hotel an option to charge people for baths. Cold baths, but baths. A big step up for the hotel and the community.

However, he hit a snag with the motor he had been fixing up.

The snag being the motor disintegrating in his hands. Two-hundred years had not been kind to the piece of machinery. In order to get paid in full, he would need the purifier to be operational by tomorrow. With no time to go out and scavenge a motor, Rufus offered you a cut of the caps if you could custom-build a motor by the end of the day.

With parts you already had on hand, that bad boy ready to install by noon. It wasn’t the prettiest, but it was functional, and that’s all Rufus needed until he could go scavenging.

Not having any other major jobs, you gave Rufus a hand in installing the motor. Rufus appeared to appreciate the help. You returned home with a hundred and ten caps more than you left with.

The day had been fulfilling so far. Unfortunately, the day wasn’t over.

Good things come to those who wait.

An old, pre-war quote toting the reward that comes with patience.

It can kiss your ass.

It took five months. Five months of hoping and waiting that someone will waltz through the gates in a shiny metal suit looking for repairs. After five months, someone did walk into the town in a set of T-60. The few seconds of joy and anticipation of finally being able to work on Power Armor, shatter when you get a better look at the suit.

Shit, you would recognize that flame job anywhere.

“Well, hey there, pretty mama!”

Karma is such a bitch.

“What are you doing here, Zeke?” you deadpan. Zeke removes his helmet to reveal a smug smirk and set of sunglasses you’ve come to despise.

“Aww, don’t be so cold, doll,” he grins down at you. “We know each other too well for that!”

“I’d rather not know you at all,” you hiss bitterly. Zeke ignores your comment. Instead he tucks his helmet under one arm and leans forward on you counter with his free arm. The wood creaks from the weight of the suit.

“A little birdie told me a new cat is operating in Goodneighbor, offering to spiff up Power Armor,” he smirks. “And I gotta check it out and get the low down on the new comp, ya know? But who do I find when I get here? My old classy chassis herself, operating her own garage.”

“I ain’t your classy chassis, you rank spoon,” you scowl. “Never was, never will be.” Zeke rubs and armored a hand through his greased hair, completely unbothered by the insult.

“No need to bite, baby. Unless you want to~”

“What I want,” you snarl, feeling hostile. “Is for you to go away and leave me alone.” The outburst attracts the attention of the nearby Neighborhood Watch. “I know damn well that any Atom Cat worth their plates doesn’t need someone outside the garage touching their suit.”

“I could never leave you, queen,” he croons. “Not after fate brought our roads back together again.”

Christ, this arrogant prick is just as delusional now as he was when you left the Cats.

“Alright, Romeo,” snaps Jerry, waving his sub-machine gun. “The lady said to take a hike. You best listen to her if you know what’s good for ya.”

Fucking bless Jerry. He’s getting a free upgrade the next time he comes in to get his gun cleaned.

“Easy square, no need for that,” he says, putting his helmet back on. “I’ll see you later, baby.”

“I’d rather eat rat poison.”

Zeke laughs, thinking your joking, before wandering off deeper into Goodneighbor. You sincerely hope he’s not getting a room at Rexford, but considering how late in the day it is, he probably is.

“Your ex is a real piece of work,” comments Jerry, watching the Atom Cat’s back. The thought repulses you.

“That ass-hat is not my ex,” you gag, tugging your welding goggles down. “Just a past prick who can’t take a hint or handle being told no.”

Jerry eyes you critically. The ghoul guard knows better than to ask too many questions and get chummy, but he feels responsible for those he looks after while on the clock.

“Whatever you say, sister,” he scoffs. “Just don’t go causin’ problems.”

“No deal,” you crack smile. “Gotta spice up your shift somehow.”

Jerry chuckles while shaking his head. He gives you a grin.

“I ain’t tryna tell you how to live you’re life, sister,” he starts, “but Whitechapel’s got a deal goin’ on the top shelfers today. The good stuff.”

“Thanks for the tip, Jerry.”

As the guard returns to his post, you stare at your small pile of stuff left to repair. Just a few odds and ends for Daisy. Daisy, who probably witnessed the whole ordeal and would have questions...

“Fuck it,” you decide, switching off your lit open sign and throwing your goggles onto your workbench.

A stiff drink sounds wonderful. You’ll get Daisy her goods tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Despite it being late in the afternoon, the bar is already packed and the patrons drunk. Clearly Charlie’s discount on the good stuff is working out for him. You snag some bloke’s seat at the bar as he gets up to try his luck with some gal that walked by.

“Lil’ early for you, ain’t it love?” questions Charlie as he cleans out a shot glass. His mechanical eyes are looking down at his task. “’Fraid the dinner special ain’t ready yet.”

“Thanks Charlie, but can I get a double bourbon? Leave the bottle.”

All three of Whitechapel’s optic sensors focus up on you.

“Always knew I was in hell, but didn’t think it’d freeze over so soon,” Charlie snarks as he pours you a glass of bourbon and sets both the bottle and glass down by you. “Had a day, did ya?”

“It was definitely a day,” you agree, sipping the drink. It burns, but has a smooth aftertaste. You sigh, allowing some of the tension to leave your shoulders as you listen to Magnolia’s jazz number.

“Do I need to get involved?” the robot asks, lowly. A small smile tugs at the corner at your mouth at his concern. Looks like you’ve won some points with the Mr. Handy.

“Nah,” you sigh, raising your glass to him. “Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, Charlie.”

“That, I can do, love.”

Unbeknownst to you, MacCready is frowning at you from the VIP room. He’s nursing his third beer, watching as you sip your drink. You’re breaking routine. Something must have happened. It’s none of his business, he knows this, but that damn favor keeps gnawing at the back of his mind. Telling you about his son somehow doesn’t feel like the fair trade he thought it would be.

Just as he’s about to call it quits waiting for work to come to him and join you, someone else sits down beside you. MacCready observes the tension in your shoulders return threefold, and, oh boy...

You look pissed.

MacCready sets down his beer and double checks the chamber of his sniper rifle. Perhaps today is the day he balances the books, after all.

“The hell do you want?” you hiss, your pleasant buzz gone. Zeke, flaunting off his shiny Atom Cats jacket, smiles brightly at you. You wish you would have changed out of your own greaser jacket before going out.

“Just keeping my baby company,” he teases while ordering a beer. A small part of you is maliciously happy, knowing Charlie’s swill will be piss compared to what the Atom Cats’ brew in their garage.

“Get bent,” you snarl, getting up to leave. Zeke pulls you back down to the chair, unbothered by the warning look Charlie is now fixating on him.

“What?!” you snap, wrenching yourself out of his grip. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Come on, doll,” he smirks. “You know you want me just as bad.”

Would Hancock charge you for clean up if you kill a man in his bar? You’re about ready to find out.

“The only thing I badly want from you,” you hiss as clear as possible, “is for you to leave me alone.”

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he croons, completely oblivious to the hostility in your voice and the change in bar atmosphere. “Relax cool cat.” Zeke spreads his arms gesturing to the bar around him. “You just need to unwind.” He rests an arm on the bar and supports his head on his fist. “Got a few ideas myself to help with that,” he says suggestively.

“Oh, yeah?” you snark, viciously. “You’re last bright idea ended with me leaving the Atom Cats after your drunk ass tried to get lucky when I was asleep in my trailer.”

“Admit it,” he whispers while leaning towards you. “You fantasize about me going through with it.”

MacCready stands up as you slowly turn your head to Charlie.

“Charlie,” you speak, suddenly calm.

“Yeah, love?”

“Put it on my tab.”

You grab the bourbon bottle and shatter it against Zeke’s head.

The bar roars in approval as you launch yourself off you seat, punching your former leader in the face. A tight circle of patrons surround you, chanting “fight!” The sounds blur out as you force Zeke to the ground and continue your onslaught of punches. Zeke tries to fight back, but a few jabs to the ribs are nothing like a pounding to the face.

He’s clearly not used to fighting outside his armor and you intend to abuse every bit of that weakness.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” shouts Ham as he throws you off Zeke. A few patrons help you to your feet as if to encourage you to continue beating his ass. Ham grabs a half-conscious Zeke by the collar of his jacket and drags him up the stairs to throw him out of the Third Rail.

A few patrons clap you on the back in congratulations before returning to their drinks. When Ham doesn’t come back down to throw your ass out too, you return to your seat at the bar. You take a sip of your almost empty glass of bourbon. Adrenaline and rage are still coursing through your veins but, damn, you would be lying if you didn’t feel a little bit better punching his face in.

“Dang, dinner and a show?” whistles a familiar voice. You twitch as a smirking MacCready plops down on the stool next to you. “That was quite the whooping. What did that ass—that guy do to get you so worked up?”

“Oh, you know,” you say with a dark look. “Give almost ten years of your life to a group, only to be betrayed when one guy gets an unwanted boner for ya, and the group thinks you should have just let him have his way with you to untaint the vibe.”

“Jesus, that’s fu—that’s pretty messed up.”

Your hands are starting to throb in pain. When’s the last time you punched something?

“Charlie, another drink please.”

“I should cut you off for that little stunt,” huffs Charlie, sliding you another double bourbon. “But since you're polite and he was a wanker, I guess I can let it slide just this once.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” you say with a small smile. Taking a drink you glance over at MacCready, who’s taking his own sip of his beer. He catches your eye.

“Well?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. You decide since he shared a bit about his son to you, if wouldn’t hurt to tell him a bit about yourself. Whether that’s the alcohol influencing you or not, you’ll find out when your sober.

“His name is Zeke. He’s the leader of the Atom Cats,” you say, sipping your bourbon. MacCready quietly sips from his bottle wondering where this is going. “And until just over a year ago, he used to be my leader.”

MacCready coughs to clear the inhaled beer from his throat.

He remembers hearing stories about the Atom Cats from his Gunner days. The Gunners were always trying to get their hands on the Atom Cats’ Power Armor. Every squad that tried had failed. Thankfully, since his platoon was on the other side of the ‘Wealth, he didn’t partake in any of those fights.

What are the chances that a former Gunner and former Atom Cat would be drinking cordially, at the same bar, on good terms? MacCready would bet caps that this is a first.

“Woah, woah, hold up,” he grins wildly, his eyes shining in mirth. “You’re saying you were an Atom Cat? You?”

You hear the laughter in his voice. It calms your anger and replaces it with a shred of humor.

“What,” you sass. “You don’t think a bird like me has what it takes to soup up Power Armor with the best Cats?”

“Oh, good God,” snorts MacCready, snickering into his beer. You raise an eyebrow at him, acting offended.

“What’s the matter, Jack?” you resort, face cracking into a grin. “Don’t cha think I’m one of the coolest cats this side of the apocalypse?”

“S-stop,” he gasps through laughter. “You’re killin’ me!”

“Don’t be a total wet rag, man. Any cat with peepers know cool when they see it.”

MacCready bangs his fist on bar trying, and failing, to compose himself. Your facade crumbles away in laughter. Charlie rolls his robotic eyes as he hovers away from the pair of cackling idiots.

Chapter Text

Goggles hiding your eyes, you glance up again for what must be the hundredth time this morning.

Yup, he’s still watching you.

Frowning, you try to focus on sewing the ripped seams of the overalls in your hands.

It’s been a ridiculously slow day, not having any jobs or side work for Daisy to do. The upside to today is it gives you plenty of time to maintain your tools and equipment—replacing fusion cells, sharpening, cleaning, the whole works. Once that was finished, you take the time to mend the few clothes you actually own. A job that you’ve been putting on the back burner for several weeks now.

It’s also a job you would have been finished with by now if you didn’t feel the need to keep looking up at Finn every minute.

Finn has, to his credit, left you alone since your turret put a bullet in his hand when you first opened your shop. For a while, his existence was a faded memory to you. But now, as he stares at you from the wall connecting KL-E-O and Daisy’s shop, you feel several hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A wastelander’s gut instincts are rarely wrong. Your laser pistol sits on at your hip.

There’s going to be blood today.

Hancock emerges with Fahrenheit from the State House. You doubt it’s a coincidence that the pair take up next to KL-E-O’s and chat amongst themselves. Those two don’t just step outside for some fresh, Goodneighbor air, but their presence is a relief. Finn finally takes his eyes off you and your shop, opting to light up a cigarette and watch the gate.

Eyes off your back, you’re able to focus on your mending. Finishing your last stitch, the gate opens.

A man enters in a blue overcoat and a tricorn hat. Hancock’s going to love this guy’s fashion statement, you muse, eyeing his hat. Whispers from the drifters catch your ear. Did they just say “general”? Was this guy the General of the Minutemen?

Really? This guy?

Your thoughts are silenced as the General’s companion stomps through the gate behind him.

“Glory be a suit of plates,” you whisper, appreciatively eyeing up the set of T-60 Power Armor that walks into town. Now that’s a classy chassis. You wonder why the man isn’t wearing his helmet. Power Armor works best with all pieces equipped. Is the helmet malfunctioning? God, you hope so.

The stars fade from your eyes as you catch the insignia on the torso. You vaguely remember seeing a sketch of that brand from your days as an Atom Cat.

Now what are squares like the Brotherhood of Steel doing in the Commonwealth?

Finn must have laced his cigarette with something to have the balls to try to con the General of the Minutemen and his buddy in the T-60. Hancock, unsurprisingly, stepped in to break up the confrontation. Finn didn’t live long after disrespecting Hancock’s position as mayor. As Finn blood coats the street, Hancock tries to smooth over the incident with the General.

The BOS soldier looks absolutely disgusted at Hancock, but wisely keeps his mouth shut and his hand off his gun. Instead, as the General and mayor talk, his eyes sweep across the market, probably looking for threats. Eventually, his eyes land on your store’s sign and the secured set of Winterized T-51. His eyebrows raise in surprise as he shifts his gaze to your turrets and then you. You’re unabashedly staring down his armor.

You watch as the man’s attention is brought back to Hancock and the General’s discussion. Whatever they are talking about, the armored man frowns and passionately disagrees with whatever is being said. Hancock’s grin shifts into a dangerous smirk and Fahrenheit has a hand on her gun. The General manages to keep the peace and tells something to both parties. Interestingly, tensions ease a bit at his words. Enough to have Fahrenheit take her hand off her gun, at least. To your surprise, the General walks with Hancock and Fahrenheit into the State House leaving his companion outside.

The soldier, still frowning, makes his way to your shop. You try to rein in your excitement and twitchy fingers, instead focus your attention on his left leg. It has a faint clicking noise to it. Foot area appears to be slightly scorched with a faded green residue.

“You fix Power Armor, civilian?” he asks, a hint of skepticism in his voice. The tone doesn’t bother you. It’s good to be wary of anything anybody sells you in Goodneighbor.

“Mod it too, soldier boy,” you grin, lower your welding goggles to reveal your eyes. His stern gaze is unamused at your nickname.

“I am Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel,” he stiffly introduces himself.

“Well, ‘Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel,’” you smirk, pointing at his leg. “Do you make it a habit to step on plasma mines, or are you just happy to see me?”

You cackle at the sudden crack in the Paladin’s tough-guy demeanor as he briskly looks down, assessing if he took any damage to his torso. Oh, you’re going to have fun with this guy.

“Your observation skills are astute,” he says, relaxing his face into a neutral expression. “I did not realize I was telegraphing the weakness in my armor. How did you know?”

“Judging by the green tinged scorch marks,” you start, placing your elbow on your counter. You rest your chin on your hand. “There is an eight-three percent chance your suit’s damage was caused by a plasma mine. Combine that the clicking you made when walking here, that number jumps up to eight-nine percent. I’m willing to bet your suit’s status gauge is flickering your left leg’s health between caution and critical. It’s likely that your fusion core has been draining by a full percent faster than normal as a result.”

“Outstanding,” he says, slightly impressed.

“That’s just what I see from the outside,” you say, looking the Paladin in the eyes. “Won’t be able to fill in that missing eleven percent without opening up the leg and checking out the internals. I’d bet caps there’s at least one melted wire in there and a fuse that needs swapping out.”

“That’s very probable,” Danse agrees, looking down at his leg with a pained expression.

“With that,” you say, standing up straight and putting on your best customer service smile. “Welcome to my General and Power Armor Repair garage. Whatcha looking to have done today?”

Danse snorts at your forced show of professionalism. You smile fades into a more natural grin at his response. Ducking under your counter, you pull out a clipboard with several pages written in pencil on it.

“Also,” you say, handing him the clipboard. Danse hesitantly takes it. His eyes widened as he flips through the sheets of available modifications. “That’s a list of extras I am currently able to install into Power Armor. It’s cheaper to get a mod installed on a piece that I’m already working on, since I’ll have to open it up anyway. If you flip to the fourth page, you’ll find the mods I’m able to install for a T-60 leg piece.”

The Paladin flips to the page. He opens and closes his mouth as he reads. Your chest swells with pride.

“I personally recommend the either the optimized servos mod to decrease the energy usage of running on your fusion core, or an explosive vent if your looking to make a greater impact on the area around you,” you say, watching the expressions flick across his face. “Prices for services are on the back page.”

He flips to the back page, surprise finally taking over his face. You should technically be charging more, if your time with the Atom Cats taught you anything. However, since you are shop in Goodneighbor, rates had to scale.

“You ok, solider boy?” you ask, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes!” he almost shouts. Red burns at his ears. Danse coughs as he regains his composure. “Er, yes. Just the repair today, civilian. But I might need to return in the future and discuss these upgrades.”

You give the Paladin a sly grin, making his face glow a little redder. Today just became a very good day.

“Why don’t you hold on to that clipboard and give it a good read,” you suggest, knowingly. “It’ll give you something to do while you wait. There’s a bench nearby if you’d like to sit.”

“I’ll take you up on that, civilian.”

After getting his suit into your secure workstation, you pull up you goggles over your eyes and get to work. Grabbing your fusion power drill, you carefully remove the leg piece from the frame. It’s pretty heavy, but it’s a familiar weight that brings a content smile to your face. Placing the T-60 left leg on the workbench, you remove the outer layer to view the internal components. As expected, there are two melted wires and plasma residue inside. One of the fuses looks blackened. You get to work cleaning out the piece and replacing the damaged components.

Danse keeps an eye on you and his surroundings, while simultaneously going through your list of mods. A part of him can’t help but doubt your abilities—this town is clearly full of trouble—but as he watches you work, he feels a small wave of approval. Your confidence and speed puts some of the Scribes he knows to shame. He’ll see if your quality meets his standards.

His approval of you rises when it does.

It takes you about half an hour or to finish the internal repair of his armor piece. You give the outside a quick clean with a rag to remove the scorch marks before securing it back onto the frame. As Danse checks over your work, you pull your goggles back down around your neck. He enters his suit and checks his health gauge.

“Good work,” he states approvingly, handing over his caps. “I know Scribes who would be jealous of this work.”

“Ah,” you croon, teasingly. You toss the money into your register. “Now you’re just trying to make me blush.”

A snicker escapes you at his sudden awkwardness. This guy is too fun to tease.

The Paladin frowns thoughtfully as he looks at the State House. The General is still meeting with Hancock and hasn’t exited yet. Danse rubs the back of his head before stepping out of his Power Armor.

“It appears my companion isn’t finished with his business yet,” he says, almost bitter. He looks over at you with an awkward smile. “Don’t suppose you’d want to get a drink? I’d like to discuss those modifications. My treat?”

The thought of having a chat about Power Armor makes you feel a bit giddy. When’s the last time you’ve genuinely talked shop and not just to spook drunkards? A drink with a stranger is a risk you’re willing to take for some good conversation.

“I hope you mean that, solider boy,” you grin, flicking off your open sign and arming your turrets. “Because I haven’t talked shop in ages.”

Danse’s expression relaxes contently as you lead him to the Third Rail.

Chapter Text

You’re horrified.

“You poor bastard,” you whisper, watching Danse take another satisfied swig of his second beer.

“The mess hall prioritizes nutrition over flavor,” he admits. “It leaves the drink selection something to be desired, but it’s not that bad.”

“Buddy,” you wince in pity. “Any beer that makes Charlie’s swill tastes good in comparison is garbage.”

“Oi,” huffs Charlie, narrowing his eyes at you. “’m right here, ya know.”

“Your beer is shit, Charlie,” you deadpan. Danse tries to keep a straight face, but the corners of his lips twitch in amusement.

“Then why you drinkin’ one?” sneers the Mr. Handy. You raise your bottle to Charlie. Danse watches the exchange attentively.

“A lady can’t give away all her secrets, Charlie,” you wink. “Gotta keep up appearances.” Charlie huffs before hovering away to prep a water for Magnolia. You swivel around on your bar-stool to face Danse.

“Should I have ordered you something else?” Danse asks after a moment.

“Don’t worry about it,” you wave dismissively while grinning. “I’m not much of a beer drinker, but if it gets me a chance to rave about my mods, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You have my attention.”

You immediately launch into a mini lecture on the break down of your mods. How they’re made, what they do, and the science behind how they work. Danse keeps up pretty decently with the conversation. He’s no Scribe, so some of the technological explanations go over his head. But as someone who treats his armor as a second skin, he adds good input for the usability of the modifications.

That sets you into a brainstorming mode. Several ideas for a few custom mods cross your mind and you voice a few of the more practical ideas. Some the Paladin gets pretty excited about, others he has his reservations. A way to lower fusion core usage by at least forty percent? He and every other member of the Brotherhood would be first in line to get their hands on it. Using the armor to create an electric pulse to shock nearby enemies? Neat in concept, but sounds draining on the core and too dangerous to allies to be worth it.

Danse mentions he was nineteen when he got his first set of Power Armor from the Brotherhood. Standard Brotherhood issue T-60, and he kept that bad boy shiny and in top condition. He looks so proud of himself as he talks about his first set. For the first time since you saw him walk into town he appears to be enjoying himself. He mentions it got severely damaged on a mission in the Capital Wasteland and had to get a replacement set. Danse scrunches his eyebrows at you when he catches your amused smirk.

You proceed to tell him you were sixteen when you built your first set of Power Armor.

His face contorts in surprise as you talk about your first set of T-45. You had found the core pieces at an old military outpost near the Atom Cats’ garage. All in junk condition, even the frame was falling apart. It took you six months, but you finally were able to get the suit in functioning order with the help of another Cat, Rowdy. It had been your baby, and officially made you a full-fledged member of the Atom Cats after a couple years of just being the Cats’ lil’ nerd bird.

“Do you still have the suit?” asks Danse, enthralled by the story.

“Nah,” you sigh in disappointment. “Not long after the garage got hit hard by some bad news Gunners trying to get their paws on our suits. Swear we had shootouts with them every month. Enemy’s laser rifle absolutely destroyed my armor pieces. We talkin’ only red ash left. Can fix a lot of things, but can’t fix disintegrated.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he frowns. You nod solemnly and take a small sip of your beer. “But it sounds like you rebuilt an exemplary set of Power Armor. You’re still alive, after all.”

“That I am,” you smile, raising your beer at the praise. “Was able to salvage most of the frame, though. It’s currently holding my set of T-51 together in the shop right now.”

Danse’s eyes brighten at the mention of your caged suit. You smile as you talk about your pride and joy. Fully upgraded T-51 with mods in every available corner. Calibrated shocks, optimized bracers, targeting HUD, a bright headlamp in the helmet, all wrapped up in winterized coating. Danse listens carefully as you explain your unique modification in the torso. “Emergency Divergence” you had called it. When the suit is below twenty-five percent health, power diverts into the legs to make for a faster flee. It can also be manually activated in a pinch. A mod that a solider would never install in their own suit, but Danse finds it fitting for a civilian.

“Have you ever considered joining up with the Brotherhood of Steel?” asks Danse, seriously. “From what I have seen and heard, you have the makings for a fine Scribe.”

You laugh off the offer, stating you’re quite happy working your own business. He looks disappointed, but doesn’t press it. The soldier has the feeling you and Proctor Ingram would have been great together.

As the conversation passes its first hour, you spy two figures entering the Third Rail. The grip on your beer tightens as you recognize the green uniforms and facial tattoos. Gunners. Danse appraises the newcomers, watching them carefully as they politely ask a patron a question. Seeing their lack of weaponry and civility towards the patron, he returns his attention to the conversation, taking over the conversation with questions.

“There you are, Danse!” says the General as he enters the Third Rail with Hancock.

“Nate,” Danse greets the General. He glares at Hancock. “Ghoul.”

“Tin can,” Hancock sneers back.

“Oh, thank God,” says Charlie, breaking up the sudden tension. “Other customers. Don’t think I could take much more of this boring nerd talk.” You chuckle as Danse’s ears tinge red while his face remains stern.

“Thanks for entertaining my friend here,” smiles Nate. Your eyebrows raise you get a good look at the so called General of the Minutemen. Boy has the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen. A person could flag down ships with those pearly whites. The overcoat hides most of his body, but you’re willing to bet this man never missed a meal in his life. Guy’s pretty clean, too. A former vault dweller, maybe?

Too distracted by Nate’s ungodly white chompers, you miss the shit-eating grin that passes over Hancock’s face.

Danse does not.

“I’m sure I could entertain her satisfactorily when you leave,” says the ghoul, both suggestively and with an edge of challenge.

Bullshit, you think to yourself, Hancock doesn’t know a flat-head from a socket wrench.

The Paladin almost knocks his bar-stool over as he stands up, glaring Hancock down. Hancock’s grin turns dangerous. Patrons watch intensely at the sudden display of aggression. For a few moments, only Magnolia’s music is the only sound in the bar.

You are reminded of how the Brotherhood view and treat ghouls, and find yourself disappointed. In the light of good conversation, you had forgotten the guy is part of a group of racist bigots. It reinforces your confidence in turning down Danse’s invitation.

“Okay!” chimes Nate loudly, getting between the two. “I think we should get you back into your armor, yeah Paladin Danse? Maybe calm ourselves down before we ruin a trade deal between the Castle and Goodneighbor?”

“Allow me to walk you out,” Hancock grins viciously, watching Danse curl and uncurl his hands. He is clearly trying to push the Paladin into attacking him. Danse appears conflicted on whether to take the bait or not, but he clearly wants too.

“Shop’s defense system won’t shoot you,” you cut in, getting Danse’s attention. “I calibrated it to allow you in to the workshop area. As long as you don’t touch the register, the cage, the door to my place, or bring a friend into the workshop, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Fantastic!” says Nate as he leads Danse up the stairs, not allowing him time to comment. “Thanks again!”

Hancock winks at you as he follows the pair out of the bar. The mayor’s totally trying to push Danse over the edge. You wave farewell at the hostile trio.

“What’s the special today, Charlie?” you ask, facing Charlie.

“Got ‘lurk with tato salsa,” he snips, keeping two of his eyes on the stairs to the bar. Charlie, and probably most of the people in the bar, are watching Danse leave with blood lust. Most of the people of Goodneighbor are shit, but they’ll side with one of their own—especially Hancock—over an outsider.

“That sounds nice,” you sigh as you order the dish.

Charlie hovers away to start prepping your meal. Movement catches your eye and you see the two Gunners from earlier enter the VIP room. You had forgotten about those two. MacCready’s voice filters over the bar noise. From the proximity to the bar, you can hear their conversation.

He’s not yelling yet, but MacCready sounds pissed.

You don’t notice Nate reenter the bar. He observes the concerned look in your face. Nate’s eyes follows your gaze to the VIP room. He hears raised, angry voices. Deciding to check it out, he closes the distance between the stairs and the side room.

Seeing Nate makes you blink as he enters the hallway to the VIP room. You can see Nate quietly watching the inside of the room, debating if he should get involved or not. The Gunners would have to be stupid to start a fight now, especially since the whole thing with Danse and Hancock has lowered the bar’s tolerance for bullshitery from outsiders.

Charlie hands you a plate of Mirelurk steak and tatos. He haphazardly tosses a fork next to your plate. The first bite of food is choked on when you hear MacCready.

“In case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good!”

MacCready was a what?

Chapter Text

Well, if the entire population of the Third Rail didn’t know MacCready was an ex-Gunner, they do now. Swallowing a large swig of beer, you think carefully over what you just heard, trying to rationalize it.

Fact: MacCready admitted to being a former Gunner.

Fact: You are an ex-Atom Cat.

Fact: Gunners and Cats’ do not play nice with each other.

Also Fact: MacCready knows you’re an ex-Cat—you had told him yourself—but has not changed his attitude towards you.

Conclusion: You don’t give a shit about his past as a Gunner.

Okay, so that’s simplifying it a bit too much. You do kind of care. A part of you really wants to know if the two of you have tried to kill each other at some point in the past. It’s unlikely, MacCready seems the type to hold a grudge if someone shot at him. He would have been able to put a bullet in your skull at any time.

It would also be a bit hypocritical of you to judge someone by a past like that.

Jeez man, a Gunner. The love child of mercenaries and Raiders. Basically militarized Raiders, but with a hard-on for combat armor. Did MacCready wear the full fatigues and combat armor set? Eh, unlikely, as he’s a sniper and that would have hindered more than helped. Oh, what if he was one of those guys who wore the harness?

You down the rest of your beer, trying to wash that mental image away.

“Well, that happened,” you mumble to yourself.

The two Gunners leave the bar after a few more choice words of warning. Nate eyes them critically before venturing further into the VIP room. Continuing to eat and eavesdrop, you hear Nate ask MacCready questions about his visitors. MacCready’s displeasure at the Gunners eases you. Someone with that kind of bite about their former gang is not going to be joining back up. It surprises you when the General of the Minutemen hires the mercenary. What does a guy like that need a mercenary for?

Then again, you didn’t exactly hire MacCready because you thought you needed him at the time, either. However, you also didn’t have an entire militia at your back. Suspicion ebbs at you. If something is too good to be true, then it always is. Mr. Pearly-Whites General is hiding something. He better not get MacCready killed with whatever it is.

You eye Nate as he tips his hat at you before leaving the Third Rail, without MacCready. The merc exits the VIP room and catches your eye. He stares at you for a solid second before slowly making his way over. He takes the stool next to you and orders himself a beer. It crosses your mind that you’ve never seen the guy consume anything other than beer. He is on the thin side.

“So…” you start slowly. “Ex-Gunner, huh?”

MacCready sighs in annoyance and pulls down his hat to cover his eyes.

“Guessing the whole bar knows now thanks to those two—”

“Assholes,” you supplement. MacCready scowls as he opens his beer and pockets the cap.

“Yeah, that.”

“Most probably.”

“Great,” he grumbles, taking a long drink of his beer. You slowly nibble at your dinner. “Guess you won’t be needing my services in the future, now.”

“Hey,” you say, pausing to swallow. “Watching you carry twenty desk fans is well worth two-fifty.”

“Well,” he scoffs harshly. “I aim to please.”

The mercenary looks too bitter for a man just hired for his full rate. Chewing slowly, you think cautiously about your next words. Living in Goodneighbor, making friends hasn’t been a priority to you, but you like to think Daisy and MacCready are the closest things you have to friends here. They’d probably not shoot you in the back. It’s been a long time since you made a friend. The question becomes, how much trust are you willing to put forth?

“For what it’s worth,” you say slowly. “My opinion of you hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah,” he quips with bitter sarcasm. “Sure it hasn’t.”

Were you really going to do this?

Yeah, you were going to do this.

“I mean,” you start casually, taking a small bite of Mirelurk. “It would be pretty hypocritical of me, since I used to belong to a Raider group.”

MacCready’s beer froze at his lips.

“What?” he questions, almost darkly. It’s pretty clear he thinks you’re lying to him, or hoping your lying to him.

“Yeah,” you say with a full mouth. “You can pick your nose, but turns out you can’t pick which vagina you pop out of.”

MacCready stares at you for a long time. You meet his eyes as you chew. An emotion flickers in his eyes.

“You belonged to the group,” he says after a moment, figuring out your meaning.

“There’s a reason you don’t see kids in Raider groups,” you say with a frown. “People aren’t going to let something like pregnancy stop their sex, drugs and pillaging. On the off chance the baby is healthy enough to live? Sold to slavers for five hundred caps at the ripe age of five.” You lean back on the bar-stool and look up at the molding ceiling.

“Couldn’t tell you which psycho in the gang was my father,” you continue. “But my mom was always high on something. Usually something mixed with Mentats. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m as normal as I am. Woman was pissed when the boss told her she couldn’t sell me for chem money. Maybe he was my actual dad, maybe he thought I showed promise as a kid. Couldn’t tell you if him keeping me around was a blessing or not. Blew that joint when I was thirteen.”

It’s quiet for a few moments as your companion processes your words. You finish your plate and watch MacCready. Eventually, he snorts.

“You’re normal?” he teases with a snarky grin. Tension you didn’t realize you had in your shoulders relax at the remark. You playfully shove your elbow in MacCready’s side.

“Shut it, jerk-face.”

“Hey,” he smirks, “at least I’m not the one who went on a date with a Brotherhood snob. Hear wedding bells, yet?”

You snort softly.

“Ah yes,” you sass. “Because nothing drops a gals’ panties faster than explaining the science behind the blood cleanser mod.”

“Kinky.”

The loud snort that escapes you as you burst out laughing causes MacCready to laugh at you. You hold a hand over your face, red tinging your face as your shoulders continue to shake in mirth.

“Get bent, MacCready,” you say through laughter.

“Robert,” he says calming down his chuckles. “It’s Robert Joseph MacCready. Used to go by RJ.”

You grin sincerely.

“Well, thank God for that, RJ,” you say, testing out the name. “Because Robert Joseph MacCready is way too long.”

MacCready waggles his eyebrows.

You’re thrown into another fit of laughter.

Chapter Text

Several weeks pass since MacCready had been hired by Nate. Life was business as usual, with only a few minor changes. Instead of eating occasionally at the bar, you’ve been spending your food caps exclusively at Daisy’s. Cooking for yourself everyday has saved you money and, right now, you were squirreling away every extra cap you could get your hands on.

Closing down the garage for the day, you eject your register till and bring it inside your living space. You empty the drawer onto your bed and count out the caps. Subtracting your shop expenses and food money, you’re left with a surplus of two hundred caps. Pulling out a locked box from under your bed, you open it and deposit the extra caps. The rest goes back into the till. On the back of your door is a chalkboard with some numbers written.

4,200/10,000

You take a rag to the chalkboard and update the number.

4,400/10,000

“Almost halfway there,” you whisper to yourself. A few more big jobs and you’ll have the money.

You return your till back to your register and take out the food money. Daisy’s expecting you as you waltz your way over to her general store. She already has her “Is it Food or Not” section out on display.

“Productive day?” she asks with a smile.

“Very,” you say, eyeing up her Sugarbombs. “Had some guy come in wanting to soup up an old Eyebot. Paid good money for it, too.” You double count the caps for your food budget. Damn, you won’t be able to get the mole rat meat this time if you get a Nuka-Cola. “I’ll take the Sugarbombs, melon, squirrel bits, silt beans, a carrot and one Nuka-Cola, Dais.”

Daisy hums to herself as she gathers the items.

“Hope you’ll be back soon with those kind of pickings,” she says.

“Should be enough food for a little while,” you say with a sigh. “It hurts not being able to buy all your Nuka, but I like to think the end goal is worth it.”

“You’re going to be his favorite person,” agrees Daisy, taking your caps. You gather your groceries.

Daisy’s the only one in on your plan.

After MacCready told you about Duncan, you didn’t know what to do with the information. You didn’t exactly have the best example for parents, so hearing about MacCready’s quest to get a cure for his sick son made him appear to be a great father in your eyes. It made you want to do something—especially since MacCready was quickly becoming someone you could call friend—but you didn’t know what.

You were at Daisy’s when you got an idea. The courier's letters from Capital Wasteland...Daisy had contacts that went there, right?

“So, completely out there question,” you had said to her. “But how much would it cost to have someone brought safely to the Commonwealth from the Capital Wasteland?”

Daisy almost had a heart attack when she realized why you were asking.

“Hon,” she said with a wince. “That’s expensive. Real expensive. Especially if the person is, say, a young boy. Lot of bad folk looking for kids. Would need some of the best security money can buy. Guards alone would cost over six-thousand caps for decent mercs.”

“What about ten?” you asked. Daisy’s expression turned surprised before becoming suspicious.

“Why do you want the kid here?” she sternly asked while she studied your face. “Kid’s safe in the Capital.”

“Kid’s dad loves him,” you said with a distant expression. “MacCready doesn’t even know if it will work, let alone if exists, shouldn’t they be together for the time they have left?”

“They should,” Daisy said after a moment. “Tell you what, if you can pull together ten-thousand, I’ll take care of the rest. Deal?”

“Deal,” you replied with a wide grin. Later that day you sold your dusty Gamma Gun to KL-E-O for one-hundred and fifty caps.

You walk your groceries back over to your home. Bean, squirrel, and carrot soup for dinner tonight. With some luck, you might have leftovers.

The next morning greets you with a surprise as Nate and MacCready walk through the doors of Goodneighbor.

“Well, looks who’s back,” you greet with a smirk. The unlikely pair make their way over to you. Nate’s smiling and MacCready is...what’s with that funny smirk on his face?

“Hey, there Angel,” grins Nate, charmingly. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Oh, that rat bastard. MacCready’s smirk widens as you clue into what’s going on. He’s practically vibrating in anticipation of your comeback.

You lean forward on your counter with a hand under your chin.

“Are you calling me the devil?” you retort, raising your eyebrow. MacCready looks like Christmas came early.

“No,” Nate responds, undeterred. “But I’d love you call you ‘mine.’”

Nice try, but he’s going to have to do better than that.

“‘Mine?’” you gasp in mock shock. “Who is she? We’ve known each other but for a moment and you’re already cheating on me?”

MacCready can’t hold in his laughter anymore. Nate cracks and chuckles when his companion breaks. Your deadpan expression makes them laugh harder. The General wipes his leaking eyes on the sleeve of his overcoat.

“I’m Nate,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. You reach over your counter and shake his hand. “Survivor of Vault 111 and General of the Minutemen.”

“Kind of knew that,” you reply with a shrug. “People like to gossip. Knew you were the leader of Minutemen and had you pegged as a vault dweller.”

“It seems everyone can tell I can from a vault, even though I ditched the vault suit,” he says with amusement. You point to your face.

“It’s a look,” you explain. “Your eyes aren’t sunken in, skin isn’t leathery from the environment, your hair isn’t falling out, and those teeth of yours could be used to send secrete messages across the Commonwealth.”

“Sounds like you stared quite a bit at my face,” he laughs, teasingly. You snort, but a small grin tugs at your lips.

“Merely blinded by those two front teeth of yours,” you quip with a smirk.

“Alright boss,” grins MacCready. “While you two do,” he gestures vaguely to the two of you, “whatever this is, I’m going to go stock up on ammo and check in on Daisy.”

You tilt your head to the side, watching as he walks over to KL-E-O’s.

“I hope I haven’t given the wrong impression,” says Nate, eyeing MacCready’s back. He looks back over to you. “I was only having a little fun. Wasn’t trying to lead you on.”

“Didn’t take it that way,” you say with a confused frown. “Was pretty sure he put you up to this.”

“Yeah, he said you like to make funny responses to bad pick-up-lines. I wanted to hear it for myself.”

You hum in acknowledgment.

“Anyway,” you say, returning your attention to Nate. “Do you need something fixed?”

“Actually,” he rubs the back of his head nervously. “I was wondering if I could recruit your help.”

“Help?” you frown. “Help with what?”

“So, you know about Duncan…” your eyes steel as you straighten up defensively. Nate holds out his hands in surrender. “Relax! MacCready told me about him and asked me to help get the cure for his son.”

“I’m listening.”

Nate sighs as he watches you cross your arms.

“The cure’s at Med-Tek,” he starts. “Or at least, that’s where he thinks it is. Sounds like he’s never made it into the building. But I’ve been there, before the war.”

“What?” you hiss as your brain tries to process the statement. “That’s not possible.”

“Vault 111 was a cryogenics experiment,” he explains calmly. Almost as if he’s explained it a hundred times.

You don’t know what to say. Vault-Tec was known for it’s shady social experiments, but freezing people? That on a biological level that shouldn’t be possible. How the hell did Vault-Tec pull that one off? Better yet, how was Nate not a walking sack of brittle bones and ruptured organs?

“Jesus...okay,” you breathe, running a hand through your hair. “So you’re pre-war. That’s...going to take a bit to sink in...but go on.”

“Used to be a soldier before the bombs fell,” he continued. “Got medicalled out of the military and had to go to Med-Tek for specialized leg treatments and therapy. I remember the layout of that building and it’s high-end security. If it’s in a security lock down, we’re going to need help. I heard you were good with computers?”

“What the actual frick man?!” shouts MacCready as he overhears the conversation. He looks furious as he stomps over.

“We need her, MacCready,” calmly explains Nate. “I wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t, you know that.”

“This isn’t—!”

“I’m in,” you say simply. MacCready turns his glare at you. He looks more confused than actually angry. “Kid didn’t ask to be sick and this is his best shot of survival, right?”

“Exactly,” agrees Nate. “Anything that increases the chance to get that cure in your hands, Mac, is a well-worth risk.” The mercenary looks conflicted.

“But this doesn’t—”

“Besides,” you add with a small grin. “Did you really think I’d say ‘no,’ RJ?”

MacCready pulls his hat over his eyes and lets out a loud sigh, but a small grin gives himself away.

“You’re not going to let me turn this down, are you?” he huffs, looking away.

“Not if it means helping your son,” says Nate in a final tone.

“Great,” you say, slapping your counter lightly. “Now that’s settled, when we leaving?”

“Can you be ready to leave in an hour?” asks Nate, apologetically.

“Sweetheart, I can be ready in twenty minutes.”

Chapter Text

“We’re stopping now?” you ask in surprise. There’s at least a good couple hours of sun left. Nate nods as he points to a nearby boathouse.

“Yeah, we can rest there until morning,” he says, making his way to the boathouse. “I’ve cleared Taffington Boathouse for the Minutemen already, but haven’t had time to get it move-in ready for settlers yet.”

“Med-Tek is going to be swarming with ferals,” adds MacCready. “We’re going to want to hit it at daybreak.”

You nod as the group heads over to the boathouse. The three of you do a quick building check, making sure nothing new has moved in. Thankfully, nothing has.

“Mind if I do a bit of scavenging in the house?” you ask. Nate doesn’t mind and tells you to go ahead. Him and MacCready leave to do a thorough perimeter sweep and a bit of recon.

Grinning, you go snooping through the house. The house is bare of most things, but it pleases you to see a giant cooking station in the house. You’re delighted to find a bottle of wine in a kitchen cabinet along with some plastic bowls. Upstairs has an open roof and blood splatters on the walls. Not much else up there besides a naked woman’s corpse and a mattress. The lady has been dead for a while. You take the time to drag the mattress down to the first floor.

The actual boathouse on the property has sprung laser wire traps. All the valuable components inside the traps are burnt out and unusable. This makes you sigh—all those good bits and pieces gone to waste.

Wandering past the workshop, you find a small, fenced in gourd garden with a dead brahmin inside. Brahmin take a long time to decompose, so you might be able to snag some edible meat off it yet. You harvest two gourds from the patch. Taking a switchblade, you cut into the mutated cow corpse. You’re able to cut out some halfway decent meat. It will be fine as long as you boil for at least an hour.

Taking your scavenged ingredients, you head over to the cooking station. You start the fire under the pot. Cutting up the flesh into smaller chunks and tossing them into the cook pot, you pour the bottle of wine over the meat. While it comes to a boil, you go outside and wash the blood off your hands at a water pump. The empty wine bottle is refilled with clean water. When the wine reduces down, you pour in some of the water, the sliced gourd, and a good pinch of sea salt.

The sun is hanging low in the sky when the boys return.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” says Nate as he sniffs the air. “That’s beef stew, isn’t it?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you say with a shrug. “Probably not the kind of stew you’re used to, Gramps.”

MacCready plops down on the mattress as Nate playfully glares at you.

“I’m hungry,” whines the merc, glancing at you expectantly.

“That’s a shame,” you say, looking him in the eyes as you taste test the stew.

“You’re cruel,” frowns MacCready. “We did all the work!”

“Debatable,” you smirk. “Nate did most of the work when he originally cleared this place out. You didn’t see the blood splatters upstairs.”

Nate laughs while MacCready crosses his arms and huffs. You shake your head. Childish.

“Go grab the bowls out of the kitchen, you wet rag,” you grin in amusement. “Soup’s on.”

MacCready makes an exaggerated show about having to get up from his comfy spot and going to get the bowls.

“Your bowls, your majesty,” snarks MacCready, tossing the bowls down next to you.

“Thank you, peasant,” you sass back. Nate laughs at MacCready’s pouting face.

The three of you dish up some brahmin stew. You think it turned out pretty good, considering the limited ingredients. Any complaints MacCready has are silenced as he shovels the stew down his throat.

“I think this is the best meal I’ve had since defrosting,” sighs a content Nate, taking a bite. “What did you do to it?”

“It’s cooking, not nuclear science,” you snort, eating a bit more of the food. “It’s just salt and some two-hundred-year-old wine I found.”

“Marry me?” jokes Nate. MacCready snorts in amusement as he grabs another serving.

“Wow,” you deadpan as you look over your bowl. “Setting the bar low enough to walk over, huh?”

Soft laughter fills Taffington Boathouse.

It’s now painfully clear to you why MacCready had trouble trying to just get into the damn building.

Wave after wave of ferals keep coming. Gunfire attracting every ghoul in a mile radius. MacCready snipes from the top of the hill with his rifle. You and Nate are trying to shoot a bit closer to the building, covering each other during pauses to reload. The broken asphalt is full of dead bodies and red ash. Nate swaps between a 10 mm and a combat shotgun. Worry is eating at you. At least half of your ammo is gone and your group hasn’t even made it inside the building yet.

“Advance towards the door!” shouts Nate over the gunfire. MacCready bashes ghouls with the stock of his gun as he sprints towards the doors of Med-Tek. You slowly follow suit, firing beam after beam at ghouls with your laser pistol.

This is fucking insane.

MacCready opens the door and you follow him inside, the two of your aiming guns around the receptionist lobby of Med-Tek. No immediate hostiles inside. Nate cover fires behind and slams the door shut after he’s through. Ferals are clawing at the metal door from the outside. The pre-war man barricades the door with a table for good measure.

Shaky sighs of relief are shared. You realize your ears are ringing and you can feel your blood pulsing in them. Nate takes the moment to reload his combat shotgun, and you reach into your pocket to follow suit, only to hit air. Patting your pocketed leg armors, your hands freeze at their emptiness. There is exactly two fusion cells left on your person, and both are already in the chamber of your pistol.

Damn.

“Alright,” breathes MacCready while loading a full clip into his rifle. “Let’s find that executive terminal. Sinclair said that’s the only way we can override the facility’s lock down.”

“Sounds right to me,” you say, moving your switchblade to the pocket of your greaser jacket. “It’s most likely the control center of the upper level.”

“Let’s move,” says Nate lowly, walking further inside. “I’ll take point.”

“Full disclosure,” you admit while following. “That undead army outside took out almost all my ammo.”

“Stay close, then,” responds the General, not looking back.

“Here, take this,” mumbles MacCready behind you. He pushes three fusion cells into your hand. “You’re going to need it.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, appreciatively. Part of you wants to ask why he had your ammo type on hand, but you choose to keep quiet and load them into your gun.

Nate leads your party further into the building. You give a quick glance at the two terminals you walk by, but they’re useless while under lock down. As you approach a set of stairs, a ghoul falling from the ceiling catches Nate off guard. However, he expertly dodges the falling body and blows it’s head off with a single shot.

The ceiling above you fills with the pattering sound of feet. You flick open your switch blade and duel wield your pistol and knife. Quietly making it up the first set of stairs, your group enter an office wing. Broken terminals are everywhere. Any other time, you would love to take these things apart, but now’s not the time. Nate moves forward through the office towards a new set of stairs.

Three ghouls tumble down the stairs, and one launches itself over its fallen brethren at Nate. Nate focuses on the one coming at him while MacCready snipes the pile of bodies trying to stand. He kills two and blasts the leg off the third. You finish off the ghoul with your knife, not wanting to waste your fusion cells.

A fifth ghoul flies down the stairs and barrels into you.

“Christ!” you shout, surprised. You roll away from the ghoul as it scrambles to it’s feet. The ghoul’s head explodes as Nate turns around and shoots it. Just as you get back on your feet, two more ghouls sprint down the stairs. You get a head shot in, disintegrating one to red ash. MacCready blow the head off the other. A moment of silence passes as the ghouls stop coming.

“Chalk up another kill for me,” jokes MacCready, breaking the tension. Nate and yourself sigh, but a grin appears on your face.

The executive office is at the end of a narrow hallway. MacCready snipes a ghoul lying in wait on the floor of the office. Five more ghouls charge out of the office, responding to the noise. The boys take out two more, and you empty your chamber on another. Nate bashes his gun into the two remaining ghouls and staggers them long enough to kill them both. You’re not digging how much blood is seeping into your clothes. At least it’s not your blood.

Holstering your empty laser pistol, you follow the boys into the office. You find a 10 mm pistol on the desk with a box of rounds next to it. Snatching the pistol and ammo, you load the gun and slide it into your waistband. Nate and MacCready swarm the terminal on the desk. A piece of paper is passed from MacCready to Nate.

“Check the terminal on the desk,” MacCready directs. “Sinclair’s pass-code better work, or we’re screwed.”

The soft sounds of typing are heard, followed by an error beep. All eyes whip towards the executive terminal. No one is breathing. Nate enters the password again. An error beep. Sweat rolls down the General’s neck as he slowly pecks the password into keyboard with his index finger.

The terminal beeps in error.

“No, no, no!” panics MacCready. He turns around and kicks a trashcan into a file cabinet. “DAMMIT!” He grips his head as his body starts to shake.

“Move over,” you frown, pulling Nate away from the terminal. You move the terminal to the side and feel the back of the terminal. Your fingers brush a port.

Bingo.

“Hey!” grunts Nate as you grab his Pip-Boy arm.

“Hold out your Pip-Boy,” you demand, grabbing a cable from his Pip-Boy and plugging it into the computer.

All eyes are on you as the Pip-Boy connects to the terminal. A Vault Boy animation gives a thumbs up as it connects to the terminal. You breathe slowly as you input something into the wrist tech. A window opens on the terminal. Moving quickly, you rapidly type something into the window and initialize your command.

The boys watch in stunned silence as the Pip-Boy flickers rapidly with random passwords and imputing them into the Med-Tek terminal. Error beeps frantically fill the room. It looks like the two computers are having a seizure.

Then suddenly, a confirmation chime.

“We’re in,” you grin victoriously. You look over your shoulder at the stunned mercenary. “Glad I’m here now?”

He chokes out a laugh of relief as he recognizes his words from the Boston Library.

“Definitely,” he says with an actual smile. Disconnecting Nate’s Pip-Boy, you enter a few keystrokes into the terminal and override the security lock down.

“Let’s make our way to the Sub-Level,” continues MacCready, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That’s where Med-Tek should be storing the cure.”

You dive behind a desk with a terminal as a laser ceiling turret fires on your location. Nate and MacCready take cover behind a wall. The turret beeps in warning as it scans for intruders. Crouching, you hack the terminal and deactivate the turret.

“Nice,” praises Nate, sweeping the room for ghouls. He frowns as he puts his ear to a door, then moves to the other two doors and does the same.

“What do you think, boss?” asks MacCready from the hallway near you.

“Ghouls behind every door,” he grimaces. “Sounds like several behind each door. Guessing the doors need to be opened all at once with the terminal.”

“I do have an option to unlock the doors,” you confirm. Looking up at the ceiling you think about how to best proceed. Everyone is low on ammo, so guns blazing isn’t the smartest move.

“Great,” snarks MacCready, loading his rifle and putting a round in the chamber.

“Nate,” you call to your companion. “I have a plan. Help me move this desk.”

“You sure about this?” asks MacCready skeptically. The desk is turned on it’s side, blocking the hallway. He and Nate are currently taking cover behind it.

“That kind of laser turret will need three seconds to warm up and another two to lock onto the first target,” you explain, typing into the terminal on the ground. You pull out the 10 mm from your waistband and load a round into the chamber. “Ready?”

“Ready,” confirms Nate, clicking his safety off.

In a rapid succession of movements, you open the locked doors, activate the turret, and leap over the desk to take cover with the boys. Ghouls run out into the room, but as they take a moment to find you, the turret springs to life. From the safety of the desk shield, you all watch as about ten ghouls get taken down by the ceiling turret. Some ghouls attempt to jump at the turret, but can’t reach. As the last ghoul is being shot at, you quickly spring from your spot and deactivate the turret.

Nate finishes off the last ghoul with a bash from gun stock.

“Never could wrap my head around all this science stuff,” comments MacCready as he steps over the desk into the room.

“Glad I can?” you smirk.

“Can’t complain with saving ammo,” he shrugs, a small smirk on his face. “Every bullet saved keeps us alive longer.”

“I am attached to living,” chimes in Nate, taking point again. “First door’s just a clinic. I was able to snag some stims and chems from it.”

“Just an office with a supply closet here, boss,” informs MacCready, poking his head into the next room. He pockets a few chems he finds to sell later.

“This way,” calls Nate moving into the last room, some sort of research lab. A wall is blown out, leading into a bathroom. “Not the cleanest path, but the only one we have.”

It hurts to leave a roomful of good junk behind.

“I swear,” you sigh, following the boys into the destroyed bathroom. “Once we get that cure, I’m taking all the good stuff I can fit into my bag and pockets. This places is a goldmine of scrap and salvage.”

Nate flashes you an approving smile.

Chapter Text

Taking the elevator to the lowest level is an uncomfortable affair. Not only is the metal coffin rickety as all hell, but super cramped for three people. Nate’s trapped between you and the elevator doors, while MacCready is squished between the back corner and your back. You hate being packed like potted meat. The guys reek. When’s the last time either of them bathed? Why couldn’t you all take the elevator in separate trips?

The stink that comes from the doors opening make you wish for the body odor. Nate wrinkles his nose as MacCready retches from the smell.

“Smells horrible,” he gags. “I think we’re the first one’s down here in a long time.”

“Second that,” you agree, spying several skeletons on the ground. You cover your nose with your shirt collar. “Whew, that’s rank. Let’s beat feet before I see my breakfast again.”

“Let’s what?” asks Nate in confusion as he looks back at you.

“Let’s get that cure and get out of here,” says MacCready, moving past Nate. He is immediately yanked back by Nate as a ballistic turret fires. Bullets explode in fiery bursts on the wall.

“Well,” you frown, spying a terminal on the other side of the doorway. “This sucks.”

“Your thoughts?” asks Nate to you.

“That’s a Mk 7 heavy machine gun turret with heat sensor tracking,” you say with a frown. “Usually takes a few seconds to track a target, but since it’s always facing the door, expect to get shot.”

“Ain’t letting a damn turret be the thing that gets in our way,” snarls MacCready, preparing to fire at the turret. You turn around and look at the stuff available to you.

“Hold that thought,” you say, running back towards the elevator. The boys watch you as you clear off a metal table with wheels and push it noisily towards them. Turning the table on it’s side, you slowly slide it into the doorway. Catching on, Nate helps you push.

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?” grins Nate, recognizing the technique from earlier.

“Exactly,” you wink back. You crouch down and quickly dart behind the table shield. The turret hums dangerously, but doesn’t pick up your heat signature and holds it’s fire. Taking a deep breath you dive into the rubble on the other side of the hallway. Two bullets explode into the wall.

You sigh in relief as you stand up and hack the terminal. The turret deactivates and you wave the boys over.

“You’ve done this before?” jokes Nate. A smirk stretches onto MacCready’s face.

“I cannot confirm nor deny anything,” you tiredly grin back.

Hacking your way through Med-Tek, you do your best to conserve the group’s ammo by making turrets and Protectrons attack ghouls. In one of the rooms MacCready finds a weapons supply cache. No fusion cells, to your disappointment, but a handful of .308 and 10 mm rounds. You and Nate split the pistol ammo while MacCready snags the rifle bullets.

Finally, after hours of navigating through Med-Tek, the pharmaceutical experimentation room.

And from the noises inside, it’s another locked nest of feral ghouls.

“What do you think?” you ask the boys. “If the cure is anywhere, it’s here. I don’t want to active the turrets and risk the cure being destroyed.”

Nate nods in acknowledgment as he grips his chin in thought. He shrugs off his pack and takes inventory of his supplies.

“I have two mines,” suggests Nate. “We can trap each side of the hallway and take positions on either side. Pincer attack ‘em.”

“Do it,” agrees MacCready.

“Just check your fire, yeah?” you grin, nervously pulling your goggles up over your eyes. “I’d rather not be shot by either of you.”

After strategically setting the mines, Nate goes to one end of the hall. Mirroring, MacCready goes to the other side. Seeing them in position, you type into the unlocked terminal. The second you click open for the security door control, you bolt down MacCready’s hallway.

Mechanical doors open behind you, releasing the ghouls inside. When you hear the first gunshot, you clutch the 10 mm, pivot around, drop to a knee and fire into the leg of a running ghoul. Two more bullets to the knee and the ghoul drops. Not dead, but no longer an immediate threat.

Frag mines explode into a cloud of dust and debris, obscuring Nate from your sight. Coughing, you cover your nose and mouth with your jacket sleeve. You’re breathing hitches when the cloud gains a green hue.

Oh, oh no.

“Shoot for it’s head!” shouts MacCready over the gunfire.

The Glowing One runs in a bit of a circle trying to figure out which why it wants to go. In the end, it decides to charge Nate. Nate drops his pistol and whips out his combat shotgun, unleashing two shells into it’s head. Green boy staggers backwards from the impact. You can’t get a clear shot at it’s head without risk of hitting Nate, but fire round after round into the same leg, hoping to at least immobilize it. The Glowing One falls after three more shotgun shells to the head. Any remaining disabled ghouls are dispatched with your switchblade.

Pulling your goggles back down, you follow the boys into the pharmaceutical room.

MacCready is almost crying as he carefully holds the red syringe in hands.

“We did it...” he whispers in disbelief. “Holy crap, we actually did it! We just gave Duncan a fighting chance to live. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to pay you guys back for this. I owe you big time.”

“All I care about is curing your son,” says Nate, smiling. You give MacCready a thumbs up.

“I know you do,” smiles MacCready kindly at Nate. “I’m just getting tired of taking instead of giving.”

It takes all your willpower not to chuckle at his statement. Inappropriate time to be inappropriate.

“Maybe one day I’ll get my priorities straight,” he continues.

“Dunno,” you grin. “From where I’m standing, you’re putting your kid first. Sounds like a pretty good priority to me.”

MacCready turns his smile to you while Nate grins with approval at your statement.

“Anyway,” he says, quickly wiping his face on his sleeve. “The last step ahead of us is getting the cure to Daisy in Goodneighbor. With her caravan contacts, she’s the only one I trust to get this to Duncan on time.”

“Her services are pretty quick,” you agree, looking around the room. “She’s done right by me.”

“If you two trust her, that’s good enough for me,” responds Nate. You glance at the General from the corner of your eye. It’s beginning to get clearer to you why people would want to trust him and lead the Minutemen.

“Thanks,” grins MacCready. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Amen!” you cheer. “But I am taking everything I can carry with me as we go.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” laughs MacCready in agreement.

After sneaking out of Med-Tek through the roof, you all head back to Goodneighbor. The trek back is luckily uneventful. A group of exhausted people with low ammo would have made for exceptionally easy targets. Daisy is closing up shop as the three of you walk through the gate.

“You look straight out of a horror film, hon,” greets Daisy as she sees your grime and gore covered self. Her eyes drift to her regular. “MacCready! I haven’t seen you in a while. You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?” she teases.

“Now how could I stay away from someone as cute as you Daisy?”

“Oh, you’re a lousy liar,” she grins slyly. You chortle at Daisy. “But I’ll just play stupid and pretend I don’t know that.”

Daisy’s whole face morphs into shock as MacCready hands over the cure to her. Her genuine excitement is contagious. She catches your eye as MacCready explains that he had help getting the medicine. You grin tiredly and shrug at her. Daisy gets a wicked grin on her face before turning her attention back to MacCready. She promises to get the sample on the first caravan out of the Commonwealth.

Feeling accomplished, you walk over to your shop. Everything looks to be exactly how you left it.

“Hey!” shouts Nate over to you. You look over to the pair of happy boys. “We’re going to go celebrate at the Third Rail. You in?”

“I’ll meet you there,” you say with a wave. “I’m washing this muck off me first.”

“Actually,” mumbles Nate as he looks down at his own filth covered body. He frowns over at MacCready, who is still relatively clean. “That’s a good plan.”

“Rexford charges ten caps for a bath,” you suggest. “Cold as hell, but at least it’s not blood.”

“Meet you at the bar in an hour?” asks Nate.

“Sounds good, Daddy-O,” you reply, walking into your shack and grabbing a change of clothes. Snagging a bar of soap, and ten caps out of the register, you make your way over to the Rexford. The Neighborhood Watch double-take at you, seeing your gory appearance, but no one bothers you.

Clair is more than happy to take your caps and directs you to an old girls toilet that’s been converted into a bathing room. The water in the tub is freezing, but your skin and scalp feel so much better after scrubbing yourself clean. After rinsing off, you use the leftover bathwater to wash the grim out of your clothes. Your jeans are permanently stained now, but at least the clothes smell like soap and not rotting flesh.

Throwing on your dry clothes, a baggy shirt and overalls, you bundle up your wet clothes and leave the hotel. You hang up your clothes to dry in your workshop before heading down to the bar. Ham greets you as you go by. The bar is busy, as usual for this time of night. You find the boys in the VIP room.

“There she is!” greets MacCready, raising a shot glass as you walk in. The red tinge to his and Nate’s face suggests they are a couple shots in already. Looks like they’ve cleaned themselves up, too. “The amazing Mechanist herself that got us past security!”

You laugh and the comic reference and give a mocking bow before flopping ungracefully onto one of the couches. Sighing, you allow the tension of the day to leave your shoulders. Nate hands you a shot of whiskey. The bottle was almost halfway empty already. You knock the shot back. It burns, but it’s got a nice aftertaste. They sprang for Charlie’s good stuff today. Nate breaks out a box of Fancy Lad Cakes to share. You realize you haven’t eaten dinner yet and have a few cakes to soak up some of the alcohol.

You’re three shots in when Hancock pokes his head into the VIP room. MacCready and Nate cheer the ghoul’s name and you smile widely while saluting him with a fourth shot before drinking it. The ghoul takes that as a welcome invitation to join the fun.

“Well, well!” grins Hancock as he looks around the room. “A vaultie, a merc and a shop keep walk into my bar. I can’t wait to hear the punchline.”

“We got the cure!” slurs MacCready, loud and happy.

“Holy hell, no shit?” asks Hancock in surprise. A more natural grin stretches across the mayor’s face. He pokes his head out of the room. “Charlie! A round for everyone on me! We’re celebratin’ an’ gettin’ fucked up tonight!”

The bar roars in approval while Charlie fixes drinks for everyone. Hancock plops down comfortably on the couch next to Nate. A second bottle of whiskey is cracked open and shared in the VIP room. Several canisters of Jet are added to the table, but Hancock’s the only one actively going at them. Nate has one hit of Jet before he zones out and stares at the ceiling. MacCready is desperately trying to tell the story of Med-Tek, but keeps slurring and jumbling the tale around. You’re a giggly mess listening to the scattered tale, while Hancock somehow manages to follow and understand every word MacCready is saying.

Nate comes back from his high and looks like he’s about to topple over.

“Looks like someone’s hit their party limit,” laughs Hancock as he watches Nate lose his battle and conks out on the couch next to him. “Well, I got mattresses up in the State House if ya’ll want to crash at my place. I’m going to go deposit our Mr. General on one.” Hancock manages to lift Nate with little effort. You stand up and stretch.

“Thanks,” you slur, holding your ‘s’ sounds. “Bu’ Imma head back to ma place.”

“You sure, sister?” asks Hancock with concern. “Ain’t no trouble on my part.”

“I’ll walk ‘er back,” offers a drunk MacCready, stumbling to his feet. He slings his rifle onto his back. “Gotta make su—re her majesty gets home.”

You go to bow, but stumble and catch yourself on a wall, giggling at your failure.

“Uh-huh,” chuckles Hancock, smirking suggestively. “Walking her home, riiiight. Well, I’ll leave you two kids to it.”

After Hancock leaves with Nate, the two of you stumble through the bar behind them. However, while Hancock has no problem getting up the stairs with the extra weight, you and MacCready have some major difficulties trying to get up the first two steps without falling. After several failed attempts to get up the steep stairs, the two of you devise a drunken plan. Using one arm to support each other, and the other to brace against the wall, the two of you slowly succeed in climbing the stairs as a team.

The drunken cheers from the two of you are cut short as you both almost fall back down the entire flight of stairs. Luckily, you two, still latching onto each other for support, catch yourselves.

“BYE, HAM!” you shout and wave to the bouncer. Ham watches as you and MacCready lean on each other to exit the bar. He wonders if he should stop you from leaving with the mercenary, but decides it’s none of his business who you do or do not leave with. The fact that you both appear to be having an absolute blast is also a factor in why the bouncer doesn’t budge from his post.

The walk back is full of missed steps and giggles. Several drifters and residents eye the drunk pair, but know better than to try anything with MacCready there. He may be drunk, but MacCready has proven on more than one occasion that doesn’t impact his aim. After a longer than usual walk, the two of you arrive back at the shop.

“Hey, ’member to arm your tur...your tur...tur...your wall guns!” he says drunkenly, but serious. “And dun let any weird mungos in! That’s important!”

You don’t even question the advice.

“Yes, sir!” you salute wobbly. He waves at you smiling, before staggering his way to the State House.

It’s harder than usual to arm your turrets, but you manage. Locking your door behind you, you collapse on your bed with a wide grin. You decide today was a legendary win.

The only thing more legendary is your hangover in the morning.

Chapter Text

A couple months pass without much fanfare. You don’t see MacCready much, but hear from Nate on his few visits to Goodneighbor that he’s doing well. Apparently, the General has him working guard detail at the Castle while he’s away doing missions and helping settlements for the Minutemen. The irony of a former Gunner working for the General of Minutemen as his best sniper is not lost on you.

Everyone knows about what happened to Quincy, after all. It was all people could talk about for a solid month.

Nate has taken to traveling with Hancock on occasion. At first people were nervous about Hancock taking time away from the town, but that wore off quickly when people realized Fahrenheit was staying behind. The mayor looks refreshed and a bit happier every time he returns from wandering the wastes with Nate. The General appears to have a befitting trait to win people over.

Meanwhile, you’ve been as busy as ever. Still saving caps, you’ve been taking up every repair job you could. The most interesting piece of work you had was finished last week. A timid ghoul came up to your shop with a sub-machine gun prop asking if you could make it into a real gun. An easy enough job. The guy was ecstatic when you said you’d do it.

This is how you officially met the Silver Shroud nerd and radio technician, Kent Connolly. Once he found out you’ve read a couple random Shroud comics, he talked your ear off. As you worked, you were told the entire backstory and story line of the Silver Shroud. Occasionally you would add a few comments you remembered from the bits you read. The ghoul was damn near bouncing in his seat in excitement.

Kent paid you double for the job when you presented him with his finished and functional replica of Shroud’s gun. Boy acted like he was not worthy of receiving the weapon, despite paying for it. You both were quite happy with the transaction.

Yawning, you wipe your hands off on a rag then switch off your open sign. A rumble from your stomach reminds you how you, yet again, worked through lunch today. You swiftly count your till and add your surplus to the locked box under your bed. Washing your hands, you go straight for your cooler on your shelf and get to fixing yourself a nice pot of squirrel stew. The shack fills with the enticing smell of food.

Deciding not to bother with dirtying any extra dishes, you eat the stew right out of the cook pot with the wooden spoon. Squirrel stew may not be your favorite meal, but it sure does hit an empty stomach nice. Your stomach is pleasantly full when you empty the pot. Wiping your face off on the inside collar of your shirt, you go to wash your small pile of dirty dishes. Washing dishes isn’t your favorite task, but it’s almost relaxing after a filling meal.

Someone knocks on your door as your drying off your hands.

“That’s not KL-E-O’s knock,” you mumble, tossing your towel over the back of a dining chair. An electric hum fills your ears as you switch your laser pistol on. Walking over to your door, you spot your chalkboard and realize you haven’t updated the number. You chalk in ‘8,000’ before cracking your door and peaking outside.

“Oh, hey guys,” you greet, opening the door all the way with a small smile. “Welcome back.”

Hancock and MacCready grin back at you.

“What can I do ya for?” you ask, leaning against the door frame. The mayor barks out a rough laugh.

“Tempting,” smirks Hancock. You roll your eyes in amusement. “But another time, doll. Mind if we come in for a drink? Got something to discuss with ya.”

“Uh,” you look back into your house with a wince. “Sure.” You didn’t expect guests and your dirty studio reflects that. Oh, well. Probably still clean by Goodneighbor standards. Besides, if Hancock is going out of his way to talk in private, it must be something serious.

Flicking your pistol off, you step aside to let your guests in.

“Thanks,” the ghoul says, walking into your shack with MacCready right behind. Hancock takes a look around your living space. “Huh, guess I should have expected this.”

The studio living space you call home is pretty small. Only two distinct areas are your eating space and sleeping space. You don’t have much in the way of furniture. Just your full bed, a standing shelf that divides your bed from the kitchen, a small rounded table, and three dining chairs. Hancock notes that the shelf acts as a makeshift pantry, though it doesn’t have much food on it. A small set of cabinets surround your jury-rigged cooking station.

After spying a few chests under your bed, MacCready’s attention is drawn upwards towards your ceiling. You’ve built bookshelves a foot from the ceiling all around your rectangular living space. The ceiling shelves are packed with various books and magazines. His eyes linger on a few Grognak comics.

The main attraction to the space? The dozens of empty Nuka-Cola bottles covering the floor and available surfaces. Only the burners of the cooking station and bed are spared.

“You’ve got a problem,” deadpans MacCready, shoving several empty bottles to the side with his foot.

“I’ve been busy!” you protest, placing bottles on your bed to make space to sit. “If I’d known you guys would be coming over, I would have taken out the trash!”

Hancock’s raspy laugh fill the small space. He and MacCready sit down at your table, watching you scurry to clean up the place. Filling your bed with cola bottles, you move to the cabinet above your stove and grab a bottle of bourbon and three glasses. MacCready’s eye catches your chalkboard.

“What’s with the count?” he asks, gesturing to the chalkboard. While setting the drink and glasses down, your eyes follow his hand to the back of your door.

“Just a little something I’ve been keeping track of,” you shrug, noncommittally. Hancock opens the bottle and pours equal amounts into each glass. MacCready looks unbothered by your vague answer, instead taking a drink. You sit down on the last chair and take a sip of bourbon. “Now, what do you boys need?”

Hancock slowly drains his bourbon in one drink. He pours himself another drink before beginning.

“So, The Institute, right?” he says, leaning back in his chair looking you in the eyes. “They’re a pretty fucked up group of individuals, ya hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” you say, hovering your glass by your lips. A frown pulls on your lips and a sinking feeling fills your gut.

You listen attentively as Hancock explains Nate’s feud with The Institute. How they killed his wife, took his son, and his journey of getting his son back. He has taken great strides in his pursuit of the Commonwealth’s bogeyman, including killing their top mercenary and finding an AWOL scientist in the Glowing Sea. It sounds like absolute madness, but you’ve met Nate. He seems the sort to actually pull a stunt like this off.

Nate’s been dipping his fingers in every group who he thinks might help him get his son back, with a strong focus on raising up the Minutemen. You remember him traveling with Paladin Danse, but to buddy up to rival factions, too? That an intense game of risks.

A lot about Nate’s behavior suddenly makes sense.

MacCready passes you a lit cigarette and you gratefully take a long drag of it. You hand it back and hold the smoke in your lungs.

“There’s a war loomin’,” warns Hancock. “And it’s gonna be either us or The Institute standing on the other side. You in?”

You slowly release the cigarette smoke. Now you know why they wanted to cushion this with a drink first.

“I’m not a solider,” you sigh with a frown. “Why would you guys want me in on this?”

“Well,” slowly smirks MacCready. “What if we said that our pal the General has a bunch of old Power Armor suits he’s found and wants fixed up for the Minutemen?”

Your fingers twitch.

“Boss said he’d pay you real well for it,” he continues. “Something like, two-hundred a suit, he’ll supply the scrap.” MacCready crosses his arms behind his head as he grins knowingly at you. “He may of mentioned paying a little extra for a rush order.”

“You should have started with that,” you deadpan at Hancock while pointing at a cackling MacCready.

“Hey, now,” chuckles Hancock raising his hands. “Gotta make sure you’re fully aware of what you’re getting yourself into. Institute is probably going to paint a fancy target on our backs for our parts in this.”

“They already target everyday people,” you say, remembering the day the Neighborhood Watch gunned down Sammy’s synth replacement. A grimace crosses your face as you actually think about it. “They’re probably keeping tabs on key areas of interest. People in leadership, militarized groups, supply lines, doctors, people who can repair and maintain resources, anyone and everyone who poses a percent of threat to them. Statistically, everyone at this table is already being watched due to our...unique areas of interest and abilities.”

“Definitely, not the kind of people I want watching my back,” comments MacCready, rocking back on his chair and scrunching his nose.

“You’re not wrong, sister,” agrees Hancock with a grim smile. “I’ve known about the target on my back long before Nate wandered into Goodneighbor. You know it’s bad when the Railroad feels the need to warn you.”

“Shit,” you wince. “That sucks, man.”

“Let ‘em come,” Hancock grins dangerously. “I’ll take as many of those Institute synth bastards as I can with me. But that’s for another time. We still need an answer, sweetheart. How do you want to play this?”

“And if you decide not to,” chimes in MacCready. “No one will hold it against you.”

“Agreed,” confirms Hancock. “No pressure on this, sweetheart. Nate needs people willing to help, not people forced into it.”

Standing, you exaggerate a sigh. Yeah, no pressure. Sure. Like The Institute will just leave everyone alone if you choose to ignore them. That’s not how life works.

“Let me get my good tools,” you smirk at your guests. “We can leave tonight.”

“Knew you had it in you!” praises Hancock, taking another drink.

“Actually,” inputs the merc, glancing outside. “We should probably wait ‘til morning.”

“I’m bringing my suite of T-51,” you smirk. “Raiders would have to be high off their ass to mess with us with that in our party.”

“Well, then,” slyly grins MacCready. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Chapter Text

Having a squad of Minutemen aim their guns at you the second you walk through the gate isn’t exactly the welcome your party is expecting.

“Looks like someone heard we were coming,” says Hancock with a sinister smirk, appearing at your side.

“Woah, woah, woah!” shouts MacCready popping out from behind your suit of Power Armor with his rifle drawn.

“Stand down! It’s Hancock and MacCready!” orders a man. The militia sheepishly lower there weapons and disperse.

“This the new way the Minutemen are greetin’ folks nowadays, Garvey?” comments Hancock as he checks the sharpness of his switchblade. “Didn’t think your kind were a ‘shoot-first’ type.”

“I’m sorry,” the Minuteman says to you. “I’m Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen. The General is out helping a settlement and we’ve been tasked to defend the Castle. Our men didn’t see the others behind you, just a set of unmarked set of Power Armor heading our way in the middle of the night.”

“Like Nate doesn’t show up in random Power Armor at all times of day and night?” scoffs MacCready, shouldering his rifle. Preston looks sheepish.

“He does,” Preston confirms while assessing your armor. “But his armor is never in good condition. Usually just a frame with a piece or two. You must be the guy the General and these guys mentioned. The one from Goodneighbor who can fix up Power Armor?”

The Power Armor opens as you step out from the back of the suit. Preston’s eyebrows nearly shoot up and off his face, much to your companions entertainment. MacCready and Hancock do nothing to hide their snickers.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” you smirk in amusement. “I’m not a guy.”

“O-obviously,” stutters Preston, face burning in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oof,” grins Hancock. “Zero for two, Garvey. What’s the matter? See someone waltz up to the Castle in Power Armor and automatically assume it’s a man?”

MacCready and yourself share an amused grin.

“That’s not what I meant,” the Minuteman sighs, pulling his hat over his eyes a bit. “Let me try this again. Welcome to the Castle, the stronghold of the Minutemen. We have several suits of Power Armor that Nate is interested in fixing up for us and you were highly recommended to repair them. I can show you the warehouse the General constructed for you to get started?”

“Now that’s a welcome I can get behind!” you chirp, reentering your Power Armor and leaving Hancock and MacCready behind. The guys don’t seem to mind as they head inside the walls of the Castle. “Lead the way!”

Preston smiles as he leads you to the other side of the Castle, near the Armory. You stare at the metal shack with a wide smile on your face. It’s pretty well stocked. Several Power Armor frames are inside. Some are equipped with full suits, others with only a part or two. At least five full sets of T-45 can be assembled from the pieces you can see in the light of your headlamp. Nate even made sure you had a bin full of scrap, a workbench, and a Power Armor station to work from outside.

You love the warehouse. It will make a great workshop.

“I can show you to the barracks,” suggests Preston. “The sun will be up in a couple of hours. You can get some rest from your travel here before starting.”

“Nah,” you grin. Exiting your armor, you leave your headlamp on and shining inside the building. “I’ll start now. But if you got a spare sleeping bag, I won’t say no.”

“Uh,” His face contorts in surprise. “Are...you sure? We have several empty beds available. They’ll be more comfortable then a sleeping roll?”

“Absolutely, sure!” you trill, unloading your tools from your suit’s inventory and placing them on the workbench. “Sleeping next to a bunch of randos isn’t my idea of a ball.”

“Besides,” you continue, organizing your equipment. “I’m going to need to take proper stock of the scrap and components here. Gotta make sure there’s enough stuff to get these plates in prime condition. Probably can get a generator up and running to power a few tools and lights in here before daybreak. Can’t actually start until I get everything ready to go.”

Preston stares at you in astonishment before bursting out in laughter. You’re too busy setting up your space to notice the approving look he gives you.

“Well, okay, ma’am,” grins Garvey widely. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

Dawn comes much too quickly.

Taking over the workbench and Power Armor station, each of your tools find their place. A frame is already hanging on the station. Claiming a spot in the back corner of the warehouse, your personal set of Power Armor guards a small bed roll placed on the ground. An empty crate acts as a table, holding several bottles of Nuka-Cola and a clipboard. Your backpack, stuffed with a set of spare clothes, acts as a makeshift pillow.

The small generator you set up in the warehouse is exactly what you need to get some decent lighting in the building. Several old light bulbs hang from a curving wire, hooked up to a powered wall conduit. Now nothing will stop you from working into the night—or through the night. You hope Nate will be able to replace some of the bits you used for the lighting.

A list you’ve been writing for additional components on your clipboard is growing rapidly. As of right now, you have enough material to fix up one suit for sure, maybe two. Quite a bit more adhesive, circuitry and aluminum will be needed for general repairs of the suits. An entire separate list would need to be drawn up if Nate decides he would like his T-45s modded.

“Well, damn,” whistles a voice behind you. Nate walks into the warehouse, observing the changes you’ve made to the space. It already looks lived in and work-ready. “You just got here last night, right? You sure work fast.”

“I may or may not have gotten excited to start,” you comment, waving a list offhandedly. Holding out your list to Nate, he takes it and looks it over. “I’m going to need more stuff if you want me to get all these bad boys in working order, but I’ll have enough to get a good start.”

Nate laughs as he pockets the list.

“I’ll send word with the settlement caravans to get you more junk,” he promises. “But before you dive too deep, I’d like you to meet some folk.” A small frown tugs at your lips, but you follow him into the courtyard. You’d rather keep working on the armor, but he is technically your boss now.

Near the radio tower, several people have gathered. There’s a couple of familiar faces tucked into the group, but they're too busy arguing among each other to notice. Nate sighs next to you and grumbles, suggesting this is a regular occurrence. A red head is roasting on a man in a familiar set of Power Armor. You note he’s not getting much support from the other members of the group.

“You’re such fuckin’ dick, Danse,” snarls the red head, stepping in front of Hancock. “You couldn’t even shag the next girl you see, ‘cause anyone can see your personality is clearly compensatin’ for ya tiny wee.”

“And not even dinner first?” you chime in, gaining the attention of the group. Nate sighs in relief as the others stop bickering. The reactions to your comment are a bit of a mixed bag, but you focus on the chuckles of Hancock and MacCready. You hold a hand over your chest in a mock gasp. “Feeling exceptionally un-wooed.”

“I was wondering what it would take to drag you out of your nerd cave,” smirks MacCready. A sly wink is sent his way.

“And miss this lovely welcome wagon of cheerful individuals?” you sass with a smirk. “Never.”

A couple of people tense when Danse stomps in his Power Armor over to you, clearly expecting him to dislike something about your sudden presence. However, those same individuals are astonished when his face loosens it’s stern expression.

“I find it unsurprising that Nate would request your assistance in particular,” states Danse with composed expression. His eyes crinkle slightly. “Glad to see you are well, civilian.” You smile at the Paladin and lightly knock on his armor.

“Long time no see, solider boy,” you greet back. Placing your hands on your hips, you playfully glare at him. “See your armor has more scratches and dings since I last saw it. Solider, have you been ignoring your suit maintenance?”

“My missions have, admittedly, not permitted for adequate time,” he falters, ears burning red. Shoulders shaking in laughter, you hold a hand over your face to hide your grin.

“Sh-shame on you,” you cackle, trying to stay serious. “Disrespecting your armor like that.”

As Danse flounders with excuses, the unfamiliar members of the group stare in awe.

“Alright, who’s the broad?” demands the redhead, eyeing you appreciatively. “Any gal who can reduce a man like Danse to a bumbling fool is a lady I definitely would like to get to know intimately.”

Danse regains his composure and stares sternly at the red head. You give her an over-exaggerated wink. She snickers at you. Fantastic, the ice is broken. Now maybe you can return to the warehouse?

“Everyone,” says Nate, introducing you. You wave at the group as Nate speaks on your behalf. “She will be working on the Power Armor sets in the warehouse. Treat her with respect. She’s one of us now.”

“A new friend!” cheerfully says a french accent. A woman with short, dark hair hurries to you. “I am Cuire! If you have anything that ails you, please see me!” Curie gestures to Cait. “And this is Cait! If you have anyone who ails you, please see Cait!”

“Wouldn’t mind bashin’ in a few skulls for you, darlin’,” flirts Cait, looking you up and down.

“Noted,” you chuckle good-naturedly.

“I’m Piper,” says a woman in a red overcoat and press hat. She looks at you carefully. “Not many folks can say they can fix Power Armor, even fewer as young as you. I’d like to ask you about it sometime.”

“You’re that Diamond City reporter, yeah?” Piper nods in affirmation. “Couple of those papers have made their way to Goodneighbor. Not bad stuff, but not sure I’m willing to share my shop secrets.” Piper pouts, but doesn’t bug you about it.

“Deacon’s the one leaning up against the wall,” says Nate, pointing over to a man in shades and a minuteman uniform. Nate leans down and whispers in your ear. “Always knock before entering any room he’s in. He likes to change his clothes...a lot...and doesn’t mind people walking in on it.”

“Ah,” you acknowledge, eyeing Deacon. He looks familiar, but you can’t place it.

“And you’ve already met Preston and know the rest of the Goodneighbor crew.”

“Yup and yup.”

“There should be one more..” mumbles Nate looking around. His eye catches a man wandering over with his head buried in a schematic. “There he is! That’s—”

“Holy shit,” you whisper in astonishment. The man hears you and looks up. His eyes go wide before a wide grin splits across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Sturges?!” you shout in surprise. Sturges laughs at you, pocketing his schematic and closing the distance to embrace you. You laugh as you give him a quick, tight hug in response.

Nate’s eyebrows shoot up as he watches you pull away from his tinker-happy friend. The rest of the audience appear to be just as thrown.

“Wait,” he says, looking between you two. “You two already know each other?”

“Yeah, boss,” grins Sturges, playfully punching you in the shoulder. “Back when Quincy was under Minutemen control and back when this young lady rolled with the Atom Cats. Used to go visit their garage all the time. Good folk, smart too.”

Nate whips his head back to you.

“Wait,” he stammers. “You used to be an Atom Cat?”

“Surprised, Jack?” you snark, grinning. “Am I not hip enough for you, Daddy-O?”

The General of the Minutemen tries to wrap his head around this information, muttering to himself how he should have figured this out sooner. Sturges turns his attention back to you.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says genuinely. Sturges’ smile morphs into a small frown. “I heard from Rowdy about why you left the Atom Cats’. That was some bad business, sorry about that. For what it’s worth, I think you made the right call to leave.”

“Thanks,” you say, expression sobering at Rowdy’s name. “Uh, heard what happened to Quincy. I’m sorry. That’s all kinds of messed up, but I’m glad to see you made it out alive.”

“It’s been tough,” he agrees, melancholy. “But things have been on the up since Nate saved us in Concord. Wouldn’t be any of us left if not for him.”

Ditching the group, you and Sturges make your way back to the warehouse, catching each other up on what has happened in each other’s lives since last speaking.

“Well, this is the fastest I've ever been third-wheeled,” snickers Hancock. Nate chuckles while his companions roll their eyes with varying levels of humor.

Chapter Text

It’s not often you work on Power Armor with a pout, but here you are, pouting like a child. Sturges had hinted to you a secret project he is working on at a different location. Then the bastard winks at you, says he can confirm nor deny anything, and fucks off to his super secret project that you’re totally not jealous about not working on.

NOT ONE BIT JEALOUS.

At all…

Okay, so maybe a tiny bit jealous, but who could blame you? They’re building stuff straight out of fantasy novels! You can’t even ask Nate if you could help on it, because he and Danse escorted Sturges to this secret location during the night. Even if you did get the chance to ask about it, you have a feeling the machine is on a need-to-know basis. Talking about it might get both you and Sturges in trouble with a lot of folks.

Plus the Institute would probably kill for that kind of information.

“I think I need a change of pace,” you grumble, putting your tools down and walking away from your workspace.

Stretching your back, you eye the tops of the Castle’s walls. Several Minutemen patrol the walls. You spy the familiar blob of green and tan that is MacCready at one of the sniper nests. Since Hancock returned to Goodneighbor this morning for some mayor business, there’s not a lot of people you know to talk to.

“Taking a break, ma’am?” asks Preston as he patrols by with his weapon out. As you nod and greet him, your eyes focus on his gun. Now that it’s daylight, you can get a good look at the monstrosity that is his rifle. Repulsion slowly fills you.

“Preston?”

“Yes?”

“WHAT IS THAT?!” you shout, startling the man. He following your direction to his gun.

“Uh, you mean my laser musket?” he asks in confusion.

“Laser musket?” you question, stepping closer to critically eye his gun. Preston is uncomfortable at your sudden proximity. “It’s mostly wood! And this capacitor...does this...does this overcharge fusion cells?! Fusion cells are not meant to be overcharged! They could crack and explode!”

“This is standard Minutemen issue,” he huffs, almost offended. You’re eyebrows raise in stunned horror.

“Everyone...has...one?” you say, face white. When he nods you sit down on the ground. Preston, bless him, crouches next to you and makes sure you’re okay.

But you’re not okay. Not with this.

“Garvey, listen to me,” you whisper, seriously. “Your laser musket is basically an unstable frag grenade. Those capacitors are encased in plastic and glass. Plastic and glass! Forget the cells, a bullet to the capacitor will blow you, and everyone within five feet of you, up. Why aren’t you using laser rifles or literally anything else?”

Garvey sighs as he slings his gun over his shoulder.

“We know about the risks,” he says lowly, his hat hiding his eyes. “But the Minutemen have limited funds and resources. The General has been doing his best, getting weapons, armor, caps, and recruits at an incredible rate. But at the end of the day, we don’t have the equipment yet to properly outfit our soldiers. We can break down one laser rifle and make two muskets out of it. As long as the Minutemen use short, controlled bursts, the muskets are deemed safe enough to use.”

A shaky sigh escapes you. Of course, that makes some sense. The Minutemen wouldn’t endanger their militia for no reason. But damn, how many have died from their own guns?

It dawns on you that Nate is most likely paying you with his own money and not Minutemen funds.

“May I see your rifle?” you ask softly. Preston hesitantly hands over his musket. Carefully, but thoroughly, you examine the weapon. It would be pretty simple to modify the gun to be a little more durable.

“Since I’m already hired to be here and have access to your scrap, I can probably upgrade the muskets in the Castle.”

“What?” he says, taken back.

“I can reinforce the capacitor with aluminum,” you mumble, turning over the musket to get a different view of the capacitor. “Probably add a copper wire to lessen the wear on it from the inside, and make for a more powerful beam shot. Estimating a four percent margin of error, I think I could probably mod the laser muskets to be less likely to explode by about twenty percent.”

“You...can do that? Are willing to do that?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” you say, handing his gun back. “It’s not a fix to your low resources problem, but it should at least make the most of the stuff you do have now. Lessen the chance of your guns going boom in your face.”

“I would be grateful if you could,” Preston says sincerely. “I can convince Ronnie to let you into the Armory. We have a good weapons workbench there. She’ll probably hover, but she means well.”

“I’ll make the mods ahead of time and show her how to attach them,” you decide, standing and wiping the dirt off your pants. “This way, we’ll be able to upgrade your guns while not falling behind on my own work.”

“Thank you,” he says, eyes crinkling. “This means a lot.”

It takes a day to decide on a design and another to build the first prototype. Keeping resources in mind, you’re eventually able to make three duplicates of the modifications. They were simple enough and relatively inexpensive to make—a metal casing for the capacitor, and an internal directional wire. Harder to break and less fusion energy wasted from bouncing around haphazardly inside. As an unintentional bonus, more stealthy since the red energy is concealed until the musket is fired.

Ronnie Shaw may have been up there in years, but the veteran is no novice when it comes to weapons. She knows her way around around a laser musket and could probably build one blind-folded. After showing her how to modify the laser musket once, she’s able to replicate it perfectly every time after.

Ronnie has a shit-eating grin when Preston test fires the upgraded musket on a stray Mirelurk and blows it’s face off. It’s rare to hear Ronnie laugh, but Preston can confirm she did.

“This is going to be a game changer,” she smirks at you in approval. “Less of our boys getting themselves hurt being stupid, and more hurting our enemies.”

With Ronnie’s backing, Preston put an official work order for your capacitor modifications. They can’t pay in caps right now, but accept a one-for-one trade of one Nuka-Cola per one mod. Technically, exceptionally cheap for custom-built modifications, but it’s been too long since you’ve been able to have a good stash of cola.

MacCready may have been right, you do have a problem.

Chapter Text

The Minutemen buzz with excitement when someone spots their General approaching the Castle. You’re quickly learning this to be a regular thing when it comes to Nate. As Nate and Danse walk through the gates, Preston immediately reports everything that has happened at the Castle to the General in his absence. Ronnie and several other soldiers swarm Nate to give him their updates.

Looking over from the Power Armor station, a chuckle escapes you as you spot the deadpan expression on Nate’s face. Not even back for a minute and is already being bombarded. Problems at a minute’s notice, you giggle to yourself. You’ll give him your report on his Power Armor suits later. Guy looks like he needs a stiff drink and a nap.

Hopefully, he’ll be pleased to know you’re almost done with his third suit.

Lifting the twenty-five pound torso and attaching it to frame, drops of sweat continue to roll down the back of your head. Lowering your goggles, you wipe the sweat from your face before returning your eyeware. You’ve long since ditched your greaser jacket in an attempt to keep cool. It’s hot out today and the shirt your wearing is drenched. Empty cans of purified water and Nuka-Cola bottles lay discarded in a crate that doubles as a trashcan.

Almost all the pieces are ready for the third set. Just need to fix the headlamp in the helmet and this T-45 will be ready to test. Turning your attention to the helmet, you use your power drill to open up the headlamp. You replace some of the connecting circuitry and swap-out the burnt out bulb for a good, bright one.

Heavy footfalls catch your attention.

“That’ll keep you safe,” praises Danse as he watches you work.

“Not much use at night if you can’t see where you’re going,” you agree. You pause working to send him a shit-eating grin. “Could step on a mine or something.” Danse chuckles good-naturedly at your jab. The Paladin observes your set up for a moment before exiting his armor.

“With your permission,” he says, “Would you allow me to utilize some of your tools to do some necessary maintenance on my armor?”

You offhandedly wave in response.

“Go for it, solider boy.”

“Outstanding.”

“But if you break my tools, I expect you to replace them.”

“Understood.”

The sun is well into in the sky when you finally attach the helmet to the rest of the frame. Punching a fusion core into the power outlet, the suit gives a light hum as it charges. Now comes your favorite part, testing the suits. Cranking the release wheel, the T-45 opens and you step inside. The hatch closes and the internal monitors spring to life.

“Now that’s what I call locked and loaded,” grins Danse, glancing over from working on his personal set.

“It does indeed lock,” you sass, checking the flexibility of the suit’s joints. “And I am, in fact, loaded in.”

Danse’s chortle is muffled by your helmet. Checking over your suit’s health gauge, all pieces are registering at full health. The fusion core is flagging correctly at fifty-percent and the Power Armor is recognizing your current lack of weapon and ammo. A frown tugs at your face as the Geiger counter gauge is dark. You tap your upper torso gently, but the counter stays dark.

“Damn,” your mechanical voice rings out. “Geiger counter’s still out.”

“Sensor issue?” inquires Danse, looking over your suit. “T-45s were notorious for faulty radiation sensors.”

“Good possibility,” you lament. “I doubt it will be a simple task of rewiring.”

“You say that as if fixing the internal wiring of a Power Armor suit is simple,” muses the Paladin in amusement.

“In comparison to building a replacement counter sensor? Exceptionally.” A sigh escapes you. “I’ll check one of the spare torso pieces, but if I have to build a sensor from scratch, I’m going to loose a lot of time on this suit.”

“At least it doesn’t compromise the integrity of the overall suit’s functionality.”

“I mean, yes,” you agree unhappily. The rest of the suit is working within normal perimeters. “As long as no one is trekking out into the Glowing Sea or pools of radioactive waste, this suit will still serve okay. But I wasn’t hired to repair suits to just okay.”

“You take a lot of pride in your work. It’s commendable, civilian.”

“Thanks,” you groan flatly. Ejecting yourself from the suit, a cool breeze comes off the ocean. You take a deep breath of the salt laced air.

“Ugh,” groans a voice from behind you. “You reek.”

“Aww, thanks RJ,” you snark, looking over your shoulder. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

“Glad to be of service,” he quips back sarcastically. He tosses a box of Dandy Boy Apples at you. “Here, figured you didn’t eat again.”

You can feel Danse’s disapproving stare from the Power Armor station.

“I suppose I can only claim being too busy so many times?” you weakly ask. MacCready looks unimpressed with you.

“Damn, right,” he deadpans. “Eat.”

“Fine, dad,” you drawl sassily.

“Hey,” huffs MacCready, trying to look serious. “If you’re going to act like a kid, you better believe I’m going to treat you like one.”

“Fair,” you say, ripping open the box. Plopping down in the shade of the warehouse, you tilt the box of preserved apple slices directly into your mouth.

“Civilian, that is no proper way to eat,” frowns Danse, as he finishes up his repairs.

“How lady-like,” chuckles MacCready as he plops down next to you.

“Hey!” you protest with a full mouth. Swallowing, you raise your blackened hands up. “My hands are covered in dirt and grease. This is more hygienic!”

“It takes less than a minute to properly cleanse your hands of it with soap,” deadpans Danse. You maintain eye contact with the Paladin as you slide another wave of slices into your open mouth. He rolls his eyes while MacCready cracks up at the show of defiance.

“Thank you for permitting me to use your equipment,” says Danse, entering his armor. “I will be in the mess hall if you require my assistance.”

“Don’t worry, she won’t,” grins MacCready, waving him off. Danse gives the mercenary a stern look before walking to the other side of the courtyard. MacCready leans back against the warehouse. “I don’t know how you can tolerant that guy. The stick in his butt is shoved so far up there.”

“Checking out his butt, were you now?” you tease. MacCready scoffs with a red tinge to his face.

“Don’t make me gag.”

“I’m sure he could make you gag,” you joke while laughing. MacCready scowls at you, face darkening. You calm your chuckles as you finish your box of food. “He’s not actually so bad. Hella dedicated to his organization and it’s ideals, but not actually a bad guy himself.”

“Pretty sure that dedication is what makes him a bad guy,” he jeers, viciously. “Next thing you know he’ll wave a shiny suit in your face and convince you to join the damn Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Ha, no,” you chuckle. “Power Armor be damned. Any group okay with pulling a trigger on Daisy just because she’s a ghoul is not cool with me.”

“Glad to hear you got your priorities straight,” approves MacCready with grin.

“You wanna know who’s not straight?” you tease with a smug smirk. His grin disappears from his face.

“I wasn’t looking at his butt!”

“Uh…” Preston looks uncomfortable as he approaches the two of you. MacCready’s face is a hilarious shade of red. Loud cackles shake your body.

“I hate you,” he whispers harshly to you.

“No you don’t,” you whisper back in amusement.

“Sorry for...interrupting?” say Prestion questionably. “But the General has called a Castle-wide meeting. Meet up at the radio tower in five.”

MacCready and you share a look of confusion.

Chapter Text

“Sorry to call you all like this,” apologizes Nate, standing on a chair. “I’ve been informed of several settlements that are in states of emergency. I can’t help them all on my own, and will need all of your help.”

Okay, not what you are expecting the assembly to be.

“I realize that several of you are not formally part of the Minutemen, and have no obligation to help,” he continues. “But I would like to ask for your assistance in this anyway.”

No one makes any moves to leave, choosing to hear him out. Nate smiles at the group.

“As of right now, I have reports of four settlements attacked by raiders,” announces Nate. “One settlement has been hit hard by Super Mutants, another with ghoul concerns, and one settlement convinced they have a synth in their midst.”

Murmurs sweep across the soldiers.

“With everyone’s support, I would like to allocate you all to specific areas to help these Commonwealth settlements.”

“Go ahead, General,” agrees Preston with a firm gaze. “We’ve got your back.”

“Thank you, Garvey,” he says. Nate looks around the members of the Castle. “If anyone would like to back out, now is the time.”

It crosses your mind to turn around and return to the warehouse. You’re being paid to build and fix, but something about his speech roots you to the spot. He’s a damn smooth talker, saying all the right words. Did everyone in the old days have a silver tongue?

“Great,” he smiles when no one leaves. “I will be personally addressing the synth concern with Deacon. Curie and MacCready, please check into the settlement hit by mutants. They may need medical attention and will definitely need a sniper to keep watch. Cait and Piper, you and several squads of Minutemen will check on the settlements hit by raiders. Get information and feel free to whack any raiders you encounter. Preston and Ronnie will remain here and hold down the Castle.”

You’re not sure what to think when Nate assigns you and Danse to deal with the feral ghouls. MacCready gives you an unusually concerned look. Danse looks displeased by his assignment.

“I’m confident in my abilities to dispatch a pack of filthy ferals,” says Danse boldly. “But are you sure it’s wise to have me bring along a civilian? I wouldn’t recommend it, soldier.”

Several people send disapproving frowns to the Paladin. Preston looks disappointingly at him, while Ronnie actually scowls at his words. You spy Cait and MacCready flipping him off behind his back. Danse appears unbothered, only concerned with Nate’s thoughts on the matter.

“You act like you’re going to be the only tin can walking,” you snark at the Paladin. Danse turns his attention to you with a raised eyebrow. A smirk tugs at your lips. “I’ll be perfectly fine in my Power Armor. Allow me to show you what I can do with Power Armor, solider boy.”

“I mean,” comments Preston, tilting his head. “Anyone in Power Armor is pretty safe from close range attacks. That goes double for people who know how to properly use it.”

“Does her being suited up ease your concerns, Danse?” asks Nate, staring Danse down. Danse appears to be appeased with this information.

“Affirmative.”

With everyone’s missions assigned, the crowd disperses. MacCready gives you a thumbs up—a gesture you return—before pairing off with Curie. Danse, always prepared, follows you to the warehouse to collect your equipment. Ronnie and Preston hand off a small pack of supplies to each of the groups.

“Somerville Place to the southwest has requested help with a pack of ghouls,” reports Preston, handing Danse a pack of fusion cells and two small wrapped bundles of food. Danse hands you half the supplies, which you store in your suit’s inventory. Preston passes off a slip of paper with the location’s coordinates.

“They’re coming from a park north of the settlement,” continues Preston. “Somerville has kids living there, and want every one of those feral ghouls gone. Take care of the ghouls and report back here. We’ll radio the settlement once we’ve received word from you.” You and Danse input the coordinates into your suits’ internal maps.

Securing your supplies and laser pistol, you enter your set of T-51. You catch the wide grin Danse sends at you for suiting up.

“Feels like you can take on the world in there, doesn’t it?” he grins.

“Easy, soldier boy,” you joke, powering on your Targeting HUD mod. “No one should look that pleased to see someone armor up.”

“That armor suits you.”

“I sure hope so,” you sass. “I put too much time, effort, and materials into it for it to be anything less than a perfect chassis for me.”

The hike to the park near Somerville Place takes most of the day, with luckily no hostile encounters. When you see the outline of the park, the sun is low in the sky. Danse estimates there being an hour or two of light left before headlamps will be necessary. Apparently, more than enough time to kill a pack of ghouls.

“Stay vigilant,” he warns. “We do this clean and by the book.”

“And which book is that?” you ask, eyeing up the motionless corpses on the ground. “The Art of War? Atlas of Battles? The Leadership Strategy and Tactics: Field Manual perhaps?”

A small grin appears for a split second on Danse’s face.

“The Brotherhood’s guide to combat,” he responds, studying his surroundings. He takes a moment to aim his laser rifle on a ghoul pretending to be dead.

“Never read that one,” you say, lining up a shot on a ghoul with your pistol.

“Maybe someday you will.”

“Why do I have doubts that the Brotherhood would share it’s library?”

Two red beams fire, instantly turning the prone ghouls to red ash. Snarls fill the air as the ghouls are now aware of your presence. It’s like the Med-Tek parking lot all over again.

“Send them back to hell!” shouts the Paladin over the gunfire.

Red lasers fill the air, dropping ghouls left and right. Fighting alongside Danse is a very different experience then when you fought side-by-side with Nate. While Nate would try to cover down, allowing you a few seconds to reload, Danse straight up doesn’t. Granted, he has no obligation to provide you with any sort of cover, and you are in Power Armor, but it makes you realize you prefer working with Nate. Especially, when you have to literally throw the ghouls off you to get a moment to reload.

“Advance!” commands Danse, moving forward into the park. Part of you wonders if he forgot that you’re not one of his soldiers. But the ghouls are being killed at a pretty high efficiency rate, so...a win? When the ghouls stop rushing the two of you, you take a moment to breathe and check your suit’s condition. All pieces are in decent health and only a three percent drain on your core.

“Looks like that’s all the ferals on this side,” observes Danse, reloading. “We should check the cabins on the other side. Guarantee there’s at least a few of the bastards lying in wait.”

He’s correct, of course. Closing in on the first cabin, a ghoul shambles to it’s feet on the pavement. A few beams and it falls easily enough. The sound draws another out from inside the cabin. As it leaps towards Danse, it’s disintegrated in the air. You cough in disgust as some of the red dust enters your suit’s air vents. Danse secures the building and you follow him inside.

“Wow,” you say in amazement. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen every type of Protectron in one place before.”

“These robots are well preserved,” he comments. “Most likely some sort of pre-war exhibit.”

You spy the terminal in the back of the room. Part of you wants to hack it and find out the story with these bots, but you feel Danse wouldn’t approve until the park has been emptied of all ghouls. The two of you exit to clear the other building.

Night is beginning to fall over the park. The green glow from the other cabin is an ominous light in the dark. The rumbling of the ground is the brief warning that the inhabitant is no ghoul.

As the glowing deathclaw roars it’s warning, you find yourself unable to move. It’s soft, toxic luminescence paralyzing you in terror. A rush of adrenaline slows down your sense of time, allowing you to take in every inch of it’s monstrous glory. Bile and panic entangle in your chest.

Are...you going to die here?

“DEATHCLAW!” screeches Danse, urgently. “CONDITION RED!”

The world rapidly catches up as the deathclaw hooks it’s claws into your chest plate, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. Red flashes and screams deafen on your ears into helpless background noise. Sharp, yellowed teeth are suddenly inches from your helmet. Finally, flight or fight kicks in.

You jam your metal fist straight into it’s eye.

The deathclaw throws you away like trash, screeching in pain. You fly backwards several feet and land hard on your back. A wheeze passes your lips as the wind is knocked out of you. Turning over onto your stomach, you shakily rise from your prone position. The health status of your torso piece is flashing critical. Another hit from those claws and the deadly lizard will turn you into a kebab.

“Retreat!” you hear Danse shout, but know he’s in no position flee. He’s telling you to run and trying to buy you time. You manage to stand your Power Armor up, facing the first cabin.

Your eyes lock on the terminal.

You’ll take every second the Paladin can buy you.

Darting into the cabin, you eject yourself at the computer. With your suit guarding your back, you input rapid keystrokes. The terminal beeps as the password is accepted. A quick prayer is sent to whoever let this terminal be an easy hack. You activate the Protectrons and jump back into your suit.

Dashing out of the cabin, you immediately start firing your laser pistol at the deathclaw’s head.

“Hey!” you shout, desperately trying to get the mutated lizard’s attention. “Over here you overgrown gecko!”

“I told you to retreat!” barks Danse. His rifle clicks empty just as the deathclaw turns it’s attention on you. He wastes none of the valuable seconds to reload.

“I got this!” you scream, though not entirely sure. The deathclaw roars, sending out a pulse of green light. It gets down on all-fours and lunges at you. It rears back is arm, readying to open you up like a can of Cram.

Funny, isn’t your life supposed to flash before your eyes?

“Hostile target detected.”

The robot cavalry emerges guns blazing from the cabin.

The attacks of the four Protectrons, combined with your laser pistol, cause the deathclaw to flinch and stagger back. You take the opportunity to fallback behind the line of robots, never ceasing your assault on it’s head. Enraged snarls come from the deathclaw as it swipes at one Protection, only to be distracted by the pain from another. Damage from electricity, cryo-spray, metal strikes, and laser beams quickly add up.

The beast lets out a cry before falling over dead.

“Situation...normal. Law and order as been restored.”

Panting, you stare wide-eyed at the corpse. It’s shining brightly in the night. Tapping your chest piece with your hand, you confirm you’re not dead.

You’re alive.

You’re alive.

Chapter Text

With the Protectrons patrolling outside, you and Danse hole up in the robot’s cabin for the night. A display case blocks the doorway. Your damaged set of T-51 also blocks the entrance for good measure. A Brotherhood set of T-60 rests next to a Protectron pod. You and the solider sit on the floor, both leaning against the far wall.

Danse and yourself have not spoken since killing the deathclaw, but the silence is welcome. An adrenaline high has you still wired and hyper-aware of every sound, movement, and smell. It would be a safe bet that Danse is also dealing with something similar. Solider or not, near-death experiences effect everyone.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Yes?” comes a hushed reply.

“We’re alive.”

“...affirmative.”

Inhaling deeply you exhale loudly. A small grin pricks at the corners of your mouth. A brief moment of hysterical laughter from you breaks the drowning silence.

“We’re alive,” you repeat, tension easing. “We won.”

“Defeating that deathclaw was quite the feat of combat prowess,” he says, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Well done, civilian.”

“Didn’t do anything that great,” you sigh, lightly tapping the back of your head against the wall of the cabin. “Just hacked a terminal and let the robots do the work.”

“Your quick thinking and response saved both of our lives,” frowns Danse, turning his head to look at you. “Don’t forget that.”

“Trust me, I don’t think I can stop focusing on the fact I’m very much alive right now.”

“I too, am currently hyper-vigilant of my existence,” he admits, almost in shame. “It’s an embarrassment for a Brotherhood Paladin to be this affected by combat.”

“Dude,” you scowl. “I heard you tell me to run. Don’t think I didn’t notice you were ready to die for it. We almost died. I think we’re allowed a moment to appreciate not being ripped apart.”

“You directly disobeyed my orders,” he states after a moment of silence.

Of course, that’s the part Danse will criticize you on.

“And you're alive for it,” you remind him, staring up at the ceiling.

“And I’m alive for it,” he confirms.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence once more.

“You missed your calling as a Brotherhood Scribe,” he appraises, looking back at you. “I know Scribes who would take twice as long to hack a terminal, without the threat of a deathclaw breathing down their neck.”

You give a short laugh.

“High praise, solider boy,” you grin. “But I’m still quite full-filled doing what I do. Minus that lizard bit.”

“That’s a shame,” he murmurs disappointingly. “You could be so much more.”

You’re not sure you like the implications of his statement. A loud rumble from your stomach makes for a good change of topic.

“Well,” you say, standing. “Guess we should see what Preston packed us for dinner, yeah?”

Danse walks over to his armor to get his food pouch out of the suit and you do the same. The two of you return to the back wall, but turn towards other a bit. Opening your pouch, you find a chunk of Ragstag jerky, a box of Fancy Lad Cakes, and a sealed can of water. Peaking over at Danse’s pouch, you see he has a box of Salisbury Steak, a mutfruit, and another can of water.

Protein, hydration, and dessert. Minutemen rations are not too shabby.

Ripping a chunk of jerky off, you chew the salted meat. As Danse tears into his preserved steak, you catch his eyes glance several times at your box of sweets. If the venison wasn’t a choking hazard, you probably would have laughed. Someone has a preference to snack cakes.

“Dessert trade?” you offer the box of cakes to him, grinning widely. His ears burn red from being caught, but is more than happy to accept your trade. It’s a good deal for you, too. One can of water is nowhere near enough to wash down both the dried meat and cakes.

Neither of you sleep much, still on edge from the deathclaw encounter. At first light, the two of you suit up and make the journey back to the Castle. You encounter a few mercenaries guarding a caravan, but not much else on your way.

A breath of relief is sighed as you see the familiar wall of the Minutemen stronghold.

A few figures on the wall scurry around as they spot you and Danse. The gates open before you. Nate, Cait and Preston are talking among themselves near the radio tower. Preston waves as you two walk over.

“I take it the ghouls are dealt with?” asks Preston with a smile.

“Affirmative,” reports Danse, sternly. “Those ghouls have been annihilated.”

“Great!” smiles the Minuteman. “I’ll get Somerville on the radio and tell them the news.”

Danse turns to Nate, probably to give him the full report, but Cait cuts in.

“What took ya tin cans?” she smirks. “Ya know you’re the last ones back? Stop for a quick shag on your way back or somethin’?”

Danse’s ears burn red while you cackle at the accusation.

“Civilian,” scowls the Paladin. “That is inappropriate and not what happened.”

“Why, Cait,” you tease, taking a very different approach. “If you wanted me to show you what we did on our mission, all you had to do is ask, hun.”

No amount of Brotherhood training had prepared Danse for this. Heat radiates from his face at your suggestive tone. He’s not sure he likes being part of this kind of joke.

“Please refrain from wording our mission that way,” he scolds you, sternly. Danse’s red face makes it impossible for you to take him seriously. “I don’t want the Brotherhood’s reputation to be sullied by a misunderstanding.”

“Ouch Danse,” you playfully wince, holding a hand over your heart. “I was that bad, huh?”

Nate and Cait loose their composure and howl in laughter at the exchange. The Paladin runs a hand through his hair, glaring at you.

“...you need to clarify your meaning, civilian.”

“I don’t think I do,” you wink. Danse presses his palm to his face in frustration. “Besides. I think they clearly got the message nothing inappropriate happened.”

“Yeah,” howls Cait, holding her sides. “But tha’ was a fuckin’ riot!”

“Sorry, Danse,” chuckles Nate. Danse sighs before composing his face into a blank expression.

“Well, commanding officer,” you say sarcastically, tapping Danse on the shoulder. You turn to head back to the warehouse. “I’ll leave you to do the full report. As I clearly cannot be trusted with stating the facts.”

He stares at you, completely unamused by your behavior.

You know Danse gives Nate the full report. One, it’s Danse, he’s going to. Two, as you near your workstation you hear Cait shout “fuckin’ deathclaw?!” Any amusement you feel is overtaken by a wave of exhaustion. Exiting your Power Armor, you lean your forehead against the cool metal of the warehouse.

It’s real, you’re alive. You’re back.

Trying to get back into work is hard. You’re distracted and everything seems to remind you of the feeling of claws between your frame and chest plate. After a while, you decide to switch tasks to assembling laser musket mods. The familiar task slowly eases you.

You’re alive, you’re okay.

“Hey,” says MacCready, entering the warehouse. He’s holding two beers and a hunk of roasted Mirelurk. “Need a friend?”

“Absolutely,” you laugh weakly, setting your tools down. Taking a beer, you crack it open and pocket the cap. MacCready does the same, sitting down in front of you. Joining him, you pick off a piece of Mirelurk and pop it in your mouth.

“So,” he drawls. “Pretty sure the whole Castle knows how your mission went. Sounds like a dull time.”

You laugh at his statement, causing him to grin.

“So dull,” you agree, taking a long drink of your beer. “One out of ten experience. Wouldn’t recommend.”

“Sounds about right to me,” he chuckles, snagging a bit of Mirelurk for himself. “Wanna hear about me being useless?”

“So...it went well?”

“Eh, you decide.”

MacCready tells you the story of how little he had to do for the settlement. His partner had tended to the wounds of three settlers, but he himself wasn’t actually needed. Apparently, the reason the mutants were able to ransack the place, is because the guard fell asleep and didn't activate the defensive turrets. Curie was able to get the turrets back online just in time for the Super Mutants to return. The turrets filled them with so much lead they didn’t even make it within a hundred feet of the settler’s property.

“I didn’t even need to fire a shot,” he pouts, emptying his beer. His overly sour expression earns a chuckle out of you as you chew the last piece of food.

“So that was that and we head home, right?” continues MacCready. “On our way back we sneak up on a group of raider’s, yeah? And,” he pauses to snicker. “They start talking about this guy who threw rocks, pretending they were grenades. Making explosion sounds with his mouth and everything.”

You slap your free hand to your face, shoulders shaking in mirth. MacCready tries to continue his story, but can’t make words over his own giggles.

“Uh, excuse me,” says a courier, poking his head into the warehouse. Both of your heads, snap to the courier. He holds his hands up. “Sorry to startle you, but is one of you MacCready? Daisy from Goodneighbor sent me.”

“That’s me,” frowns MacCready, making sure his rifle is ready. The courier pulls out a letter and presents it to him. MacCready tenses for a second, before grabbing the letter. Job complete, the courier scurries off.

Wasting no time, the merc rips open the letter and starts reading.

Panic fills you when his eyes widen and tears start filling his eyes. You lean forward and put a hand on his shoulder to remind him of your presence. He brings up his hand to cover his eyes as the tears start falling. MacCready’s shoulders are shaking uncontrollable.

He’s laughing.

“He’s okay!” he gasps in relief. “Duncan’s okay!”

Your mouth drops open, registering his words. Face lighting up in happiness, you start laughing too.

“Thank god!” you cheer. “This is great news! I’m so happy for you two!”

Overjoyed, he reaches forward and pulls you into an embrace. He’s still shaking in laughter. You hug back, also caught up in the moment. He pulls back and stares happily at you with a real, full smile. You wonder fleetingly if it’s normal to be this happy for someone else. Rising to a standing position, you extend your hand to him.

“Celebratory drink?” you offer smiling. He laughs joyfully and takes your hand.

“Definitely!”

Chapter Text

The morning finds you starting work later than normal with a hangover.

Last night’s celebratory drink with MacCready turned into doing whiskey shots with Cait once she found you two. Then Nate, over the moon with the news of Duncan’s recovery, joined in with an entire crate of wine. Where he had that stashed, you have no idea. Curie, bless her, was handing out purified waters to offset the alcohol.

Memories of last night get a little blurry after the second bottle of wine was opened, but you think you remember Preston suddenly being there with a glass of wine and Deacon doing vodka shots with Cait. You remember laughing hysterically when you realized Deacon was doing shots of water and Cait was none the wiser. Next thing you knew you were waking up on a spare barrack bed. Fully clothed and, thankfully, not full of vomit. Same thing can’t be said for Cait, passed out a few beds down.

You groan as you scrap looted laser rifles for parts. Not only does your head pound, but Ronnie has you breaking down perfectly good rifles for those shitty laser muskets. At the very least, it uses less material to upgrade the muskets when you’re already assembling them. You may hate laser muskets with a fiery passion, but if your going to make them, you’ll at least make them as safe and powerful as possible.

Besides, Ronnie bribed you with a Nuka-Cola Quantum for this. Old hag knows exactly how to win you over now. The thought of the reward is what keeps your nausea at bay each time you fasten a screw with your power drill.

Preston checks on your progress with the muskets and is impressed with what you have done already. You have two upgraded laser muskets ready to be sent to the Armory and are working on a third. He eagerly watches you attach a cased and focused six-crank capacitor onto a full stock. Garvey reminds you of a kid watching candy being made, wide-eyes and intense focus.

It’s a little off-putting how into he is watching you mod the gun.

Suppose there’s a kink out there for everybody.

Fastening the last screw, you look up at Preston with a blank expression. The constant pulse of the hangover kills your sense of humor. He coughs awkwardly and excuses himself, bringing the two finished muskets to the Armory.

A can of purified water is thrust into your face.

“You look like you need this more than I do,” grins MacCready, handing off the water. A glance of appreciation is all the thanks he gets as you wordlessly crack open the can.

“Never again,” you groan softly, taking a long drink of the water. “Never again am I doing shots with an Irish woman.”

“Game was rigged from the start,” he grins cheekily, trying not to laugh at your condition. “We were two drinks in already when she joined. I’d say that makes us the winners.”

“We remember last night very differently,” you huff, draining the can. “Aren’t you supposed to be on guard duty right now?”

“Believe it or not, Nate allows water breaks. Something about pre-war working conditions. Plus there’s like four other guys patrolling the wall right now.”

“So, you’re ditching,” you state, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he emphasizes with a smirk. “I’m on break.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, unconvinced. MacCready watches you pick up some kind of tool and start working on the muzzle of the gun. He sees you cringe in discomfort every time you make a sharp scraping noise with the instrument.

“Never really been the hammer and nails kind of guy,” he comments, watching you assemble a beam focuser and attaching it to the end of the barrel. A small grins quirks on your face.

“We’d have big, potentially explosive problems if you took a hammer and nail to this,” you weakly chuckle. Heavy stomps of Power Armor make your head throb in pain.

“Agreed,” says the voice of Danse as he wanders over. He nods approvingly at the muzzle’s modification. “While I do not agree with the Minutemen’s use of these pitiful excuses for ordnance, at least they appear to be in capable hands.”

“Sorry Danse,” sasses MacCready, putting a finger in his ear and drawing the Paladin’s attention. “I couldn’t hear you over all that clanking.” Danse looks unimpressed with the merc.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on duty, civilian?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking down on people from a boat?”

Their bickering does nothing to ease your headache. Grumpily, you double check your handiwork. Peering down the standard sights of the gun, you deem the gun sighted enough to hand over to Ronnie. Setting the weapon down, you pick up the sad bits of a former rifle and being assembling a fourth musket. The mercenary and soldier’s volume rises as their argument begins to heat up.

You’re seconds from snapping at the boys when Nate wanders over, needing Danse’s assistance. The moment of peace is welcome as Danse follows Nate. MacCready leans against the wall of the warehouse and watches the pair walk off with a frown on his face, sulking that Nate didn’t ask for his help instead. His silence allows the throbbing in your skull to ease.

“Sooo…” trills a new voice at the door. “Do you still take requests? Or are you contract only now?”

Looking up you see a grinning Deacon holding out a severely damaged sniper rifle. You pull your welding goggles down as your eyebrows jump up, assessing the damage. The barrel is misshapen to the point of firing the gun would cause it to explode.

“What in the fresh hell did you do?!” you hiss, taking the gun from the bald man. “Use it as a bat?”

“So it was me and five Mirelurks, right?” he starts with a smile.

“She ain’t going to fall it,” admonishes MacCready while crossing his arms. Deacon pays no mind to MacCready as he continues to fabricate an almost believable tale of a fight with a few mutated crabs. Unfortunately, the bend in the barrel suggests less creature and more human involvement.

Why would he lie about how his gun got damaged?

“Right,” you deadpan, clearly not believing him. Oh, well. If Goodneighbor taught you anything, it’s to never ask unnecessary questions. “Guessing this is an ‘asap’ fix?”

“I’d take yesterday too, but my time machine’s in the shop and the warranty just ran out.”

“Half up front,” you state, staring at his sunglasses.

“No love for your clients?” he laughs. “I’m good for it! Nate can vouch for me.”

“Maybe,” you sniff, running a hand through your hair. God, you’re never drinking again. “But I don’t do business on maybes. I can either fix it or not. You can either pay or not.”

MacCready grins in approval.

“Ouch!” he puts a hand over his chest. “You’re cold, boss.”

“Not your boss,” you reply easily. “I’m sure you have your reasons, but this transaction is only taking place if I see the caps upfront. You’ve given me no reason to believe your word has any weight.” You give him a critical look. “I also don’t trust anyone whose eyes I can’t see.”

“Well, you got me there!” he says, pulling out a bag of caps. Deacon places them on the table. Blinking in surprise, you lift the bag and feel it’s weight.

“This is full payment,” you frown at him. Deacon wiggles his eyebrows at you. Something about his smile changes as he appraises you.

“Consider it a vote of confidence in your abilities,” he says, leaning against a nearby wall. MacCready eyes the other man in suspicion, watching him also cross his arms.

This whole exchange is giving you another headache. Couldn’t Deacon have waited till later to pull this kind of stunt? He was there last night! He has to know you’re hungover. Is he trying to test your patience?

However, finding this to be a good reason to stop working on muskets, you bring the gun over to the workbench. Clearing off scrap pieces of laser rifles, you set aside several screws and tools for the job. Cracking your neck, you return your goggles over your eyes. Fixing this kind of bend in the barrel is actually pretty simple with the right equipment. In fact, pretty much anyone with a good setup could fix it.

Your fingers pause as your thought echos through your head. Why isn’t he fixing this himself, anyway? Why go through you and not Shaw? Ronnie’s pretty open about letting people use the Armory’s workbench as long as they get permission. She’ll even fix up a gun in exchange for a shift on guard duty. You’ve seen her work, it’s solid. Why pay the caps to have you do it?

What aren’t you seeing here?

“So upfront payment aside,” Deacon says, making small talk. “Has there ever been anyone’s caps you’ve refused to take? Any jobs you didn’t find worth it?”

Zeke’s smug, shade-wearing face pops into your head, causing your slight frown to deepen. That asshole didn’t actually need your services, so you guess he doesn’t count.

“Not to date,” you mumble after a moment, focusing your task.

“So, you’re pretty open to all sorts?” he presses.

“I live in Goodneighbor,” stating your words as an answer.

“So you have no issues with ghouls?”

“Not really.”

“Robots?”

“Obviously not.”

“How about if a Super Mutant wanted something repaired?”

“Find me a mutant that doesn’t want to kill me and we’ll talk.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” chuckles Deacon. “What about synths?”

“Offered to fix Valentine’s hand once,” you shrug. “He’s yet to take me up on that.”

Deacon appears to take an actual interest in the conversation as he uncrosses his arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice MacCready get steadily more annoyed. Something has felt off for a while now, but your head is too still hazy to think it through properly. You just want to quickly finish the repair and end this whole encounter.

“Not many people like him or things like him,” comments Deacon. “Didn’t you want him gone?”

“He’s generally pretty welcome in Goodneighbor,” you reply. “Pretty sure ninety percent of the town owes him a favor.”

“Huh,” he responds, looking up at the ceiling. It’s quiet for a moment as he thinks to himself. “If it came down to it, would you risk your life for him?”

You still at his tone. Is...this guy threatening Nick?

“You do realize I’m still here?” suddenly growls MacCready, making you snap your eyes at him. “You are not recruiting her! Why would she want to join your little cult anyway?”

Wait...recruiting? The pounding in your head returns twofold.

“MacCready,” greets Deacon as if just realizing the other man’s presence. “Still killing people for caps?”

“I don’t know,” sneers your friend. “You still pretending to be everyone but yourself?”

“You act like we haven’t tried reaching out to her before,” shrugs the bald man. “Not our fault she tossed the tape before giving it a listen.”

Huh?

“A smart move,” glares MacCready. “The Railroad would use her and toss her out like trash.”

“Confident words for someone who has no idea what he’s talking about or say in her decisions.”

“BOYS!” you hiss, finally hitting your limit. You feel lightheaded. “I’m sure you both measure adequately, but if you could have your dick measuring contest away from my workstation, my hangover would thank you for it!”

The boys are quiet as they watch you rip off your goggles and toss them on the bench.

“I’m taking the afternoon off and sleeping this headache off,” you say, clenching your eyes shut for a moment. Breathing deeply, you usher the boys out. “Deacon, I’ll have your gun ready before the end of the day. RJ, thank you for the water. Both of you have a fabulous afternoon and I’ll see you when it doesn’t feel like a mutie tried to crack my head open!”

You quickly close the warehouse door behind them and lock it. Groaning you turn off the generator and the lights with it. Walking to the back of the building, you crawl into your sleeping bag.

Nap first, deal with everything else after.

Chapter Text

Taking a sip of Nuka-Cola, you nervously eye the polished sniper rifle on your workbench. It’s kind of funny, being on edge about an unloaded gun. Unfortunately, it’s a reminder of an uncomfortable conversation that you are not going to be able to avoid.

The Railroad, huh?

Leaning back in against a wall, you stare blankly at the ceiling of the warehouse. Half of you wishes you had more time to mull over the group. Apparently, had you listened to the tape you discarded months ago, you probably would have. The other half of your head whispers that more time wouldn’t help.

In the end, you know very little about the group. The Railroad is only mentioned in hushed whispers, like a phantom that people can’t agree on it’s existence. Clearly, it exists. Deacon is affiliated with them in some way and MacCready is somehow aware of this. Deacon’s association with Nate, suggests Nate is probably aware of this and likely also affiliated. Unsurprising, because you were told Nate was utilizing all resources to get his son back from the Institute. However, this really vamps up the dangerous game Nate’s playing, having both Danse and Deacon in the same place.

Three factions with the ultimately the same goal, but very different ideas on how to achieve it.

Another thing you know, the Brotherhood would like nothing more than to kill synths and anyone actively supporting them. Word gets out about Nate and Deacon? The Brotherhood’s nearby airship would probably visit the Castle with genocide on the brain.

You also remember Hancock saying the Railroad warned him of the target on his back, so they’re likely not going to kill you for a member approaching you. Taking a long drink of cola, you wonder if life has always been this complicated.

“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” grins Deacon, entering the warehouse and gently closing the door behind him. “Feel human again?”

“Feeling fine, thanks,” you say, keeping a close eye on him. He’s wearing a wig now. “Your gun’s on the workbench. Cleaned it as an apology for the wait.”

“Aww,” he coos, examining his rifle. “She does love me!”

Did he have to say that while sporting the same shades and hair style as Zeke?

“I don’t know,” you snark into your bottle. “Hard to love someone who bashes their gun into a railing, then tries to blame the local crabs.”

“You caught me,” he grins over his shoulder. “It was muties. Dropped my gun doing recon. A green boy picks it up and uses it as a drumstick. I think his band has a real shot to go pro.”

A quick quirk to the corner of your mouth tells him you found his story funny. Good, he thinks.

“So, I know your smart enough to know what I’d like to talk with you about,” starts Deacon, securing his rifle onto his back. “I’d normally hand off a holotape and have you meet us somewhere, but I know for a fact you wouldn’t listen to the tape.”

“Know for a fact, huh?” you snort. “I tend to not listen to things without my name on it.”

“While I can appreciate the notion, it does make it a bit difficult for us to say hi,” he replies. “Not exactly subtle for one of our tapes to be slapped with someone’s name. And if someone less than sympathetic happens to give it a listen? Bad news, usually for the one whose name’s on it.”

Well, he’s got a point there.

“So, why the greeting in the first place?” you frown.

“We think you might be a good fit for us,” he replies with an unwavering grin.

“I fix Power Armor,” you deadpan. “I don’t think your friends suit up.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “On the surface. But that’s not who you are, are you? If it was all metal coats and caps for you, you would have signed on with the Brotherhood by now. But you haven’t.”

“And you think you know who I am?” you muse, raising an eyebrow. The curl to Deacon’s smile concerns you.

“A little raider girl turned Atom Cat, turned business owner,” muses Deacon. “A real heartwarming story. Tell me, what was your biggest feeling of accomplishment? When you taught yourself how to read at three to avoid being sold to slavers, when you built your first set of T-45 at sixteen, or when you won poetry night with your little number on the fragility of the mind?”

You find yourself speechless as you process his information on you. How in the hell did he…?

Did Rowdy or another Cat rat you out?

Oh God, they didn’t give him any of your old poetry tapes, did they? Those do not deserve to see the light of day ever again.

“Oh!” he exclaims in excitement. “Or how about when you became a full-fledged member of your raider gang at eight? ‘Earning your gun,’ they called it, right? Didn’t they have hazing thing about killing someone without a weapon in order be a real member? And little miss smarty pants, able to recollect every book and magazine she’s ever read, manages to hack a turret system killing three!”

A nervous sweat breaks out across your body.

Rowdy didn’t even know that much about your initiation.

“And since your acceptance into the group,” continues Deacon. “You got a cut of the loot, including chems. But little you saw what drugs did, especially to your mother, so you would trade them to other Raiders for reading material. Once the others addicts figured out they could get your drugs for so cheap, they hoarded books to auction for your share of the supply. It’s an impressive business model, really.”

Seriously, how does he...he wasn’t there...was he...? He couldn’t have been...

“You really withheld from MacCready when you told him about your raider past,” he chuckles, scratching his shoulder. “I think he would’ve gotten a real kick from finding out that by ‘blew that joint,’ you meant, activated the Protectron pods in camp and having them kill every last raider there. Bet he’s the kind of guy to respect you for taking your old raider boss’ laser pistol with you when you left.”

Okay, the Cat’s knew that much, you think to yourself. Breathing slowly, you try to maintain a facade of calm. He must have been around when you were telling MacCready about it. You’d really like to know how he found out about when you were eight, though.

“I’m not trying to scare you here,” says Deacon, his grin falling. “And for the record, I think it’s shit what Zeke tried to do to you, and how the Atom Cats reacted to it. Rowdy deciding to stay instead of leaving with you when you asked? That’s messed up. You guys were tight. The Cats shaped and molded you into the person you are now, and I thank them for that.”

“Okay,” you state, finding your voice and crossing your arms. “So you know a lot about my past. Big whoop. Trying to blackmail me or something? Gonna need something better than that.”

“It’s not like that,” he quickly interjects. “We just want to be open with the fact we very much know about you, and still think you would be a good addition to our little outfit.”

Well, he certainly knows the right words to say. No wonder Nate and him get along well.

“And if I say no?” you question. Deacon shrugs.

“Then this conversation never happened,” he states easily. “You know nothing, we know nothing. That being said, we would like you to think about it. We’re not asking you to die for us. Just occasionally be chill and lend a hand. Like what you did for C2-41.”

Your eyes widen when you remember greaser jacket and his engraved pistol. That guy was a synth? They really do look like everyone else.

“Well,” he says, exaggerating a yawn. “It’s late! I’ll leave you to it. But if you could not out me to your Paladin buddy, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

As Deacon exits the warehouse, once again closing the door politely behind him, you let out a loud sigh. You need to clear your head. Running a hand through your hair, you spy the Nuka-Cola Quantum Ronnie gave you as payment. Snatching the blue glowing bottle, you hastily leave the building. You miss Nate’s presence by the warehouse door as you climb the stairs to the top of the Castle’s walls.

It’s a mostly cloudy night. A star or two peaks out from above you, but a storm is creeping in from the ocean. At the very edge of the southern horizon, you can see a light. Warwick Homestead. Producer of some of the best crops in the Commonwealth and home to the Atom Cat’s patron saint of good grub, June Warwick. You hope her and hers are doing well, and you trust their water pump was finished without you.

You forget sometimes how close the Castle is to the Atom Cat’s Garage.

“Is this seat taken?” asks Nate as he joins you on the wall. Motioning him to go ahead, you take a long gulp of the Nuka-Cola Quantum. The General plops down ungracefully next to you and lets out a loud sigh as he looks out over the ocean.

“Ya know,” he begins with a distant smile, “Nora and I’s first real date was a picnic at a park near the ocean. It was a disaster. Within ten minutes of settling down and talking, a flash storm rolls in. Rain drenched us like rats. Gust of wind blew our blanket away and sandblasted all of the food. Don’t know why she ever agreed to a second date.”

“Careful there, vault boy,” you joke. “A lady might get the wrong impression from a chat like that.”

“And if I was going for the right impression?” he teases questioningly. You roll your eyes and elbow Nate in the ribs.

“Sorry, buddy,” you sass with a grin. “The ‘ol wink wonk speech while gazing at the ocean won’t work on me. But I’ll give you points for trying to set the scene. Two out of five stars.” Nate laughs out loud in response and you snicker good-naturedly.

“Well, there goes my heart,” he sasses playfully. A comfortable moment of silence passes.

“So, what’s on your mind?” you inquire, taking another sip of your drink. “While I appreciate the laugh, most people are sleeping this time of night.”

“I did have something I was hoping to ask,” he admits, staring at the ocean. “But I overhead Deacon and you talking when I came to talk about it.”

The grip on your bottle tightens. Of course he did.

“How much did you hear?” you ask quietly, staring out at the distant storm.

“I hear you’re good at poetry?”

Damn.

“So, everything.”

“You...” he trails off as he thinks of the words to say. “You’ve lead an exciting life.”

You sigh, downing the rest of your cola and tossing the bottle off the wall. The bottle shatters on the beach as it hits a rock. Waste of perfectly good glass, but it does make you feel a tiny bit better.

“Pretty sure you got me beat in that category, boss,” you mumble knowingly. Nate accesses you quietly. “So...am I fired?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“I’m a former raider,” you state, not sugarcoating the fact. “The Minutemen hate raiders. You’re their leader.”

“We hate current raiders,” he clarifies. “Considering Cait was a raider and MacCready was a Gunner, it’d be pretty hypocritical to single you out.” A lot of about Cait’s mannerisms make sense now.

“Do you intentionally collect ex-raiders?” you chuckle dryly.

“Ronnie would kill me if I did,” he barks in laughter. A strained grin pulls at your mouth. “No, you’re not fired. Regardless of what you were born into, you’re no raider.” You give him a calculating look. Deacon didn’t mention you were born into a raider group.

“You knew already,” you state, eyes widening just a bit.

“MacCready let it slip a while ago after a few too many drinks,” he says, grinning. “He also said anyone who tried to hurt you for it would be in for a bad time, since you were under his watch. Seems to think he owes you a life debt for both him and his son’s life.”

Your eyebrows lift for a moment before you begin to shake your head, laughing. Nate has a wide grin at your response. It takes a minute, but you eventually compose yourself with a smile. You feel a blissful moment of contentment, until you remember why you chose to be on the wall.

“Your thoughts?” asks Nate, watching your expression change.

“It’s just…” You feel a spike of irritation pulse through you. “People don’t seem to understand I’m happy freelancing my services. Everyone knows what’s better for me, apparently.”

“Go on,” he says, patiently encouraging you to continue.

“I don’t want to be part of a group that excludes others as potential clients. I don’t care if my clients are ghouls, Brotherhood, synths or the General of the Minutemen himself!” you vocalize, glancing at him. “I just want to do what I love on my own terms. Without outside interference.”

Nate stares at you for a long moment before an amused grin pulls at his face.

“So tell Danse and Deacon to stop bugging you about their causes?”

“PLEASE.”

“Got it,” he laughs. “I’ll make sure the message gets passed on.”

“Thank you,” you say sincerely, tension easing. A thought pops back into your head. “Wait, you had something else to ask me right?”

“Oh, yeah!” he remembers, tapping his fist against his other hand. “I was wondering if I could hire you—pay you to do another job for me.”

“I’m not helping another of your settlements,” you immediately deadpan. “Not after last time.”

“No, no!” he laughs, waving his hand. “I was hoping you could put up some of your turrets outside the Castle. Hancock has spoken highly about what you’ve done for Goodneighbor and I was hoping I could get in on that. I can throw in an extra two-hundred caps on top of what I’m already paying you.”

“Sure,” you smile in excitement. “You looking for ballistic, laser, or something different?”

“Oh, choices,” he muses, pausing to think about it. “Well, the Minutemen use muskets and artillery. I guess what can you make with what we have? I’d kind of like it to be up and running as soon as possible.”

You hum as you look to the cloudy sky in thought. A lot of the surplus junk that has been filtering into the Castle has been geared towards laser muskets and Power Armor repairs. Meaning, lots of circuitry, crystal, copper, gears, screws, silver, glass, aluminum and steel, and an okay supply of stable nuclear material. Not much for extra oil. Except from paint, but that’s set aside for the Minutemen to paint their finished suits...

“Well,” you say, mulling it over. “If you’re looking for asap work, then that leaves us with laser turrets.”

“Seems fitting,” approves Nate while nodding.

“But you’re going to need a ton of juice for heavy-hitting laser turrets,” you continue, frowning. “A regular generator or two just isn’t going to cut it for a good defensive perimeter of laser turrets. A fusion generator might work, though.”

“Can you make one of those?” he asks, surprised. You shake your head.

“Not make,” you say, “but I can fix any machine.”

“So,” smirks Nate. “If I said there’s one in the underground tunnel of the Castle?” A wide smirk stretches over your lips.

“Then I’d say, you better suit up and have Danse help you drag that bad boy to the surface.”

Chapter Text

Nuclear science is not your strong suit, but you’ve read enough pre-war textbooks to have a good understanding on fusion energy—fusion cores, specifically. Fusion generators are actually an inconvenient source of power. They’re bulky, heavy, materially expensive to repair, and need an internal battery—a fusion core—to work. But with it’s higher output, totally worth it for large-scale energy needs.

You lay on your back, working under the propped up generator. The old fusion reactor rests on a set of double stacked cinder blocks. It’s internal components have corroded and rusted over time. A good gutting and you’re well on your way to a functioning engine.

A low whistle catches your attention.

“Damn,” grins Sturges, eyeing up the machine. “You don’t do things half-assed, do you?”

“Never have,” you quip back, grinning. “Welcome back, Jack. Grab a screwdriver and see what you can do with the control panel, will ya?”

“You got it.”

“Did your project go well?” you ask, vague and very curious. Sturges chuckles at your innocent expression.

“Think so,” he grins. “Can’t say more right now though.”

“Boo!” you whine, playfully. “I wanted to hear the good stuff!” He continues to chuckle at you while removing the panel cover.

“So,” he says, nonchalantly. “Why are we rebuilding a fusion generator?”

“Nate paid me to hook the place up with some sweet laser turrets.”

“Ah,” he expresses, swapping out pieces of the motherboard. “Makes sense. Guessing you already have the turrets ready to go then?”

“Right-o,” you confirm. “Took a couple of days, but wasn’t hard to put them together with all the scrap here.”

“Nice,” he croons appreciatively.

As the two of you work together, you make idle chat. Sturges laughs and points out that several people have arched around you two when the conversation gets particularly intense and techie. Laughing, you tell Sturges about the times you’ve scared off drunkards just by talking nerdy to them. He gets a real kick out it.

It feels good to work with a partner again.

Damn, you miss Rowdy.

With the mechanic’s help, the two of you are able to get the reactor operational by nightfall. Sturges borrows a set of Minutemen T-45 to help you move the generator into the walls of the Castle. He bids you goodnight after returning the armor to the warehouse. Unable to hook up the turrets in the dark, you opt for finishing the fifth and final set of T-45 for the Minutemen. Unless Nate picks up more pieces, you cannot complete anymore full sets.

Feeling accomplished, you actually get a decent night’s sleep.

Come daybreak, you greet Ronnie while carrying a large wheel of copper. The veteran looks to be in good spirits as she watches you fasten the first conduit to the wall.

“Artillery ready to fire, turrets for stronghold defense, and plenty of well-armed soldiers,” she beams with a proud twinkle in her eye. “The Minutemen are back stronger than ever.”

In response, you give the old woman an exaggerated wink. She barks out a laugh before returning to her Armory post with a smile. As the occupants of the Castle wake, the night guard changes with the morning shift. MacCready gives you a two finger wave as he climbs to the top of the wall, ready for another day in the sniper nest.

Twelve conduits are secured into the concrete walls around the Castle. Ten of them connect to their own heavy laser turret. The strategic placement of the turrets are capable of defending against incoming ground or air units. While Nate never asked about coverage for air strikes, you figured it in to the turret plan anyway. A precaution in case he manages to anger the nearby Brotherhood of Steel.

Though, you doubt ten turrets would be enough if the Brotherhood ever did decide to attack in earnest.

You double check your electrical circuit around the Castle. It’s a little crude, but it will get the job done. Sturges could easily switch it up if the Minutemen decide they want a few less dangling wires around. With a final nod of approval, you connect the first conduit to the fusion reactor.

Pressing the green button on the control panel, the generator’s turbines whirl to life. Unison beeps of turrets in standby mode fill the Castle. The stronghold’s defense system is live and ready. Murmurs of approval of the Minutemen and Nate’s friends fill the courtyard.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Outstanding work.”

“I almost feel sorry for the poor blokes tryin’ to fuck with this place!”

“Hello, police? I’d like to report some sweet ordnance.”

“Magnifique! This place is much safer now!”

“New headline, ‘Diamond City in competition for most secure place in the Commonwealth.’”

“Hell yeah,” croons an impressed Nate as he stands next to you. He’s grinning, but the pre-war man’s eyes have a hard edge in them. Someone who has seen war before. “But I hope we don’t need them.”

“If nothing else,” you start lightheartedly, “it’s great insurance against crabs.”

“Well, you’re not wrong!” laughs Nate, his gaze easing.

“So,” you trill slowly. “I’ve finished all the suits of T-45 that I can right now, and your security system is locked and loaded.”

“Hint that you want your express job caps?”

“Perhaps,” you reply playfully. “Also genuinely curious if my work here is done. I’ve held up my end of the original contract with the completion of the suits.”

“You mean you don’t want to be set making laser muskets the rest of your life?” he quips with a sarcastic grin.

“I’d rather not live a nightmare, thanks.”

Nate cackles loudly as he slaps you on the shoulder.

“Relax!” he says in mirth. “You’ll get paid after dinner tonight. Don’t think I’ll be needing your services for a while, so you’ll be free to head back to Goodneighbor after. I’ll see about getting you an escort back, too.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” you frown. “But why after dinner specifically?”

“I have a few important things I need to take care off before then,” he says, suddenly serious. “Going to be going on a dangerous trip tomorrow and I need to make sure my affairs are sorted before I go.”

“This is one of those need-to-know basis things, isn’t it?” you ask lowly.

“It is,” he confirms with a stiff nod. You nod your head back.

“Good luck and don’t die.”

“Thanks, I’ll try not to.”

As promised, you don’t see Nate again until evening when he swings by the warehouse. You’ve tidied the area you’ve been using as your living space. Nate hands you a weighty sack of caps.

“Thousand for the suits,” he counts. “Two-hundred for the defense, two-fifty for the settlement job, five-hundred for the rush order, and an extra hundred for putting Ronnie in a good mood with those mods of yours.”

“I’ll be honest,” you say, securing the caps into your backpack. “I was half expecting to get paid in increments, not all at once.”

“Are you complaining?” asks Nate with a teasing smile.

“Not at all!” you state, grinning wide. “I greatly appreciate your patronage.”

“Between you, Hancock and MacCready,” grins Nate. “I think I’ll be trying to keep my caps in Goodneighbor rather than Diamond City. Better prices and better people.”

“Awe,” you coo. “Now you’re just trying to win brownie points. Clearly no one’s tried to rob or shank you yet.”

“Finn,” he states, pointing a finger at you.

“Finn doesn’t count,” you sass, waving a finger. “He was the welcome wagon.”

“I think I’ll take Finn, mobster wannabes and addicts over McDonough any day.”

“Now I get why Hancock liked traveling with you so much,” you chuckle. Nate rubs the back of his head and grins unabashed.

“If Piper and Nick didn’t live there,” he starts with a frown, “I don’t think I’d ever go back.”

“Didn’t really chat much with her,” you say offhand. “But Nicky? He’s a good people to hang around. I’ll fix that hand of his yet.”

“He is,” grins Nate, chuckling. “Speaking of good people, MacCready will be taking you back in the morning.”

“Really?” you ask, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Thought he’d stick around here, or harass you to come with on that trip of yours.”

“Won’t be able to take him,” he sighs, almost disappointed. “And while he’s still more than welcome to work here, I get the feeling he’s been getting restless from guard duty. Probably do him some good to get away for a while.”

“Sounds like him,” you agree. You look around the warehouse. Sets of T-45 have been painted blue with the Minutemen crest on the torso. “Well, if you see him, let him know I will be ready to head out early in the morning.”

“Will do,” he nods. Nate extends his hand to you. “Safe travels back. If you need anything, the Minutemen owe you a solid.”

“Thanks. With some luck, I’ll never need to cash that in.”

Chapter Text

“So let me get this straight,” says MacCready, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been away from home for weeks.”

“Yes.”

“And instead of going home and making sure no one burned down your place—”

“No one’s stupid enough to do that to a building right next to Hancock’s.”

“—you want to go to Diamond City?” he finishes.

“I think I earned myself a vacation day or two,” you shrug with a grin. The Castle becoming smaller as the two of you walk away from it. “Plus I have caps burning a hole in my pocket.”

“Does Power Armor even have pockets?” he jests, looking your suit over.

“Irrelevant!”

“Ooh, big words,” he snarks. “She’s serious now.”

The T-51 helmet hides the tongue you stick out at him.

“Seriously, though,” you smile. “I’ve worked my ass off for Nate and the Minutemen. Damn near got killed for them, too. We’re having a day off.”

“We’re having a day off, huh?” he grins, looking around for threats. Finding none, he lets the barrel of his rifle drop towards the ground. “Well, as long as your paying.”

Diamond City hasn’t changed since you last stepped foot inside. Back then, you were looking for a place to start a garage. Now you’re a successful Goodneighbor business owner looking to spend a few caps. The world is funny like that, sometimes.

“I’m going to go pay Arturo a visit,” you inform. “With his security, he’s the only one in town I’d trust to not let my Power Armor mysteriously walk away.”

“You do you,” shrugs MacCready. “I’ll be at the noodle stand.”

“Save me a seat?”

“Yup, you got it.”

Arturo is happy to see you again.

“If it isn’t Miss T-51,” greets the man with a kind smile. “It’s been too long! A little birdie told me a certain shop has opened in Goodneighbor since I last saw you. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Hi Arturo,” you greet. You remove your helmet to reveal a smile. “How’s Nina?”

“She’s doing great,” he grins fondly. “Going to be better at fixing guns than me soon!”

“She’ll be a great heir to the shop,” you smile. “Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring her one of my old magazines on pistols.”

“Hey now,” he teases. “No need to replace me as her favorite person. Give me a few more years!”

“Okay...” you trill, pretending to be disappointed. Arturo wipes some gunpowder off his counter.

“Now,” he says, returning to professionalism. “How can I help you today? Security rental for the suit?”

“Yes, please!” you say. “Still ten caps a day?”

“Yes, ma’am. First ten up front, as always.”

You exit your Power Armor and grab your stuff. Handing over ten caps, Arturo has you park the suit behind his counter. Before you leave, you make sure to take the fusion core with you. The weapons dealer waves as you make your way over to Power Noodles.

MacCready is on his second bowl of noodles when you sit next to him, ordering your own bowl from Takahashi. The Protectron cook is looking well maintained. Still can only say the one line, but that’s how the folks in Diamond City prefer him. Arturo once told you that any offer to fix the noodle server’s voice box has been always been shot down. A weird concept to you.

The robot’s noodles are as good as you remember.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to talk to you,” says MacCready, polishing off his second bowl. “And I suppose this is as good of time as any.”

“You got my attention,” you reply, quietly slurping the noodles.

“After helping me back at the library and getting Duncan’s cure from Med-Tek, I figure I owe you something,” he continues, a little tense. “...and I always pay my debts.”

“This has been eating at you for a while, huh?” you question, eyeing the man next to you. MacCready nods, not looking at you. The merc is holding his head in his hands and using the counter to support his elbows.

“Honestly,” he says stiffly, “I’m not sure where I’d be right now if you hadn’t come along with us. Banking on Sinclair’s password was a risk, but I blindly hoped it would work. You being able to crack the security system? That probably saved me from going psycho and getting myself killed in there.”

Ignoring your noodle bowl, you listen attentively to your companion. He takes a deep breath before rummaging into a hidden breast pocket of his duster.

“Here,” he says, holding out a closed fist. “I wanted you to have this.”

Curiously, you extend your hand to him. MacCready places a small, wooden object in your hand. A carved toy soldier, you observe. Gently rubbing your thumb over it, you wipe off some dust from the toy. It’s surprisingly detailed, even with some of the paint fading off. Someone took a lot of time and effort to make this.

“I know a carved toy soldier is a strange reward for risking your life,” continues MacCready, rubbing the back of his neck. “But this one’s special...it means a lot to me.”

Part of you wants to be snarky and ask him if he made this, but it doesn’t feel like the right time for sarcasm. In fact, this is probably the most serious you’ve seen him. Perhaps this is one of Duncan’s toys?

“Thank you,” you say, looking over every carved piece of the toy. “This is thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome. Just be sure you don’t lose it.”

“I don’t plan to,” you say, setting the toy next to your noodle bowl. A small grin quirks at your lips. It looks like the soldier’s guarding your food. MacCready pokes the soldier so it looks like it’s defending your food from him.

“My wife Lucy gave this to me right after we met,” he says distantly. You’re not surprised to find out he’s married. Duncan had to pop out from somewhere, after all. “I...I uh, told her I was a soldier and she made it for me. I never could bring myself to tell her the truth. That I was just a hired killer.”

“A mercenary,” you define with emphasis, as if it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. “A person primarily concerned with making money at the expense of ethics, or a soldier hired to serve in a foreign army. By definition, you weren’t lying. You’re from the Capital Wasteland, and the Gunners are based out of the Commonwealth.” He smiles sadly at you.

“The soldier story was the best thing I could come up with,” MacCready says with a sad laugh. “I didn’t want to lose her because of what I was.”

“Yeah, I can understand that feeling,” you sigh, removing your greaser jacket and setting it across your lap. “Your wife, she ever find out?”

“No,” he says somberly. “It doesn’t really matter anymore...she died a few years back.”

“Oh, shit,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, man. What happened?”

“We made the mistake of holing up in a metro station one night. We didn’t know that the place was infested with ferals.”

You wince, knowing where this was going. Biting your lip, you remind yourself that MacCready isn’t from the Commonwealth and probably didn’t know at the time that metro stations are feral hot spots here. What a way to learn...

“They were on her before I could even fire a shot,” he whispers. “Ripped her apart right in front of me. There was nothing I could do. Took everything I had just to escape with Duncan in my arms.”

MacCready looks broken as he reminiscences, his eyes misty. You’ve never initiated a hug in your life, but jeez, for the first time, you really want to. It wouldn’t be the first time, he hugged you at the Castle...so it would be okay, right? This is an appropriate time to?

“Maybe it would have been better if we’d died there with her…”

Snapping your arms out, you awkwardly pull MacCready in for a tight hug. Your face red from the contact, but your heart angry at his words. His chin settles on your shoulder as he loosely returns the embrace.

“You listen closely, Robert,” you hiss, using his first name. “No one deserves to die like that. You lost your wife, but you saved your son. That counts for something.”

You feel his arms tighten around you, returning the hug in earnest.

“Damn,” he whispers. “I miss Lucy.”

“Good,” you reply. “That means you cared.”

“Oi!” grunts a Diamond City guard, making the two of you quickly pull apart and stare at him. “You and your mercenary friend keep your guns in your pants, capiche?”

You and MacCready share a bewildered look as the guard walks away. But...neither of you had your guns out?

The hell was that about?

“Well,” you huff playfully, crossing your arms with a pout. “Now I don’t want to!”

MacCready cracks a smile and chuckles at you.

“Grab a drink at the Dugout Inn?” you offer with an apologetic grin.

“That sounds great right now. Lead on.”

Chapter Text

Dugout Inn, despite it’s location in Diamond City, smells pretty much the same as the Third Rail. Though, you suppose you’re less likely to be stabbed, robbed, or witness a drug and/or sex deal here. The real difference is the bartenders. While Charlie is a grumpy, no nonsense robot, Vadim is a comedic, all nonsense kind of guy.

This usually makes the Dugout Inn a nice place to grab a drink.

Usually.

“I love this place,” grins MacCready. “Vadim is a character.”

“Last time I was here,” you start with a smile, “McDonough had denied me a permit for opening up a garage in Diamond City. Something about it looking bad for the community. Vadim gave me a drink on the house and offered me a waitressing job. He was quite sad when I passed on the offer.”

“Sound like Vadim, alright,” laughs MacCready, nearing the bar. “Vadim! Still killing people with your moonshine?”

“McCready!” joyfully greets Vadim. “Is good to see you, tovarisch.” The bartender spies you right behind the mercenary. “And the Armored Angel! Is a gathering day of old friends!”

“Hey, Vadim,” you wave with a teasing grin. “Haven’t replaced me in your heart already, have you?”

“Replace you, my stal'noy tsvetok?” he teases back, feigning horror before breaking out in a wide grin. “Never.”

You laugh as MacCready sits at the bar. Vadim turns his attention back to the man.

“How is Lucy, my friend?” asks Vadim cheerfully. MacCready freezes at the question. “She still as beautiful as I remember?”

You sigh softly as you join Maccready at the bar.

“No…” mumbles a somber MacCready. “She didn’t make it, Vadim.”

Vadim stiffens in shock before quickly recovering.

“I’m sorry,” sincerely apologizes the Russian man. “Mouth tends to be faster than brain. Tell you what, I give you drinks on the house...for old times.”

MacCready manages a weak grin.

“Thanks,” replies MacCready, grateful. “You were always a real stand-up kind of guy, Vadim. Let’s drink.”

Vadim goes straight for a bottle of his best moonshine and pours MacCready a shot. He leaves the bottle for your companion. MacCready downs the shot and is quick to fill another. You ask for a bourbon and cola. Vadim chuckles and prepares your drink. He remembers you ordering it last time. Holding your glass towards MacCready, he clinks his glass with yours. You both take a drink.

MacCready cheers up after the second shot of moonshine hits him.

“So, my friend, tell me. Diamond City Radio—it’s terrible, yes?” asks Vadim. You can hear Vadim’s brother Yefim groaning and rolling his eyes. “Quiet, Yefim! But you, the radio makes you want to cut your own ears off?”

“There’s a reason I stopped listening to the radio,” you shrug. “No offense, but Diamond City radio is pretty bad compared to what the Atom Cats played in the garage.”

“Yes! See!” Vadim exclaims pointing at you while staring at his brother. “Radio is bad for business, makes customers unhappy. I think someone needs to get rid of him, if you know what I mean.”

“Vadim!” scolds Yafim, slightly horrified.

Meanwhile, you wonder how the hell you look like the mercenary between you and MacCready.

“Bit extreme,” you say sipping your drink. “Has he tried yoga?”

Vadim and MacCready burst out laughing while Yafim lets out a sigh of relief.

“He is only joking,” clarifies Yafim. “We do not actually want to harm Travis. Poor Travis, he means well, but he does not have the confidence for that job...or anything else, really. He expects he will fail everything, and so he does.”

“Sounds like he needs something to go right in his life,” you mumble, not really understanding.

“Exactly,” smiles Vadim. “I have plan. Travis needs to believe in himself, yes? Believe he is capable of more. Bar fights good for this! You ever been in bar fight?”

“I can hold my own against a few drunkards, if that’s what you mean,” you reply, quickly figuring out where this was going.

“She’s telling you the truth!” giggles MacCready, downing another shot. “Saw her beat down a man in the Third Rail.”

“Good, good!” smirks Vadim. “I have people I have hired to take a fall for money. These guys will be here…” the man looks over at a clock on the wall. “Very soon, actually. They will pull Travis into fight. You help him win, Travis has something to be proud of, all ends well!”

“Well, that’s awfully optimistic,” you frown. “What if—”

“There’s Travis!” interrupts Vadim. “And there’s Bull and Gouger right behind him! Go! Go!”

How did you get roped into this? MacCready is literally sitting next to you. Although, if he doesn’t slow down on the moonshine, he’s not going to be seated for much longer.

“I-I don’t want any trouble,” you hear Travis quiver behind you. A grown man quivering. Sighing, you down the rest of your drink and stand up. Vadim shoots you an appreciative smile.

Your drink better be free for this.

“Hey pal,” you greet, standing next to him, eyeing up the two men harassing him. Bull particularly gives you a nasty smirk. Guess he’s your partner for this dance. “Looks like you might need a hand, here.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this!” he panics. “I just wish they’d go away.”

“Then do something about it,” you deadpan as if the answer is obvious.

“NO!” he screeches. Travis eyes up the men fearfully. “That...that could get violent…”

“Relax,” you encourage. “I got your back on this.”

Travis bites his lips as he takes a second to weigh his options. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t figured out Bull and Gouger are clearly staged. No real fight would allow someone this kind of time. Good thing Travis is in Diamond City and not outside of the walls. He would get eaten alive out there.

Eventually, Travis does find his balls.

“That’s…well, that’s enough,” he hesitantly defends. Bull is laughing at him and his buddy isn’t too far behind.

“Oh, did you say something?” sneers Bull.

“I said that’s enough!” shouts Travis, gaining the attention of the bar. “Leave me alone.”

“Or what?” mocks Bull. “You’re going to send your little girlfriend after me?”

“Big words,” you sneer back with a nasty smirk. Bull’s eyes drift back over to you. “For a man wearing the same outfit as the little girl. Looks like one of us is going to need to change.” He looks genuinely annoyed with your statement.

“I mean it! Leave us alone!” repeats Travis, sounding mad.

It felt like you blinked for a moment during the banter and then fists started flying.

Travis lands the first punch on Bull’s friend, much to everyone’s surprise. The boy has a lot of pent up anger and no longer has any issue taking it out on Gouger. Bull swings hard at you, most likely to get back at you for your comment on his clothes. The one thing growing up in a raider gang taught you is how to dodge and weave blows. Bull gets increasingly angrier as his fists miss you each time.

It doesn’t take long for Bull to forget about his deal with Vadim and go after you in earnest. It’s what you expected, honestly. The guy had a look in his eye that reminded you of some of the raiders you grew up with. But eventually, stamina has to run out and people leave openings. Dodging a particularly sloppy punch, you jab him twice in the nose. Bull falls to the ground next to his partner panting, bleeding, and very angry.

“This is bullshit,” hisses Bull as he and Gouger pick themselves up and leave the bar. You watch them carefully as they leave, half expecting them to turn around and pull out a gun. Only when they have both left, do you turn your attention to Travis. His eyes are blown wide, he’s panting, and clearly tripping on adrenaline.

“I can’t believe it,” he wheezes. “We did it!” You grin and give him a thumbs up. “I-I have things I need to do now! I can’t thank you enough!”

As Travis makes a hasty exit from the bar, Vadim is laughing behind his counter. He jabs at the air, pretending to punch someone. MacCready is swaying in his chair, grinning like an idiot, having watched the show.

“I think that went well!” cheers the bartender. “Now we need next part of foolproof plan.”

“Wait, there’s more?” you question, ordering a water.

“Yes!” he grins at you. “Now that he’s got his blood flowing, he is at good point to have a lady friend over. It is best time while he’s still buzzed from fight.”

You see this ending badly. Very badly. You can’t just magically get a guy like that laid. Vadim grins at you expectantly.

Oh, oh hell no.

MacCready seems to have reached the same conclusion and is scowling at Vadim.

“Look, buddy,” you hiss, crossing your arms. “A bar fight? Sure, no problem, but you want me to get Travis laid? You better have a different girl in mind.”

Vadim looks nervous as he catches your companion’s gaze. The Russian hold up his hands in surrender.

“No worries!” he says quickly. “I do have different girl in mind!”

You’re not sure about the whole, convincing Scarlett to go see Travis thing. Sounds like a real bad plan, but you agree to try. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it makes no difference to you.

But first…

“Ok, RJ,” you say, taking his bottle away. He whines until you sling his arm over your shoulder and tightly wrap an arm around his waist to support him. “Time for you to go lay down.”

“Thanks, Angel!” he slurs, unable to walk. You support his full weight and bring him over to Yefim. Yefim has you plop him in room three. MacCready is unconscious before you finish getting him through the door. You take a moment to get him on the bed and turn him over on his side. Closing the door behind you, you walk back over to Yefim and hand him twenty caps. He gives you the keys to both rooms two and three. Shoving them in your pocket you go to find Scarlett.

The night air of Diamond City smells crisp and slightly salty. Meandering around the town, you find Scarlett taking a smoke break near Travis’ place. Vadim’s plan suddenly seems a lot less foolish and more weighty with this information.

Convincing Scarlett to go see Travis is one of the awkwardest things you’ve ever done. Wingwoman isn’t exactly something you would put on your list of skills, but by some miracle, you are actually able to get her to go visit him. If she didn’t already have an interest in the guy, you’re sure she would have told you to fuck off and mind your own business.

After watching Scarlett make her way to Travis’ place, you plop down on one of the nearby benches. You don’t feel quite ready to go back to the bar right now. Instead, you relax in the empty park. Reaching into your jacket pocket, you pull out the toy soldier.

You haven’t had time to process the meaning of the gift. In the Commonwealth, giving another person memorabilia of their late spouse has major implications. Usually of the feelings kind. Does MacCready giving you this mean something more than repaying a debt? You’re not sure. He’s a Capital Wasteland boy, so he might not know the significance of such a gesture. Or the significance of you keeping the figurine after finding out his wife made it.

Regardless of his intention, you promised him not to lose the toy. Pulling off a piece of your shoe string, you carefully knot it around the soldier. Tugging the knots tight, you turn the toy into a necklace. You tie the string around your neck and tuck the toy under your shirt. With one last deep breath, you haul yourself to your feet and make your way back to the Inn.

Chapter Text

Yefim is in hysterics when you walk back into the bar.

“Woah! Easy!” you say, putting a hand on Yefim’s shoulder. “Calm down and tell me what happened?”

“They took Vadim!” he rushes. “The ones that messed with Travis? They came back! Said Vadim owed them money, and they had a deal. He wouldn’t pay and they grabbed him and said they’d make him pay—please, get him back! He’s an idiot but his my brother.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you say taking your hand off his shoulder. “Do you know where they would have taken him?”

“No,” he frowns worriedly. “But talk to Travis, maybe he knows where they took him. I’d go with you, but someone needs to stay here.”

You nod and go to room three. Maccready is still passed out from drinking. Shaking his shoulder yields no response. Slapping his face a bit and talking does nothing either. He’s still breathing, but is completely out cold. Biting your lip, you realize MacCready won’t be any help.

Placing the key to his room on the nightstand, you make sure your laser pistol is on and loaded. Closing the door to MacCready’s room, you dash out of the bar and towards Travis’ home.

Sunlight harshly hits MacCready’s eyes. His head pounds. How many shots did he drink, anyway? Sitting up, MacCready finds himself in one of the Dugout’s rooms and a room key next to him. Snagging the key, he slowly hauls himself to his feet and makes his way back to the bar.

“Good morning, tovarisch!” greets Vadim, enthusiastically. He laughs when MacCready groans out a greeting. “Sounds like you need Vadim’s best cure for hangover, no?”

“Get me the greasiest hangover cure you got,” grumbles MacCready. Deep laughter pierces his ears as a can of purified water is set in front of him. He takes it gratefully and downs it. Vadim hands him another, but MacCready eyes it hesitantly.

“No worries, friend!” cheers the bartender, serving up some sort of greasy meat and razorgrain concoction. “It’s on the house! Least I can do for what your friend did for me last night.”

MacCready nods and cracks open the second can. He chews his first bite slowly as he tries to remember last night. Oh, right. You were helping Vadim with getting Travis not to suck. From the sound on the radio, seems like it was a success.

“Glad the radio thing worked out,” he mumbles into another bite of food.

“Radio?” questions Vadim. “No, no! Well, yes, she did that, too, but I mean she and Travis saved my life last night!”

MacCready coughed as he choked a little on his breakfast. Swallowing a gulp of water, he listens as Vadim catches him up on what he missed last night.

Vadim tells him how Travis and yourself heroically rushed to his rescue, upon finding out he was taken. MacCready listens attentively, sure something things are exaggerated, but he’s not sure which bits. You hacking the security system and letting hell rain down on raiders from turrets? Plausible, he’s seen you do that before. Travis being the one to actually save Vadim from Bull holding him at gunpoint? He’s sure something in that is made up. The only real thing MacCready is sure of, is his temper slowly flaring as Vadim continues to tell the tale of what happened when he was passed out from drinking.

“There she is! My heroine!” bellows out Vadim as he spies you crawl out of room two. MacCready eyes you critically from the corner of his peripheral vision. You clearly haven't slept much, but you don’t look injured. “Breakfast on house, stal'noy tsvetok! Feel free to use the showers free of charge, too!”

“Thanks, Vadim,” you yawn. Tiredly, you nod at MacCready, thinking his expression is due to being hungover. You rest your forehead against the counter top of the bar. “Got any Nuka?”

“Of course!” he says, sliding you a Nuka-Cola Cherry and some of whatever food MacCready is having.

You gratefully take it and crack the drink open. Taking a long drink, the caffeine wakes you as it enters your system. Upon taking a bite of food, it dawns on you that MacCready hasn’t acknowledged you.

“You okay, RJ?” you ask, swallowing the food. Your eyebrows shoot up as he stands up abruptly and storms back to his room. The door slams behind him. You stare bewildered at Vadim. “What did I miss?”

Vadim frowns as he looks in the direction of room three.

“I only tell him what he missed last night,” he accents in concern. He looks at you with an apologetic smile. “I don’t think he liked being excluded. You talk to him, yes? I think he will listen to you, podrooga.”

You shove a large bite of food in your mouth and chug down the rest of your cola. A belch escapes you as you stand. Walking over to MacCready’s room, you gently knock on the door. He does not answer. Testing the doorknob, you find the room unlocked. Licking your lips, you gradually open the door.

“Hey, it’s me,” you say as you peak into the room. MacCready is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. Taking no response as a good response, you slowly enter the room and close the door behind you. Hesitating, you consider leaving, but you already shut the door. Instead, you make your way over to the bed and sit down next to him. His lack of response bothers you more than you thought it would.

The silence is uncomfortable.

“Did you know you sleep like the dead when drunk?” you ask lowly, trying to break the silence with humor. You find yourself unable to look away from the peeling wall in front of you. “Tried shaking, shouting, even slapped your cheeks a bit. Half expected you to bolt up with your rifle.” A dry laugh escapes you. MacCready doesn’t move from his position.

“When you didn’t,” you continue, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. “I checked your breathing. I wanted you with me, but we didn’t have time for you to come back from dreamland. Vadim would have been executed had Travis and I been a few minutes later.”

A sigh of frustration comes from your companion. MacCready looks over at you with a hard expression. His eyes drop to your neck and soften. You tense as he reaches for your neck. When he gently holds the toy solider necklace, you force yourself to relax.

“I know that,” he says, voice cracking. He frowns and moves his lips around as if he can’t decide on what to say. “It’s just…”

“Just?” you encourage after a moment of silence. He sighs again as he rubs his thumb over the solider. You find yourself transfixed on his hand.

“You and Nate are the closest things to family I got out here,” he admits. “I don’t think I could forgive myself if something happened to you. Especially if I was there, but didn’t help.”

You open your mouth to remind him that it was the plan to go out for drinks, but he cuts you off.

“As we’ve been traveling and spending time together,” he continues lowly. “I’m finding it easier to share my feelings around you. You’ve helped me more than I deserved. Your friendship means a lot to me.”

“I care about you more than a friend.”

Your entire body stiffens as you feel MacCready jerk his gaze up to your face, but you refuse to move your eyes from the toy in his hand. You hadn’t meant to voice that. The guy literally told you about his dead wife yesterday. What the hell is wrong with you?

“More than a friend?” he echos, with an unfamiliar tone. Heat radiates from your head. MacCready studies your face closely.

Deflecting with flirtation wouldn’t work at this point. You already dug the grave. Might as well lay in it.

“Yeah...” you whisper.

If the silence was uncomfortable before, you find it suffocating now.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

Nervously, you flick your eyes up a bit to his mouth. To your utmost surprise, he’s smiling. What? That makes no sense. Slowly, you raise your gaze to meet his eyes.

Oh, oh shit. Were his eyes always that blue?

Are you breathing? You shakily inhale through your nose. Are you breathing loud? Do you normally breathe loud? It’s suddenly all you can focus on. Despite thoughts zooming through your head at a breakneck speed, you are astutely aware of him tugging on the necklace.

Every thought halts when his lips gently connect to yours.

When he pulls away, all you can do is stare at him like an idiot. He...that...that happened, right? After moment your brain catches up.

“Uhh…” you start dumbly. “So, uh...does this mean you also...or...?”

MacCready grins widely at you. He rests his forehead against yours, holding your gaze.

“I plan on walking this Earth with you ‘til the day I die,” he smirks in a low tone. His fingers tangle in the back of your hair. “Does that give you enough of a clue?”

“Oh,” you fluster. The blood flushing your face makes it burn hotter. “Uh...yeah...” you croak weakly.

Warm air of his light laugh brushes over your nose his mouth. A passing thought about morning breathe is swept away as he leans forward again. This time, you’re a bit more prepared for a kiss.

Knocking at the door interrupts the kiss.

“Time’s almost up,” warns Yafim’s muffled voice. “You stick around, I’m charging you for another night.”

You laugh at the absurdity of the situation, MacCready—RJ—following suit. Face still warm, you grin widely your—boyfriend? Partner? At RJ. You feel sheepish and a bit shy as you scratch your face.

“I got an extra ten caps...” you say offhandedly. RJ blinks in surprise before a wide smirk stretches across his face. He leans up and gently kisses your forehead.

“I got the room, beautiful.”

Chapter Text

The next morning finds you naked and curled into the arms of an equally bare RJ. There’s a crick in your neck from using his bony shoulder as a pillow, but it’s still a warm and cozy wake up. You can smell yourself and feel a strong need to shower. Yawning, you shift a little to try get comfier. The movement rouses your partner.

RJ pulls you closer to him. Burying his face in your hair, he takes a deep breath through his nose before yawning. Loosing his grip, you take the opportunity to wiggle back a bit to look at his face. Slowly, he cracks an eye open at you and smiles gently.

“Morning,” you greet softly. Tiredly, he glances around the room, eventually looking out the window to get an idea of the time. With a groan he pulls you on top of him and presses his face into your shoulder, as if trying to hide from the new day. You giggle a bit at his behavior before rolling off him, back to his side.

“Ready to face the day?” he asks, stretching his limbs.

“After a shower, yes,” you reply, sitting up. All traces of sleep disappear as he perks up at this.

“Mind if I join?” he grins suggestively. A devious grin pulls at your lips.

“Not at all,” you purr. RJ looks intensely at you, a smirk on his face. “But we’d be only showering.”

The smirk falls.

“What’s the point then?” he pouts, tucking his arms behind his head.

“Besides getting clean?” you grin slyly. He stares blankly at you. “I take it your not a fan of showers?”

“Don’t like getting wet,” he states. “Sex at least balances the experience.”

“You don’t think bathing can be more intimate than sex?”

“No way.”

You raise your eyebrows before smiling. Tugging on his elbow, you get him to sit up.

“Let me prove you wrong,” you whisper into his ear. RJ raises a suggestive eyebrow at you, but decides to humor you with a smile.

The Dugout Inn is probably one of the only places in the Commonwealth with lukewarm showers. RJ allows you to pull him along into the shower area. He watches you turn a dial to get the water moving. The “shower” is a single stream of water coming out of a tall pipe, but still very much a luxury. A luxury he can’t appreciate. What’s so great about just a shower, anyway?

RJ is sure he knows exactly to expect when you direct him to stand under the stream of water. So far, it’s nothing special. Tepid water and the uncomfortably moist sensation of water running down his body, but your eyes spark a curiosity in him.

You grin at your partner, trying not to laugh. He looks like an unhappy wet rat.

Watching you intensely, RJ is glad that he, at the very least, gets a nice view of your naked body. As you grab a bar of soap, he prepares to be disappointed. A part of him was still hoping for steamier shower activities. He gets hopeful for a moment when you pull him closer to you, out of the stream of water. That hope is dashed when you start rubbing the bar of soap in his hair.

Honestly, why do people enjoy thi—

Whoa.

Your fingers feel amazing as they work the soap into his scalp. He can almost feel the months-worth of dirt and grime be freed from his head. A content sigh passes through his lips as his shoulders relax. You place your forehead against his and give him a chaste kiss. Any intent he has on deepening the kiss halts when you increase the pressure of your scrubbing on his scalp.

He groans, okay that feels amazing.

When you gently push him back under the shower, you are careful to keep the soap out of his eyes. RJ figures while, that was nice, he’s not sure he would call it imitate.

It’s your next move, that changes his mind.

You don’t ask him to wash your hair in return, instead you slowly begin washing his body. Starting at his neck, he’s a little leery, but you are gentle with your movements. Pausing every now and then to look in his eyes to make sure he’s still comfortable, he finds himself feeling oddly shy.

When you move onto his arms, the shyness become a little more intense. Arm pits, elbows, nail beds, you don’t leave a single area untouched. It’s not so bad when you move onto his chest, but it flares again when you scrub his hips.

Then it happens.

His chest fills with anxiety as you rub soap on his inner thighs. Robert Joseph MacCready is no virgin. He’s been married, he has a son for fuck’s sake, so why the hell is he suddenly feeling panicked and exposed? You grip his hip, pausing and looking him in the eyes. Eyes that are still warm, understanding, and will definitely stop if he says so.

Intimacy without expectation. Can something like this, actually exist? He can see it in your eyes. It scares him.

RJ calms himself down and smiles weakly at you. You give him an affectionate smile back, but still patiently wait for his consent to continue. He swallows thickly. Hesitantly, he nods at you. Titling your head, you rub your soapy thumb on his hip, but wait for him to gather himself. He breathes out an awkward laugh, but grins more surely. With his new nod more confident, you continue to wash him.

Holding a hand up to his face, RJ is thankful the water is cooling his rapidly heating face.

Finally, you direct him back under the shower to rinse. He runs a hand through his now clean hair. Okay, you were right, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

What does surprise him is when you start cleaning yourself rapidly. RJ stares bewildered at you as you quickly scrub yourself with the bar of soap, not even giving him the option to return the favor.

“H-hey,” he protests with a frown. “I’m supposed to be doing that!”

“Next time,” you wink, trading places with him under the shower to quick rinse off. As he opens his mouth to complain, the water cuts off.

“Time’s up,” knocks Yafim at the door. “Water’s not cheap, you know.”

RJ looks between you and the door. You grin slyly at him before stepping out of the shower area. His eyes narrow playfully at you.

Oh, you are not getting away with that.

After drying off and changing back into your clothes, you and RJ get ready to make your way back to Goodneighbor. You giggle at RJ’s hair when it dries exceptionally poofy. He scowls at you, but his expression cracks and he ends up laughing along with you. Before collecting your suit from Arturo, you swing by Polly’s for some good steaks as a final souvenir. Dinner tonight is going to be delicious.

Goodneighbor is exactly how the two of you left it. Dirty and reeking of foul trash.

Home sweet home.

RJ follows you back to your shop, watching you as you exit your Power Armor and return it to it’s cage. Everything, despite a layer of dust, looks pretty much how you left it. The only signs of trouble are the dried blood stains outside your door.

It’s a surprise there’s not a body to accompany the stains.

“I’m going to go check on Daisy and go talk to Hancock,” says RJ. He plants a kiss on the top of your head. “Be back in a bit.”

You can feel Daisy’s curious gaze burning a hole in your back as RJ makes his way over to her shop. She’ll have the details soon. Unlocking your front door, you dump your bag onto your bed. An unopened bottle of Bobrov’s Best and a wrapped package of brahmin meat from Polly’s tumble out, along with a thick sack of caps.

Reaching under your bed, you pull out your lock box. Adding Nate’s caps to you box, you meticulous recount every cap inside. A wide grin stretches across your face.

Finally, you got the money.

Tossing the stuffed box inside your backpack, you wipe off your chalkboard and exit your shack. RJ is still chatting with Daisy, so you decide to check on your security turrets. You want your plan for the money to be a surprise. The turrets have clearly been activated a few times in your absence, but that’s the way Goodneighbor is. You’re just happy no one managed to get inside your house and steal your caps.

Once RJ heads to the State House, you make your move.

“Welcome back, hon. I suppose congratulations are in order,” smirks Daisy at you. The tips of your ears feel hot under her gaze, but you can’t help the grin that splits across your face. Daisy’s smirk fades into a more content smile. “I’m happy for you and MacCready.”

“Thanks,” you say, scratching your head. Daisy laughs at you as assesses you.

“Can’t say I didn’t expect it,” she shrugs. “I figured you two would be good friends. Guess it’s a little more than that now.”

“A bit,” you tease, digging into your bag. You triumphantly slam the box on her counter. The jingle inside makes Daisy’s eyes widen.

“I-is that?” she inquires hesitantly.

“It is,” you grin delighted. “I got it, Daisy. Just recounted it. Count it yourself. It’s there!”

The ghoul gently grabs the box and opens it under her counter, away from prying eyes.

“Oh my god!” she whispers. “It’s all there.” Daisy whips her head back up at you. A massive grin overtakes her face. “Christ, you actually did it!”

“Can we still go ahead with the plan?” you ask, eyes serious. Daisy laughs jovially.

“Of course we can, hon!” she smiles kindly. Daisy gives you a wink. “I’ll take it from here. It’ll take a bit of time, but your package should take about three or so weeks to arrive.”

“I look forward to it,” you smile.

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

Chapter Text

You liked how RJ just seemed to fit with your life.

RJ made himself at home at your place after a few days of being back in Goodneighbor. Since he was waiting on Nate, he didn’t feel a real need to spend his extra time at the Third Rail looking for work. Instead, he spent it with you.

It’s harder to leave your warm bed in the morning with RJ there, but you manage it somehow. Every morning you put on the toy soldier necklace and tuck it into your shirt. It’s such a part of your daily outfit now, you almost feel naked without it. The weight of the necklace makes you feel secure, like you put on a plate of neck armor instead piece of jewelry.

RJ joins you in the shop most days. Usually, he’s leaning against a wall, chatting with you about whatever topic comes to mind as you repair something. Sometimes it’s about the piece your working on, sometimes about guns, and other times it’s about Duncan. “Shop talk” is usually generic, stuff he doesn’t mind others overhearing. He absolutely loves watching you get riled up when he brings up laser muskets. It’s one of the few topics that make you rant passionately. You had asked him why he enjoys tormenting you with laser muskets.

“Your eyes go wide and I can tell every thought going through your head...and you get this cute little angry blush across your nose,” he had teased in response.

The mercenary’s presence at the shop has had an interesting impact on your business. Most regulars don’t even bat an eye at RJ being there, but some have taken to being extra polite around you. Particularly some of the more difficult customers that your turrets usually need to give a warning beep at.

Then there are people like Wayne Delancy.

Delancy ranks as one of your top three least favorite customers. You hate working on his equipment because of the blood lust gaze he watches you with. But after he saw RJ in your shop? A rival gun for hire?

Shit took a creepy turn.

It started as idle conversation, which was already weird. Delancy never chitchats. How’ve you been? How was your time away from Goodneighbor? All little questions you answer as vaguely as possible, while trying to be professional. Then they start getting weird. How long have you needed protection? Why didn’t you come to him instead?

“I can take care of you,” Delancy all but purred. The hairs on your neck stood up. Yeah, sure. He can ‘take care’ of people alright. Just like he ‘took care’ of Selmy and her young child when she hired him. Kid didn’t even live to see his second birthday.

The line between hitman and mercenary is thin, but Delancy acts more like a raider then a hired gun. He probably takes just as many hits of Psycho as one, too.

RJ began loudly cleaning his rifle in response, his eyes never leaving Delancy’s. Both men had a dark glint in their glares, both waiting for the other to make the wrong move. That was a stressful armor repair, but damn if you weren’t grateful for having RJ there. His being there may have caused the tension, but it also felt nice knowing someone was in your corner.

After you close up shop for the day, you and RJ make your way to Daisy’s. RJ chats warmly with Daisy, while you drop off some fixed junk and buy groceries. Sometimes RJ trades some random items he’s “procured” for caps that he gives Daisy to send back to Capital Wasteland. You’re probably the only one who knows that she’s been holding onto the caps to give them back to him once Duncan arrives.

You’ve taken to having a couple of Gwinnett stouts on hand, usually for cooking. To no one’s surprise, RJ isn’t that great of a cook. He’s tried to make dinner a few times for the both of you, but it usually ends up being a hard to swallow mess. His culinary skills are limited to a box of Blamco and roasting hunks of meat over an open flame. Meanwhile, you’ve put forth the effort and caps to impress him with your cooking. So far, he’s a big fan of your stews, roasted carrots, and when you cook meat in beer. RJ is a bigger fan of holding you from behind, watching you cook with his chin on your shoulder.

The half empty beer he gets when you cook is an added bonus.

It never crossed your mind that you may have been touch-starved until after you started dating. Before, you rarely needed, or wanted, to touch people. Now at night your always clinging to RJ, finding someway to be pushed up next to him. Your favorite is when you read together, curled up in bed. An issue of Grognak in his hands, and a new book in yours.

An evening with RJ is never short of laughs. He’s goofy and always manages to get several cackles out of you. It’s also filled with more private topics of conversation that are too personal for the garage. Listening to RJ’s time as Mayor MacCready of Little Lamplight is simultaneously the funniest and saddest thing you’ve ever heard.

You tell RJ more in-depth stories about your time as a raider and an Atom Cat. Didn’t feel right having Deacon know more about you than your partner did. RJ found it an absolute riot that you had poetry night with the Atom Cats. He jokingly made ridiculously bad poetry up on the spot to tease you about it. As embarrassing as it was, it did make you giggle, listening to him try his hand at poetry.

RJ did not like the story behind your laser pistol. Had it been today, he would have put a bullet between your old raider boss’ eyes himself. A thirteen-year-old kid having to decide being raped as a birthday gift, or shank her boss in the neck with a switchblade to protect herself? You had balls as a kid, choosing the latter.

It was stories like yours that reminded him why Lamplight had a good reason to distrust all adults. He thinks you would have fit in perfectly at the settlement with the other Lamplighters. Zip and Squirrel would have loved you and probably would have adopted you. The three of you would have been a terrifying force to be reckoned with.

On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you three never met.

When it comes to his past with the Gunners, RJ is pretty hesitant to get into detail about it. The stuff he does tell you is pretty spot on for what the Gunners are known for. Killing without a moral compass, killing to raise themselves in the ranks, killing for better gear, occasionally killing each other if someone doesn’t split up the loot equally. He told you the caps were good, which meant he took part in more than a few Gunner missions.

A group really had to be fucked up for McCappy to say someone’s caps aren’t worth it.

Snuggling down for the night, your realize you’re happy. The happiest since the good years with the Atom Cats, happier even. RJ’s presence is like an addictive chem.

You hope the high doesn’t end.

“You okay?” asks RJ as he curls up next to you, tucking one arm under your neck.

“Hmm?” you hum questioningly, tilting the hat on your head up to get a better look at him. He looks intensely at your face.

“If something’s on your mind, I’d love to hear about it,” he encourages. You blink before giving him a smile.

“Just imaging what you’d look like in a Grognak costume,” you tease. His chest puffs out just a bit as he runs a hand through his light brown hair.

“I look good, right?” he smirks with a wink, tapping the brim of your hat—his hat, actually.

You burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

“Right??” he reiterates, grin slipping. Tears stream from your eyes as you hide your face in your elbow. RJ grouchily crosses his arms and looks away from you.

“Well fine,” he sniffs. “Guess I’m not good enough for the harness either.”

“Wait, that’s not—!”

He smirks slyly at you.

“You little shit,” you say, lightly hitting his chest. RJ breaks out into his own laughter.

“You love it.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Chapter Text

Today’s a slow day in town. Yellow visited you early in the morning for a sticky slide on his pipe gun, but after a quick repair of his gun, you had no more customers. RJ kept you company for a while before wandering over to Daisy’s. He is leaning against the wall dividing Daisy’s store from KL-E-O’s. A good vantage point to be able to keep you and Daisy in his sight. Daisy also hasn’t had much activity at her general store today and appreciates the mercenary’s company.

It’s been a while since you had some time to yourself, but you welcome the change of pace. It gives you ample opportunity to show your own pistol some love. Mods are nice and all, but a gun needs to be in a good state of repair to function optimally. Replacing the worn-out bits and pieces of your pistol is easy enough with the spare scrap from your component bins. A few new screws here, a new piece of circuitry there, but the real work comes from gently cleaning out the dust and dirt from the internals.

You lower your welding goggles to get a better look at your weapon. When the harsh sun hits your eyes, you pull down the brim of RJ’s hat to shield your pupils from the bright rays. The servicing takes a couple hours to complete. Your personal gun will always be maintained with a higher level of care than your standard repair job, but you’ll never tell your customers that.

Pistol maintenance complete, you attach your mods back onto your now clean gun. Fastening the last screw, the gates of Goodneighbor open, causing you to glance up. The tallest ghoul you have ever seen walks into town with his shotgun drawn. Jerry of the Neighborhood Watch and his partner keep a close eye on him and his gun.

Lifting an eyebrow, you appreciate the ghoul’s gun. Now that is a nice example of what a modified combat shotgun should look like. Drum magazine, glow sights, compensator...you’re willing to bet caps it has an advanced receiver, too. Above all, it’s well maintained. Dirty, but it doesn’t take a trained eye to see his weapon is well cared for.

You push your hat up to get a better look at the newcomer. A few tufts of red hair peak out of his otherwise bald head. His dirty leather armor is well made—road leathers with modifications strategically worked in—and shows signs of wear. You want to know if he does his own repairs, or if he has a guy for that. He doesn’t appear hostile, but is looking lost as he scans the shops. Whoever this guy is, it’s clear he has never set foot in Goodneighbor before, but has most likely heard enough about the town to keep his guard up and his gun out.

He catches your unabashed staring. You tilt your head trying to get a better look at his equipment. The ghoul assess you for a brief moment before his gaze moves on. When his eyes lock on Daisy’s shop sign, he calls over his shoulder at someone. Two more guards filter in with a kid between them.

You still at the child.

There’s no doubt about it. Paler, but just as scrawny as his dad. He’s like a short, scruff-less RJ.

Duncan has arrived.

RJ notices the ghoul first.

“Charon?” questions RJ in surprised confusion. “What are you doing in Good—”

“Dad!”

RJ whips his head towards the voice. His words die on his lips as the child barrels into his stomach. Sinking to his knees, he grips his son in a tight and bewildered hug. It’s almost comical how he tries to form words, but everything he tries to say comes out in incomprehensible sputters. The child has a death-grip on his father’s duster, as if he’ll disappear if he lets go.

Sitting on the stone wall between yours and Daisy’s shops, you watch the reunion with a soft smile on your face. Yes, you think to yourself, this feels right. This is how it should be.

Daisy has a gentle look on her face as she talks with the ghoul—Charon. He must be the head of the little outfit of mercenaries. It somehow doesn’t surprise you that RJ would know the head mercenary. The ghoul pulls out a piece of paper and has Daisy sign it. She does so without hesitation. A contract, perhaps?

“D-Daisy,” sputter RJ. “Y-you—”

“Not me, loverboy,” winks Daisy, moving her gaze to you. Charon glances at RJ, then to you with a raised brow before turning his attention back to Daisy. RJ stares at you in blatant disbelief. You smile at him warmly as you fiddle absentmindedly with your necklace. Your smile weakens as you see the sun shimmer on his face.

RJ is crying.

Ruffling his son’s head, he slowly pulls away from his son. Duncan smiles at his dad. RJ closes the distant between you and crushes you in an embrace. His hat is almost knocked off your head.

“Thank you,” he chants in your ear, unable to formulate any other words. You pat his back comfortingly in response. Feeling eyes on you, your gaze is drawn to the child.

Duncan assess you with a stern and careful gaze.

Somehow, the calculating look of this child makes you more anxious than any customer you’ve ever had.

“You’re the lady who helped me?” accuses Duncan, sizing you up. Your eyebrows raise response. Were children normally so hostile? Kid has be...what, maybe five? Were you that hostile at his age?

Actually, nevermind. Bad example.

“Yes,” smiles RJ, composing himself. He crouches down in front of his son, introducing you. Following suit, you also crouch down to the child’s eye level. “She’s the lady who helped me get your medicine...and,” he glances at you with wet eyes, “helped you get to the Commonwealth. I owe her so, so much.”

The kid crosses his arms as he assess you again. This time, tilting his head as he studies you. He unimpressively eyes your hat and outfit before his gaze lingers on your necklace.

“Why do you have dad’s soldier?” asks Duncan with a frown.

“He gave it to me,” you answer honestly. Duncan stares you in the eyes, unwavering. You realize this kid’s eyes are brown, unlike his father’s blue eyes.

“You his girlfriend or somethin’?” he interrogates, almost mockingly. RJ is wiping his eyes and looking away with an amused smile on his face.

“That’s right,” you say with a smile, holding the child’s gaze. Duncan breaks eye contact with you to look at his dad’s face. Whatever answer the kid found in his dad’s eyes, the kid nodded approvingly.

“I guess you’ll do,” sniffs the child, before tightly hugging you. You flick your eyes up to RJ’s in bewilderment, stunned at the sudden contact. RJ is smiling warmly at you, eyes still red and puffy. You hesitantly return Duncan’s embrace, but find yourself chuckling. You get the feeling this kid is exactly like a miniature version of his father.

No wonder RJ was so desperate not to swear. This kid will see his dad do something, and follow it to a tee.

When the kid pulls away, he looks bravely at you. As if the kid’s eyes aren’t filling with tears and his lips not starting to tremble. It reminds you that Duncan is a child and has been trying to be strong. You slowly take off the toy soldier necklace and place it around his neck.

“There!” you grin. The child looks taken back. “Now it’s were it belongs.”

This one action broke Duncan. The child starts to sob in the store, his fists trying to hide his tears. You look to RJ for direction on how to handle this, but find him also hiding his fresh tears behind his hand. Chuckling softly, you reach out and gently ruffle both Duncan and RJ’s heads.

These two will be the death of you.

It a solid couple of minutes for the boys to compose themselves. Daisy and Charon watch the display of emotions while munching on a couple of mutfruits. RJ’s face is red from crying and embarrassment.

“Sorry you had to see that,” mumbles RJ to Daisy.

“Don’t apologize for loving your son, MacCready,” grins Daisy. “But if you’re done wetting my floors, I do have something to give back to you.”

“What?” responds RJ in confusion. Daisy reaches under her desk and pulls out a box of caps.

“These are the caps you gave me to send to Duncan over the past couple weeks,” she explains handing the box to MacCready. She winks at him. “I’m sure you’ll make sure they’re properly delivered, right?”

RJ laughs in disbelief.

“You’re a saint, Daisy,” smiles RJ.

“Nah,” she smiles cheekily. “Just doing my job. You wanted those caps to get to Duncan, and now I can confirm that they arrived.”

Chapter Text

RJ decides to get a room at the Hotel Rexford with the caps Daisy returned to him. It makes sense. He doesn’t want to overwhelm the kid and wants some time alone with his son after being separated for so long. Plus, your home is barely a hundred and ten feet of living space. A bit small for three and you can’t all fit comfortably on the one bed.

It crosses your mind that if you want to all live together eventually, you’ll need to do something about the living space. The shop is barely big enough to accommodate everything you need to work, so shrinking the shop to make more living space is out. You can’t exactly build taller. Any taller and your home will peak out from the walls of Goodneighbor, perfect for a sniper to take potshots at. Turning your current bed into a bunk-bed is an option. Or you could look to move elsewhere?

Most practical option for right now would be the bunk-beds. The kid might not want to live with you at all, and jumping straight to moving to a bigger place feels wrong at this point. It would be moving too fast. Bunk-beds at least give the option, without forcing the matter.

You place an order at Daisy’s for a mattress and some metal piping.

The next morning Jerry comes to you wanting to upgrade his sub-machine gun. He wants the works—a gun that shoots harder with armor penetration, and he wants it to hold more bullets to pump into baddies. Some better recoil control, too. No use in having better ammo capacity if he misses every shot.

It doesn’t surprise you. Charon’s equipment left quite the impression on the community. It broke your heart a bit watching the ghoul leave town with his two fellow mercs. You wanted to see the full extent of his weapon and armor modifications, but Charon had no need of repairs. Work is plentiful for him back in DC and he wanted to get back to it as soon as possible. A real shame.

Adding a recoil compensating stock to the gun is easy enough. Some springs and rubber to absorb the weapon’s kickback and a few aluminum frame reinforcements so the stock doesn’t crack. Jerry’s gun already had a drum magazine, it just needed to be a bit bigger. It takes some welding and extra springs, but your able to upgrade the drum before late morning.

Armor piercing receivers suck, especially more advanced ones. They’re all about making the bullet fly faster, usually with a system of super greased gears. As you assemble the receiver, a flicker of light catches your attention. Looking up, your greeted with a pair of brown eyes burrowing into your own, not two feet away. Your heart lurches in surprise at Duncan’s sudden appearance in your shop.

When did he…?

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyes now on your project. You blink before reaching up and lowering your goggles.

“Making a modification that flings bullets faster,” you reply honestly. Looking around, you don’t see RJ in front of your shop. “Where’s your dad?”

“Talking with the robot lady,” he shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on your half-assembled mod. Oh, he must be buying ammo at KL-E-O’s. “Why do you want to make bullets go faster?”

“Client wants his gun to do more against harder to damage targets,” you respond. “Why aren’t you with your dad?”

“Shopping is boring,” sniffs Duncan. “You were doing something interesting, so dad said I could come over.”

“Do you have an interest in making stuff?”

“The Mechanist could build a robot out of kitchen stuff,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Can you build a robot out of kitchen stuff?”

“Depends on what’s in the kitchen,” you say slowly, titling your head at the child. “Probably if I could find some decent circuitry and copper wires. But that’s not really fair, since the Mechanist had a remote wave emitter to instantly program robots, and I’d need some sort of computer system. Like a terminal or Pip-Boy.”

Duncan’s eyes widen as he stares at you in wonder.

“You read comics?” he asks. A sly grin forms on your face.

“Would you like to borrow some?” you ask, grinning. Duncan’s mouth drops open for a moment before he rapidly nods his head. Setting down your tools, you head over to your living space, Duncan right on your heels. While you step into your home and fiddle with your high bookshelves, the kid looks around your home.

“You have a lot of books, lady,” he says, looking up at your shelves. He stares longingly at the stack of comics.

“Books teach you a lot,” you say, pulling out an issue of the Silver Shroud and an issue of Grognak. Duncan accepts these very carefully, almost as if he’s afraid they’ll disappear if he holds onto them too tightly.

“Imma have dad read these to me tonight,” he smiles. A smile stretches on your face, but it registers to you that the kid might not know how to read. Maybe he’ll let you teach him sometime.

“What’s going on?” you hear behind you.

“Dad!” says Duncan excitedly, holding out the two comics. “Look!”

“Woah!” grins RJ, just as excited. He squats down to his son’s level. “Two comics?!”

“Can you read these to me tonight? Please??” begs the child. “She said I can borrow these!”

You wink at RJ when he glances up a you. The tenderness on his face warms you and makes you fiddle with the zipper of your greaser jacket in response. Was it always so warm in here?

“Sure thing, bud,” says RJ as he ruffles his son’s hair. Duncan beams at his dad, causing RJ’s expression to soften even further. Realizing something, Duncan’s eyes widen again as he whips back around to face you.

“Can I come back and borrow the others?” he asks, a cute blush on his cheeks.

“I don’t mind,” you smile. The kid’s toothy smile is almost blinding. A devious grin quirks at your lips. “But if you lose them, I’ll spoil the next issue for you.”

You choke on your laughter as both Duncan and RJ gasp at you in horror.

“Y-you can’t do that!” shouts Duncan in terror. The grin on your face widens mischievously.

“I can,” you trill evilly. “And I will! So take care of my comics, yeah?”

Despite the “threat,” Duncan comes over to your shop everyday. He takes an interest in watching you repair junk while RJ chats to the both of you about whatever comes to mind. Lately, the main topic is the comics RJ has been reading to his son. Both father and son get really into discussing superheros with you. It’s adorable, and you love it.

Only when Hancock swings by to talk to RJ do things change. RJ is needed back at the Castle. He asks you to look after Duncan while he is away.

“You’re leaving?” frowns Duncan. RJ grimaces as his heart breaks a little at his son’s expression.

“Only for a little while,” he replies calmly, rubbing his son’s hair. “I promise. Week tops.”

You and Duncan both wave RJ and Hancock off the very next morning. Duncan tries not to be sad about his dad leaving and you decide to help by distracting him. You move one of your dining chairs into your shop for the kid to sit on and set him up his own mini work station. Setting up a few small dishes of paint, you hand him a few toy cars to repaint in solid colors.

To your amusement, the kid takes his job very seriously. His painting skills need refining, but the new paint is still better than the old, chipped off color it was before. Duncan’s face when Daisy gives him a few caps for his painted cars is heartwarming. He is incredibly proud of himself for earning his own caps. The child asks if he can work on stuff with you tomorrow, too. A wide grin stretches on his face when you agree and tell him you could use an assistant.

At dinner time it became clear why Blamco Mac and Cheese is one of the few things RJ can cook. It’s Duncan’s favorite food. He has no problems cleaning his plate of the chemical cheese pasta. When you go to wash the dishes, Duncan stands on a chair to get a better look at your comic collection. Him and his dad have already borrowed and read every one of the comics you have.

“Can you read me the Grognak comics?” asks Duncan, wiping his face with a wet rag.

“Want to read them yourself?” you ask in response, cleaning your face with your own cloth. He tilts his head to the side as he peers at you. It’s not the first time Duncan has fixed you with his ‘are you stupid’ face, nor do you think it will be the last.

“I wouldn’t be asking if knew how,” he sniffs, looking away.

“Want me to teach you?” you offer, hanging your rag over a chair with your jacket. Duncan blushes in embarrassment as he nods. “Neat. We can start with my earliest issue of Grognak.”

He’s still blushing, but the kid’s eyes are excited.

“Fuck yes!” he cheers the child with a happy smile.

You choke on air.

Now you know for sure why RJ refuses to swear.

Chapter Text

Time with Duncan flies a lot faster than you thought it would. The two of you start the day with fruit for breakfast before spending the day in the garage. Duncan has about a dozen questions ready at any given moment and you do your best to answer them all.

Your newly dubbed assistant gets better at painting toy cars and trucks everyday. He bought himself one of Daisy’s chipped toy cars and repainted it himself. When it dried he spent the rest of the day racing his car around the floor of your shop. Honestly, you appreciated his distraction with the toy. It allowed you to focus on rebuilding a client’s pipe pistol.

With Duncan in your care, you do not forget to break for a midday meal. Lunch is usually splitting a Nuka-Cola and some sort of dried or canned meat. (But, thankfully, never Longneck Lukowski’s canned meat. Those cans got tossed the second word got out about the use of ghoul flesh. You didn’t know how to explain that to a child, so you told Duncan the cans had spoiled and were making people sick when he asked why you threw out food. RJ can explain that one.)

At the end of the day, you and the little ankle-biter head over to Daisy’s to sell refurbished junk and buy food for dinner. Since helping, Duncan has earned himself ten caps. He’s super excited about being able to give his dad his remaining five caps and contributing to his family finances. You hope RJ doesn’t feel bad about the gesture.

Dinner now always has a small side of Blamco for the kid. He devours it first, before slowly eating the rest of his food. Through trying different foods, you find he enjoys your squirrel stew. The kid will not eat any sort of bug meat, however. When you splurged a little at Daisy’s for some Radscorpion, Duncan almost puked when you served it. You gave him your portion of Blamco instead. After talking with him, you found out the smell of cooked Radroach, Bloatfly and Radscorpion meats make him ill. You ate your double serving of Radscorpion steak happily, and he his double portion of Blamco. After some thought, you decide it best not have him try Stingwing, Bloodbug or any imported bug meats while with you—you want the kid to like you, after all. Those foods are on RJ, but if a Radscorpion egg happens to find it’s way into Goodneighbor, you might make him an omelet to try.

After the dishes are washed and faces are cleaned for the night, you and Duncan sit on your bed with an issue of Grognak. He struggles with the words, but you do your best to teach him. A real teacher would be better, but Goodneighbor isn’t the kind of place that people would want to send kids even if the town did have a school. After about an hour or two, the two of you usually conk out against the wall, in no way or form in a good sleeping positions.

Life with Duncan in your care is like this for several days. Not once does the kid throw a fit or cry, being oddly mature for a five-year-old. You guess it has to do with how he was taken care of when he was sick.

So when on the sixth day since RJ’s departure Duncan starts hysterically sobbing in your shop, you’re naturally freaked out.

“What happened?!” you almost shout, frantically looking the boy over for any sign of injury. His pants are ripped in the back, but you see no blood on the boy. No sign of bruising, welts, or changes in overall skin coloration.

“I-I-I!” he blubbers inconsolably. Thinking he meant his eyes, you gently pry his fits away from his face and check his eyes. Each eye looks normal, though a bit red and puffy from the crying.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, trying to stay calm. “Do your eyes hurt? Your stomach?”

“N-n-no!” he manages a response, snorting back snot. A sigh of relief escapes you, hearing his response. Rubbing the child’s back, you try to comfort the kid. Glancing around, you don’t immediately see anything that looks broken or out of place.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” you question softly, handing him a rag. Duncan blows his nose in it, and starts to calm down.

“I-I-I,” he stammers through tears. Loudly sniffling, he tries to speak. “I-I...I r-ripped my p-pants!”

You blink rapidly, trying to figure out why that was something to go ballistic about. Glancing back to the ripped out jeans, you note that he outgrew his pants and likely has been needing new ones for a while. Patching the split pants would be only a temporary fix. The thigh area would be too tight soon and his ankles are showing, making his pants look more like capris.

“Yes,” you agree slowly, not understanding. “And?”

“A-and dad’s going to be mad!” he cries. Your eyebrows shoot up at the accusation. “T-these are m-my only pants a-and dad’s g-going to n-need...!” He is unable to continue his answer as he sobs.

“Hey, now,” you say softly. “Your dad’s not going to be mad over something like that. You’re a growing boy and your pants couldn’t keep up.”

“B-but pants cost money!”

There’s something in the way that Duncan says that sentence that makes you frown. His dad has a thing about caps, too. What happened to the MacCready boys?

“Not if I make them!” you smile at the child. He hiccups as he looks distraughtly at you.

“M-make them?” he questions, wiping his snot on the rag again. You switch off your open sign and pick the child up. Duncan looks bewildered at you, but doesn’t protest. This is the first time you’ve picked the child up.

“I got just the thing!” you say, carrying the child into your home and setting him on the bed. You plop down on the floor and pull a suitcase out from under your bed. Duncan wipes his eyes on the back of his hand as he watches you open the container and pull out a couple pieces of folded clothing. Most are oversized for you, not to mention the kid, but nothing a knife and a sewing kit can’t fix.

Duncan watches you curiously as you take out your pair of overalls. Before he can comment on those being way too big for him, you take a sharp knife and carefully cut at the seems. He watches you curiously as you open up the pants. Taking a strip of long cloth, you have Duncan stand on the bed. You line the cloth up from his shoulders to his feet, then mark the overalls with a pencil. His chest, hips and thighs are measured and you scribble your findings on the pants.

Carefully, you make several decisive stabs into the fabric, cutting away pieces of denim. Duncan is quiet as he watches you alter the pants down to a child’s size, but very interested. His eyes have dried and the redness has disappeared by the time you start stitching the pants back up.

“Can you add pockets?” he asks, breaking the silence. A smile pulls at your face at the innocent question. Of course kids need pockets!

“For you kid?” you grin teasingly. “You can have three pockets.”

He visibly brightens as he crosses his legs and leans forward, eagerly watching you. It’s takes a while to get the overalls pulled back together—a couple hours, actually. When you’re done, you have a pair of child-sized overalls with two side pockets and a big pocket on the chest. After handing the pants over to Duncan to try on, you turn around to give the kid some privacy while you pickup the scraps of denim on the floor. You return the left over bits of cloth back into the suitcase and shove it back under the bed.

“They fit!” he says, shocked. Turning back around, you tug on the straps of his new overalls. Actually, they’re a bit baggy on him, but he’ll grow into them quickly.

“And not one cap spent!” you quip. Duncan beams at you before launching himself off the bed to hug you. The force knocks you back into the shack wall behind you. You suppose his smile is worth a few bruises.

Duncan shows off his new pants to Daisy when the two of you go to her store for groceries. She’s quick to let the kid know how nice he looks in his new overalls. As he smiles brightly at her praise, you find yourself snickering at how taken Daisy is with the child’s smile. You see the extra box of Blamco she slips in your bag for the kid.

You’re calling it now. Duncan MacCready is going to be a charismatic little shit when he grows up.

Daisy raises an eyebrow at your chuckles. She glances between you and the kid and her smirk turns sarcastic. You smile down at Duncan. Her message doesn’t need to be spoken. Yeah, you’re taken with the kid, too.

Dinner is mongrel meat and tato hash, with the usual side of Blamco. Once dishes and faces are washed, the two of you once again are back to reading Grognak. Duncan can almost read the first page—with help, of course.

The click of your door locking wakes you. Instinctively, you grab your laser pistol and switch it on.

“Sorry, beautiful,” A familiar voice whispers. “It’s me.”

A tired RJ hold up his hands in the dim light, one holding a key to your door. You relax back against the shack wall you fell asleep against. Yawning, you turn off your gun and set it on the shelf at the foot of your bed. Duncan is asleep on your lap. Your neck hurts.

“Welcome back,” you mumble groggily. “How’s Nate?”

“He’s..” RJ pauses as he looks up. Alive? Back from the goddamn Institute of all places? Dealing with the reality of his son being old enough to be his father? “It’s a lot to unpack. I’ll tell you in the morning when we’re alone.”

“Okay?” you mumble in confusion.

RJ smiles at you and reaches forward to pluck his hat off your head. He sets it down by your laser pistol before propping his rifle against the shelf. Gingerly, he picks up his son. You stretch your legs and lay down properly on the bed. Instead of returning to the Rexford, RJ settles in next to you with Duncan on his chest. Reaching for your hand, RJ holds your hand as he lays next to you.

“Nate offered me and Duncan a place at the Castle,” he whispers. He squeezes your hand. “Not sure if I’ll go for it yet or not. Guard duty isn’t exactly my dream job.”

You can hear the humor in his voice and hum sleepily in response.

“As long as Nate’s the General,” you start, pausing to yawn. “It should be a safe place to raise Duncan. I’m also going to turning my bed into a bunk-bed in case you two would like to stay here. Either way, I’m behind you.”

He releases your hand and pulls your head in for a kiss.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Can you stop being gross?” grumbles Duncan as he cuddles into his father.

You and RJ laugh softly before leaning heads together and falling asleep.

Chapter Text

The door to your shack is propped open to get some air flow circulating. It’s hot as hell in your home as you use a blowtorch to weld pipes to your metal bed frame. A bucket of water sits nearby, just in case a spark catches something on fire. Half your belongings are crammed onto the other end of the shack, out of the way and giving you as much room as possible to work. Two mattresses lean against your cooking station—one lived in, the other slightly misshapen from the ties that held it to a brahmin.

It’s sweaty work. Your jacket has been long since ditched, and your undershirt is soaked. Drops of sweat on the back of your head distract you while they drip down your neck. Frequent breaks to wipe the liquid from your eyes and to take a drink of room temperature water add time to your project. You don’t mind too much, though.

The frame of the bunk bed is looking good.

A bit more soldering to support the upper bed pieces, and it will be ready to cool off and sleep on.

RJ took Duncan to the Third Rail today to play some pool and have dinner. You’re willing to bet they’ll stick around for Magnolia’s early evening jazz concert. Duncan will love it. It will be a good bonding day for the father and son pair.

Finishing the last bit of heating metal, you turn your blowtorch off and allow the frame to cool. It will take a few hours, but it will be sturdy. You peel your goggles off your face, tossing them onto the dining table next to RJ’s hat. Kneeling down to the bucket of water, you splash water on your face and neck. Refreshed, you wipe the excess water off your face and close your front door long enough to swap to a dry shirt. The second your decent, you open the door again to cool off the shack.

You take a quick bar of soap to the sweat-soaked shirt and rinse it in the bucket. Wringing it out, you hang your shirt up to dry in the shop. Dumping out the dirty water, you set the pail on a workbench before returning to your home. Sliding your shelf back to the foot of the bed, you grab a Nuka-Cola out of your cooler and crack it open. Draining half the bottle in one drink, your eyes dart over the frame, making sure you didn’t miss any joints or edges. Content with what you see, you finish off the drink and place the bottle in a crate of scrap glass.

Cracking your neck, you being the task of putting your space back together again. There’s not much furniture to move. Most of the job is returning containers back under your bed. Checking the heat from the frame, you return your mattress to the lower bunk and toss the second mattress on top of the first. You’ll make the top bunk once the metal cools up there. You shut your front door as the shack cools off.

Plopping down in a dining chair, you sigh contently as you take a break. A small smile quirks at your lips. The MacCready boys will be surprised when they come over. Now they can move out of their hotel room and stay here full-time. If they want too, that is.

A knock at the door you just closed catches your attention. You take a deep breath to motivate yourself into standing before forcing yourself to stand. When you open the door, you’re half expecting to see Hancock on the other side of the door. He’s the only one who visits nowadays.

Instead, it’s Nate and some guy in an orange jumpsuit and jacket with his eyes on the ground. Nate looks unhappy, but tries his best to give you a smile. When his friend looks up at you, you freeze. You know that face.

Oh, good God, that’s Danse.

He looks so...broken.

“Can we, uh, come in?” asks Nate, looking around nervously.

“What the hell happened?” you hiss, ushering the two boys inside. You lock the door behind them once they enter. Nate goes to sit at your dining table while Danse just kind of stands in your home. At first you thought he’s looking around, but you realize quickly he’s spacing out. You glare at Nate in concern. Nate sighs as he gestures to the seat next to him.

“Danse,” gently calls Nate. “Sit with me.”

“Understood,” he replies, sitting next to Nate. The General of the Minutemen gives another exhausted sigh while Danse stares at the table top.

“So...” starts Nate, licking his lips. “I need a favor...”

“What did you do?” you hiss, glaring at Nate. Nate holds up his hands.

“Please just…” he pauses, glancing at the depressed soldier next to him. Your frustration lessen seeing Nate’s worried glance at his friend. “Listen first? Then judge?”

You look between the two men before walking over to your pantry and grabbing three Gwinnett beers. Setting the drinks on the table, Nate smiles gratefully before cracking his beer open and taking a drink. Danse drains his beer in five seconds flat. Blinking in surprise, you slide your beer to the Paladin. He weakly smiles at you before twisting off the cap and taking more reasonable drink.

As Nate begins his story, you listen attentively. RJ had told you Nate made it to the Institute, but you didn’t know he managed to snag some data off their computers. Nate had copied the data and handed over copies to the two groups he needed help from—the Railroad and the Brotherhood. Occasionally your eyes drift to Danse, watching him sip his beer and stare at the table. His eyes switch between anger and hopelessness, but does not react when Nate admits to helping the Railroad.

An uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

Pride fills you to find out Sturges cracks the encoded data first. That’s your boy, you’d expect nothing less from you old friend. Naturally, the Railroad and the Brotherhood manage to decode their tapes, too. The information they uncovered...well, it rocked some worlds.

“Sturges is a snyth?” you say bewildered. Nate nods tensely while Danse finally glances up from the table. While both boys examine your reaction, you lean back in your chair. Taking RJ’s hat from your head, you run a hand through your hair. Admittingly so, that does explain a lot about Sturges. Very few people exude the kind of cool vibe that immediately resonates with every one of the Atom Cats. Only Zeke had that kind of energy, and he leads the outfit. Sighing, you replace your hat and look back at the soldiers.

“Your thoughts?” inquires Nate, after a moment.

“How’s Sturges taking the news?” you ask quietly. A relieved smile forms on Nate’s face.

“Took it hard at first, but he’s coming to ter—”

“Your friend’s a synth,” hisses Danse bitterly.

“Yes,” you say slowly. “I was listening.”

“You should not be willing to accept that, civilian!” shouts Danse, angrily standing. “He’s been withholding from you what he is. Institute synths are dangerous abominations and should be taken down with lethal force. They are not human and do not deserve your sympathy. Do you understand?”

Tilting the brim of your hat up, you observe Danse carefully. Somehow, this doesn’t feel like one of the tirades Danse has given you before. It lacks his normal resolve and confidence. His voice almost has an edge of desperation to it.

“He didn’t know,” you frown, holding Danse’s gaze. “And from what I just heard, he’s been a synth for years. Meaning, the Sturges I’ve known—friend of the Atom Cats and Minutemen alike—has most likely always been a synth since the first day I met him. If I knew he was human and found out he was replaced, that would be one thing. But that’s not the case. Sturges is Sturges, even if he wasn’t born the natural way...or at all? I’m not actually sure how synths are made.”

Danse’s face cracks as he slumps down in his chair. This is not how Danse—a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel—should be acting in the face of someone defending a known synth. Shit, he shouldn’t even be here having this conversation and should be on his way to the Cas—

Your stomach drops as your eyes flick between Danse and Nate. Nate confirmed Sturges is alive and well...Danse isn’t seeking out a confirmed synth...Danse’s broken look...his lack of Power Armor...a tape that confirmed the identity of synths in the hands of the Brotherhood...

The dots connect.

“Holy shit...” you whisper, staring wide-eyed at Danse. “Danse...are you...?”

Danse doesn’t look you in the eye.

Nate continues with his story. You hold your head in your hands as you listen closely to your friend’s words and try to follow his tale. Elder Maxson’s order to kill Danse...Danse telling Nate to kill him...he can’t kill Danse...Maxson arriving to ensure the job was done...the argument with Maxson...Nate giving the Elder the politest “fuck you” you’ve ever heard...Maxson relenting, but banishing Danse from the Brotherhood with kill on sight orders...

Fucking hell.

“I need a favor,” reiterates Nate, looking you in the eyes. “Maxson knows the location of the bunker. It’s not safe for Danse there. The Castle has been having vertibirds circle by several times a day. I need him to be safe. Please, can he stay here until the flybys cool down?”

“Civilian, do not risk your life for thing like m—”

“Sure,” you say cutting Danse off. “Just finished making a bunk-bed frame today, so there’s room. I’ll talk to RJ about it, but I think he’ll understand.”

“That’s not—”

“Great,” smiles Nate, also cutting Danse off. Danse huffs at you two. You both give him a sly grin. Nate frowns thoughtfully. “He is right though. If the Brotherhood finds out he’s here, it will be bad.”

“Do you honestly think the Brotherhood of Steel would willing walk into Goodneighbor?” you smirk. “Especially now knowing our stance on ghouls? That our mayor is a ghoul? Soldiers walk in, they’re getting the cold shoulder at best. Violence if they draw their gun on one of our own.”

“It’s why I’m asking you for help,” grins Nate. “Hancock actually recommended it.”

“I’m not surprised,” you snort in amusement. You glance over at Danse with an easy smile. “Expect Hancock to make surprise appearances. He’ll be viewing this as sweet karma for your earlier view and comments about him and his fellows. But he’ll keep his eye out for you. You’re one of the Goodneighbor residents now, and a friend of a friend.”

Danse nods stiffly, clearly unhappy, but in no place to complain.

“Thank you,” sincerely thanks Nate. He looks at you with warm eyes. “This means a lot to me. I don’t know how I’ll return the favor yet, but I’ll think of something.”

“Now you’re sounding like a MacCready,” you sass, sticking out your tongue. Nate laughs at you, some of his tension leaving his shoulders.

“I have to get back to the Castle and put out some fires,” says Nate, standing. “Tune into Radio Freedom from time to time. I’ll have a broadcast sent when it’s safe to return.”

“Something I’ll recognize?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll ask for the Mechanist to make an appearance,” he winks at you. You roll your eyes.

“Ya’ll never going to let that joke go, are you?”

“Never,” grins Nate before seeing himself out.

The sudden silence in the shack is broken by you repositioning your chair. You and Danse sit across from each other at the table as you explain the Goodneighbor lifestyle to the former Paladin. He listens attentively, reminding you of a soldier receiving orders. You inform him the places he should absolutely not go, and who he should try to get into good graces with. Daisy is, of course, at the top of your list. His lip twitches downward for a second, but he controls his expression.

He’s really going to give this a genuine shot for Nate.

“First things first,” you say, standing. Danse hesitantly stands up, too. “We got to get rid of that Brotherhood jumpsuit.”

“Is that necessary?” frowns Danse. He watches you as you pull a suitcase out from under the beds.

“Anyone who’s seen a Brotherhood soldier is going to recognize it,” you explain, shuffling though some pants. “Best we don’t advertise that if we’re trying to fly under the radar. Your bomber jacket can stay, but the orange needs to go. Catch!” Danse catches a pair of pants and a large white shirt.

“My outfit does stand out here,” he admits, looking over the pants. “I am not confident these trousers will fit though.”

“Eh, try them on anyway,” you encourage with a wave of your hand. “I can always alter them with some similar fabric to make them bigger. Or we can see if Daisy has any pants in stock. I’ll step outside into the shop. You let me know when you’re set.”

“Understood,” replies Danse. “Thank you, civilian. For everything. I do not deserve such kindness.”

“You’re welcome, solider boy,” you say, opening the door. You send him one last grin. “And bullshit.”

The sun hangs low. Stretching, you try to shake off some of the weariness settling in your muscles and your mind. It’s finally beginning to sink in that two people you consider friends are synths. What exactly is a synth and what does being one actually mean? Is it normal for someone to know so many synths? Is it just you?

You almost regret not taking Deacon up on his offer. At least then you might have some answers.

The door opens and Danse steps out. His pants fit alright in the legs—you had to roll them up several times, but they are just right on him. However, the waist size is almost two sizes too small. No matter how he tugs, his pants will not be zipping or buttoning. Simple enough to fix, as long as he doesn’t mind the waist of his pants being a bit patchwork. If he does, then you can try to find him a different outfit later.

It goes unnoticed by you that Danse isn’t wearing the shirt you gave him.

RJ does notice.

“What the fu—frick?!” shouts RJ, causing both you and Danse to jump at the sound. RJ looks pissed and hurt at the same time.

Blinking, your eyes widen as you realize Danse’s wardrobe malfunction may look completely inappropriate.

As you open your mouth to clear the air about the situation, RJ is quick to shut you down. He doesn’t actually swear at you, but the bite in his tone stings more than any profanity every has. Every time you try to get a word in to explain, he cuts you off with more yelling. Honestly, his words start to blur in your head, as shock and heartache take over the rational part of your brain. The only clear thought you have is RJ is absolutely convinced you cheated on him, and will not listen to reason.

Why won’t he let you explain?

“I think it’s time we took a step back from our relationship,” he snaps.

What?

“RJ, wait, it—”

“If you still love me,” he cuts you off with an icy glare. It freezes you in place. He has never looked at you so bitterly before. “You’ll use this time to think about what you really want.”

As RJ storms away, all you can do is stand there like an idiot, gaping.

What...what just happened?

Chapter Text

Dinner is a silent affair. You pick at your food, unable to really find the will to eat right now.

RJ didn’t just storm away. He took Duncan and left town completely. Why wouldn’t he let you explain? Were things tense between you two and you never realized? You thought things were going great. Why...why did he leave?

“I’m sorry.”

You glance up at Danse. The sad look he gives you almost shatters the last bit of resolve you have to not cry.

“I never meant to get between you and your personal relationships,” he says, somber. “I should have realized sooner that my actions could have been misinterpreted and spoke up. Ever since...the bunker, I have not been myself. If I ever was myself. But I assure you it was never my intent to make life harder for you, and for that, I apologize.”

“It’s...” you pause to take a shaky breath. Don’t cry, not now. “It’s okay, Danse.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“The bottom line is he didn’t trust me,” you mumble, playing with the food on your plate. “I thought he did. He said he did, but after today? It’s clear he had some doubts. Doubts about what? I’m not sure.”

“I should not have come here,” he mumbles. “I’ve only been here a couple of hours and I’m already being a burden.”

Danse’s eyes widen as a bit of InstaMash splats against his cheek. You lower your spoon catapult with a frown.

“Stop blaming yourself for issues in my relationship,” you say firmly. “That’s an order, soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies automatically. He still glares at you as he wipes the food off his face. “But that was incredibly wasteful and childish.”

You half-heartedly waggle your eyebrows at him. Danse shakes his head disapprovingly, but he can’t stop the little amused quirk of his lips. A small grin wiggles it’s way onto your face. The change in atmosphere allows you to down a few more bites of food.

While you put the upper bunk together, Danse washes the dishes. He is more meticulous about scrubbing plates and bowls than you ever were. Did he wash dishes in the Brotherhood? The thought amuses you.

“You prefer the top or bottom bunks?” you ask over your shoulder.

“I prefer bottom,” he replies, drying his hands.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” you quip back with a devious smirk.

A glass shatters against the floor. Danse’s face is burning red as he picks up the pieces of glass. He glares at you, but you just smile back and get a broom. At least he’s still fun to tease.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize, sweeping up the glass with a grin.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t joke like that,” he says sternly. He tosses out the glass shards into the trash.

“Sir, yes, sir,” you smirk at him. Danse rolls his eyes at you, but you can tell he’s not all that upset. “You read?”

Not expecting the question, his eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Uh, yes,” he stumbles. He clears his throat. “But it’s been years since I had the leisure time to do so.”

“Well,” you say, gesturing to your bookshelves. “It’s no Library of Steel, but help yourself to my books. Got a bit of everything. Comics, gun and science magazines, textbooks, cookbooks, cheesy romance novels, old fantasy and sci-fi books, whatever genre strikes your fancy.”

“Thank you,” he says grateful, a real smile peaking onto his face. “I may take you up on that. I’m afraid I don’t sleep much...but I suppose synths don’t need to.”

“Well,” you laugh, crawling up to the top bunk. “I hope an irregular sleep schedule isn’t the only sign of being a synth, otherwise I might be in trouble.”

No matter how long you lay in bed, sleep doesn’t come. Your eyes have no shortage of tears as you hold the green hat to your chest, gently rubbing your fingers over the fabric and brass bullets. The soft flickering glow of the lantern fills the shack with dim light. A gentle creasing of paper is heard every now and then as Danse turns a page in the book he grabbed.

It’s peaceful, but not the kind of peaceful you want right now. You miss your—no, not yours—you miss the boys.

At some point you must have fallen asleep, as you wake to sunlight filtering in through the cracks of the shack. You rub the dried tears off your face with the back of your hand. The smell of food causes your stomach to rumble. Right, you hardly ate last night. Placing the hat on your pillow, you slowly make your way down from your bed.

“Good morning,” greets Danse. “I took the initiative to cook breakfast this morning.”

“Bless,” you mumble appreciatively, plopping down at the table. A frown pulls at your lips when he places a plate of fried tato and crispy squirrel bits before you, but doesn’t serve himself anything. “Looks good, but where’s yours?”

“Synths do not require food to function and I don’t want to waste your resources.”

A deep frown mares your face. You thought he didn’t eat last night because he had already eaten. Not even up for ten minutes and you’re already in a poor mood. This living together thing is going to be difficult, isn’t it?

“Do you shit?” you scowl.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks bewildered.

“Do. You. Shit?” you repeat, standing up. “Do you sweat when you exercise? Urinate after drinking a few beers? Does your body perform in the same way that mine does?”

Danse opens and closes his mouth as he tries to form a response. You grab a second plate and divide out the food into two portions.

“Because I have it on good authority that it does,” you say, handing him the plate and staring him down. He looks uncomfortable under your gaze. “In my house you’re no different than me. So unless this food you made is a deliberate attempt to poison me, you’re eating it too.” Danse’s eyes widen at the accusation.

“I would never—!”

“Then prove it,” you challenge. “Eat it. And stop pretending to be someone else. You’re Danse. Former Paladin who, at every opportunity, tried to recruit me. Not some rando-robo boy.”

“I’m not sure what being myself is anymore,” he admits, his voice soft. He takes a bite of squirrel. “I’m still coming to terms with what—who I am.”

“We’ll work through it,” you say, taking a bite of tato. Wow, soldier boy can cook. “Most people have an existential crisis at some point.”

“I’m not people. I’m an artificial human that shouldn’t exist. A freak of nature and abomination.”

“The only freak in this house is how freaky good these tatos are. It’s absolutely not fair.”

“Home economics are one of the first things taught to Brotherhood Squires,” says Danse. A small, smug grin working it’s way onto his face. “Learning how to prepare food and maintain your equipment in the field can be the difference between life and death.”

“I see I’m going to have to step up my food game,” you grumble in acceptance. “Can’t have some Capital Wasteland soldier be a better cook than me. That’s just disrespectful to the cookbooks I’ve read.”

The grin on Danse’s face is one of challenge. You meet his grin with one of your own.

“You can certainly try, civilian,” he says in amusement.

“Don’t test me, soldier boy. I can and I will buy out every box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes Daisy has and eat them in front of you.”

“Your tactics are cruel and unusual.”

After breakfast you head out to the shop for another day of repairing stuff. Danse decides to stay inside and read, but readily lets you know that if you need help to ask. Work today mostly consists of a box of junk from a sympathetic Daisy. She doesn’t say anything about the break up, but does pat your shoulder before you leave.

The miscellaneous box of items take most of the day to repair. Instead of receiving caps from Daisy, you trade for a broken radio. She’s surprised by this, but doesn’t think too much about it. Using some scrap components, you’re able to fix the radio and bring in the Castle’s frequency. Radio Freedom doesn’t broadcast what you would consider good tunes, but you do need to have it for Nate’s signal.

When you walk into the shack with the radio, Danse perks up, recognizing the music of the Minutemen. He doesn’t say anything, but does smile a bit as he reads in bed. Tucking the radio near his bed, you pause to take a peak at which book Danse is reading. Smirking, you decide not to give Danse any crap about his choice in literature.

After all, who doesn’t love a good 2050s gay military erotica novel about a solider and his jacked up drill Sargent? Judging by how far he is in the book, Danse hasn’t gotten to the erotic bits yet. You wonder if he’ll be able to look you in the eye once he does, knowing you saw what he’s reading.

You’ll tease him then.

That night while washing your face, you wonder how Sturges’ is doing. You think about writing him a letter, letting him know you’re still cool with him. Sturges could probably benefit from knowing he still has a friend out there. A thought crosses your mind and you still. Eyes widening, the cloth drops from your hands.

“OH MY GOD!” you screech.

“What’s the situation?!” shouts Danse in alarm, bolting into a sitting position and reaching for his laser rifle.

You dash to Danse’s bedside and reach under his bed. Danse stares at you in confusion as you rip open a metal container and rummage through the box.

“So, Sturges, yeah?” you say, pulling out a smaller box. “You know what he looks like?”

“I’ve spoken with him several times,” says Danse carefully. Realizing there’s no danger, he sets his rifle back down. He watches you pull an envelope out of the smaller box. “What’s this about?”

You pull a photo out of the envelope. The former soldier watches several emotions flash over your face. His eyebrows crunch together as he tries to figure out what has you so riled. Danse’s eyebrows raise as you hand him the picture.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking at, but he recognizes you standing next to seven similarly dressed people. Every single person appears to be wearing the same jacket, and each are posed smiling in front of their own suit Power Armor. Danse vaguely remembers you used to be part of an outfit of Power Armor lovers. His eyes drift over the faces, and then he sees it. A face strikingly similar to Sturges, if Sturges wore sunglasses, lost some weight, and wasn’t weather-worn from being out in the sun all day.

“You think this is the man Sturges was supposed to replace,” he states in surprise.

“I’ll be the first to say I fucking hate Zeke,” you say with a disgusted scowl. “It’d make complete sense that the Institute would want an informant in the Atom Cats, but if those Institute assholes were trying to infiltrate the Cats then I’m glad they failed. We had our problems at the end, but I loved my time with the Cats. They weren’t blood, but they were my family.”

Danse stares at the photo with complete understanding.

“Tell me about them,” he says, holding out the picture. “Your family.”

Taking the picture back, you gaze gently at the old gang photo. You point to each person.

“That’s Zeke,” you start. “Absolutely hate the fuck and is the reason I left. Next to him is Duke. Guy is one of the best Cats at combat in Power Armor and guarded the garage when he wasn’t out looking for suit parts. He always had ideas for bigger, better Power Armor modifications. Girl in the scarf is Roxy. She joined a week before this picture was taken. Nice enough, but had this thing for Zeke and had this real weird idea that if she was buddies with me, then Zeke would notice her. She was the first say I should’ve enjoyed the attention when Zeke tried to...well, I can’t say I’m her biggest fan either.”

Danse narrows his eyebrows at the picture, frowning deeply.

“But the gal next to her?” you perk up, pointing to the other female. “That’s Rowdy. She and I were basically twins. Similar pasts, loved working in the garage.” A sad smile adorns your face. “When the two of us were together, there was no repair we couldn’t do. No armor modification too difficult. She was more of a mother to me than my real one.”

You can see Danse nod approvingly in your peripheral.

“Next to her is Bluejay. You needed info or gear, you talked to Bluejay. Biggest gossip and also made the best damn beer in the Commonwealth. Then there’s Johnny D. He kept the group safe from raiders. Always the first one to bring the fight when trouble came knocking at our door. I looked up to him a lot. The last guy is Andy, Aimin’ Andy he preferred to be called. He died a year after this picture was taken from a Gunner attack. He found a bunch of the music holotapes that we played in the garage. It was the best music. He was the closest thing to a dad I had growing up.”

“Then there’s you,” he says, pointing to your spot at the end, next to Andy. You looked so carefree back then.

“And then there’s me.”

It’s late when Danse stops asking you questions about the Atom Cats. Laying in bed, the smile on your face weakens until it fades completely as you clutch RJ’s hat to your chest. You quietly cry yourself to sleep, again.

Unbeknownst to you, Danse stares up from his book somberly, hearing your soft sobs for the second night in a row.

Chapter Text

You once read an old psychology textbook that detailed the five stages of grief. A pre-war Swiss-American psychiatrist introduced an initial model of grief, that was later revised into seven parts. The original five were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The book said that people handle grief differently, and may experience these stages in any order.

It was easy to understand on paper.

Danse had been struggling in his depression for a couple weeks now. Some days were better than others, but he was trying his best. On the other hand, you’ve been fluctuating hard between denial and bargaining. “What if”s and “If I only”s kept you up every night, only to shift to denying that anything was wrong in the morning. Today was no different.

Everything was not fine. It would not work itself out. You could not handle it.

All it took was one comment from Danse implying MacCready being a poor father to break you.

The overwhelming anger came out like a caged animal.

“The fuck do you know?!” you roar.

Danse’s face is mere inches from you as you scream at him at the top of your lungs. How dare he?! How could he even imagine the choice MacCready had to make to save his dying son?! What right did he have to judge?!

Worst of all, Danse is just standing there, taking it. As if he deserves to be used as a verbal punching bag. It fuels your rage.

“Fight back, damn it!” you shout, shoving Danse in the chest. Physically escalating the argument is what pushes the soldier over the edge, cracking his unfazed demeanor wide open.

“You’re right!” he barks angrily back in your face. “Is that what you want to hear?! I don’t have a right to judge the choices what real people make! I’m not a real person!”

“Oh, we’re back to this bullshit, are we?!” you snap.

“You don’t understand!” he screams. “Everything I thought was real was ripped from me! Those sons of bitches who created me couldn’t even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents!”

“Well, aren’t you a lucky fuck!” you counter, spit flying. “I’d kill to not remember mine!”

“At least you had something real!”

“Oh, yeah! Chem-addict mommy dearest was a real fucking dream. Compared to what I know, MacCready is a fucking saint! That bitch walked me to the overboss’ personal room, knowing full well what he was planning to have his way with me. Do you know that last words she said to me? She said she’d kill me if I took him away from her!”

“But it’s yours!” roars Danse in response, snarling. “You know it’s yours! As fucked up as it may be, IT. IS. YOURS! I don’t even know how much of my own past is artificial and how much is real! Can you even imagine that?!”

“NO!” you scream back. “I can’t! But I’m fucking trying!”

“I started out as nothing!” he yells, his face red in anger. “And I’ve ended up as nothing!”

“You’re not nothing you dense fuck!” you shout, grabbing the front of his jacket with both hands. “You’ve never been nothing! Nate would fucking kill for you! I’ve opened up my home as a fucking safe space for you! Hancock’s a fucking dick most days, but he opened up his town for you! You were screwed over, but you’re not nothing!”

“I don’t know what the hell to do about it!” he shouts, his shoulders shaking.

“Be pissed!” you snarl, your grip slacking. “Be angry! You got shafted when you needed your family most! They abandoned you like trash, and you didn’t deserve that! No one deserves to be betrayed like we were!”

You’re not sure at what point your tears start to fall, but you can feel the rage diminish in your chest as Danse, still angry, begins to cry. The two of you sink to the floor of the shack. Loosely, you still clutch Danse’s jacket, fearing you’ll completely break down if you let go.

“This is so fucked,” growls Danse, trying to hide his eyes with a hand. His shoulders shake violently.

“Fuck...fuck!” you angrily choke on a sob. “Why does it have to hurt so damn much?”

His jacket slip threw your fingers as your shoulders shake uncontrollably. Danse roughly grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you into an embrace as the last bit of his control slips. It’s an ugly cry, one that he’s been holding in for god knows how long. Your sobs are no better as you hug him tightly.

All the anger and bitterness at the world, it’s unfairness, leaves your body as you cry it out. For the first time in weeks, you accept that you’re not okay. That you haven’t been okay in a long time. Bottling it up and trying to slap a smile on it did you nothing in the end except unleash on Danse. While you feel lighter, you begin to feel guilty. Danse was never the problem.

“Sorry,” you sniffle over Danse’s shoulder.

“Apology accepted,” you hear him mumble into your shoulder. “I am also sorry. I’ve been trained to hold myself together better than this. This...this was unbecoming of me.”

“It was human of you,” you mumble back. He tightens his grip on you for a moment before releasing you. “You’re forgiven.”

Danse wipes his face off on his shirt sleeve. Sniffing your snot back, you do the same into the collar of your shirt. The two of you look at each other’s red, puffy eyes.

“Aren’t we quite the pair?” you laugh dryly. A small smile makes it’s way to Danse’s face.

“Indeed,” he agrees. “All I’ve known was how to be a solider. While I don’t approve of your methods, I’d by lying if I said I didn’t feel better.”

“What?” you question teasingly while wiping your nose. “Crying and hugging it out isn’t how a soldiers handle life shattering news?”

“That’s not standard procedure,” he replies, standing. Taking the hand he offers you, Danse pulls you to your feet.

“I’m both morbidly fascinated and disgusted that the Brotherhood has a procedure for that.”

“The Brotherhood has an entire protocol on how to handle soldiers who have been victims of, as you say, life shattering news,” says Danse. “I’ve been on both ends of that protocol.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I bring it up to simply state the Brotherhood had a method of handling such events. It saved a lot of soliders.”

“Well, soldier boy?” you encourage. “Which method worked better for you?”

The former Paladin surprises you by giving you a sassy smirk.

“I don’t think a ship full of armed soldiers is the best place to literally push someone into angrily addressing their issues.” Danse’s eyes twinkle in mirth. “No matter what some of your more raunchy literature may imply.”

You bark out a genuine laugh. This has to be the first time you’ve heard Danse actually make a joke. The laughter is infectious as Danse begins to chuckle with you.

“Alright, you got me there,” you chuckle, composing yourself. “Had it been any other Brotherhood soldier, I’d probably be sporting at least a black eye by now.”

“Given the high probability, I’d recommend you don’t try it.”

“Well, thanks for not busting my nose,” you grin while stretching. “I think we deserve a stiff drink or two. You in?”

“That sounds outstanding.”

“Fantastic!” you cheer. Reaching up to your bed, you snag the hat off your pillow and firmly place it on your head. Danse tilts his head at you, accessing your fashion choice with a critical eye.

“The hat suits you,” he says after a moment with a small grin.

Weirdly enough, his words bring a warm smile to your face.

“Thanks, Danse.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Ham,” you greet the bouncer. Ham nods at you, but raises his eyebrow at Danse. Danse stiffly nods at the ghoul before following you down into the Third Rail. The former Brotherhood solider is still tense around ghouls, but has gotten better at acknowledging their existence without a spiteful comment. It’s hard to overcome years of trained prejudice, but he’s been making small strides.

“Hey, Jerry!” you call over to the ghoul waiting for Magnolia’s next round of jazz to start. “Hancock actually let you have the day off?”

“Well,” smirks Jerry, glancing at you and Danse. “Look who finally crawled out of their hole. Try not to cause any trouble, ya dig? I want to enjoy my night off.”

“Why, Jerry!” you gasp, dramatically placing a hand over your heart. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself!” Danse looks away and holds a fist up to his mouth to hide his grin.

“Get drunk,” starts the Neighborhood Watch guard, listing possibilities on his fingers. “Get some grub, listen to some tunes, help your friend find a lady or bloke for the evening, harass Charlie—”

“Oi!” snaps Charlie as he hovers at the bar. “Don’t bring me into this.”

“All things you can do, sweetheart,” finishes Jerry, ignoring the Mr. Handy. Danse’s ears gain a red tint to them. You shake you head and laugh at the guard.

“Alright,” you trill with a facade of disappointment. “We can take a hint. No trouble.”

“I’d appreciate it. Now scram! Magnolia’s show’s about to start.”

“Jeez, thanks. Love ya, too, Jerry,” you sass, leading Danse over to the bar as Jerry waves you away.

“Do you make it a point to harass armed guards?” questions Danse as he orders a beer.

“Nah,” you say, ordering a bourbon and cola. “Just Jerry.”

“You are aware of the radiation levels in Nuka-Cola?” frowns Danse, staring at your drink. You casually take a sip of your drink.

“Yeah, and?” you question, looking your companion in the eye.

“That is irresponsible,” he says, frowning deeply and disapprovingly. “I’ve seen how many of those drinks you consume. You are going to become ill from radiation sickness. I don’t know how you haven’t become sick already.”

“That funny,” you say, pulling off your hat and tugging at your hair. “I’ve been drinking the equivalent of two a day for over a year and I’m exhibiting no signs of hair loss...” You pull the skin near your eye. “No signs of anemia...” Pushing up your upper lip with your finger you expose your gums. “And no blood pooling in the gums. Over all, I feel pretty healthy.”

Danse stares at you before raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“You must have some sort of mutation,” he says, assessing you. “No normal person should be able to consume that much irradiated food without consequence.”

“Eh? Maybe?” you say, shrugging nonchalant. “Andy used say I must have had a lead stomach for what I could eat without getting sick. And growing up I ate some pretty questionable things to survive. Why, is that a problem?”

“No,” he says after a minute of silence. “Admittingly, the Brotherhood does not view mutations favorably, but they would be interested in finding out why you can drink Nuka-Cola like you do without becoming ill. Everyday crops contain at least a little radiation, and being able to consume them without eventually needing a dose of Radaway would be considered well-worth looking into.”

“I’d rather not become a lab rat,” you say, taking a sip. “That sounds like a lot of being poked, prodded and cut open.”

“Agreed,” he says drinking his beer. “In hindsight, it’s probably a good thing I failed to recruit you.”

“Absolutely,” you agree, holding out your glass towards him. “I’d take having a drink with a friend over being studied in a lab any day.” Danse clinks his bottle against your glass and you both take a drink.

This is nice, you decide. It’s been too long since you’ve gone out for drinks with a friend. You’ve missed this.

The glass of Nuka-bourbon is about half empty when Danse orders his second beer.

“So,” you start, swirling your glass around. Danse glances at you as he takes a drink. “Do you love Nate back or what?”

Liquid flies as Danse chokes on his beer. Charlie grumbles as he wipes down the bar. As he opens his mouth to speak, you hold up a hand to pause him.

“Because I don’t believe for a second someone would tell the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel to fuck off and not be in love with the guy he’s trying to save. Especially considering that puts Nate at a disadvantage, not having the Brotherhood’s backing.”

Danse is quiet as he takes another drink. You patiently wait for him to find his words as you continue sipping your drink.

“It’s...complicated,” he eventually says after a few minutes.

“Try me, soldier boy,” you encourage.

“I...I don’t even know where to start.”

“Wherever you want to,” you say easily. “Beginning, end, anywhere between. Judgment-free drinking time begins now.”

“Thank you,” he says softly. Danse licks his lips nervously.

“Everything I ever perceived as my life is a lie. In a span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down. I had gone from having everything, to having nothing.”

You frown against the glass of your drink, but keep your disagreements about that to yourself.

“My life’s starting over,” he says, showing you a spark of his familiar resolve. “And I need to come to terms with everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve gained.”

“And what have you gained?” you ask, a small grin forming on your face. His eyes sparkle a bit as he grins at you.

“I’ve gained a handful of people who truly accept me, and would risk hell and high water for me.”

“Am I one of those people?”

“You are.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’ve gained two friends who I would consider family at this point. One’s a pre-war vault dweller leading the Minutemen on a war path against the Institute, and the other’s a Nuka-Cola addict with an eye for Power Armor and the skill to repair it. Perhaps you know them?”

“Perhaps,” you say, hiding your smile behind your glass. “I hear they’re friends with this one guy who wears Power Armor like a second skin, and is really into mods. Almost got ripped apart by a deathclaw with him once. Good guy, little dense, but like the brother I never had.” Danse grins at you.

The two of you take a drink. Danse sighs.

“How can someone human love something like me?”

“Well, I’ve found robots to be better company than most people, so there’s that.”

“Funny.”

“Who knows?” you say, lightly elbowing him in the side. “Maybe it’s why I was able to become friends with you despite our differences.” He gives you an unimpressed side glance. You swirl your drink. “In the end, you don’t get to decide if another person loves you back or not. It’s their feelings and their decision. All you can do is figure out your own feelings, and decide if you want to act on them.”

“...thank you. I think I needed to hear that. I don’t know why anyone would accept me—god forbid love me. If I was human, wouldn’t dealing with these emotions be easier?”

“Absolutely not,” you say. He grins at your blunt response.

“I’m glad I got friends like you with me.”

You offer him your glass again. He clinks his beer against the glass.

“Cheers,” you say, taking a drink. “Talk to Nate, you square. Don’t leave him hanging. You both deserve some closure.”

“Next time I see him, I’ll be sure to bring it to attention.”

“You better.”

The two of you chat idly while listening to Magnolia’s smooth jazz. You nod along to the singer’s tune. Magnolia’s live performances beat most of Diamond City’s music, even with Travis’ new confidence. All the confidence in the world won’t make Keep a Knockin’ a good song. You’ll fight Nate on it every time. Daddy-O needs to hear some good Elvis or Fancy Dan tunes. Danse surprises you by commenting he’s actually not a big jazz fan, instead preferring the twang of country-western and bluegrass music.

His taste in music suits him, you decide.

At intermission, Danse excuses himself to find a bathroom. Tingling from the buzz of the alcohol, you debate on whether you should order another drink, or some water. You could go either way at this point.

“Nice hat,” you hear behind you. “Where’d you get it?”

Turning around, your gaze is eye-level with a chest piece of combat armor. Hairs on the back of your neck rise as you recognize the skull logo.

Gunners.

“Look pal,” you say, slowly raising your eyes to meet the Gunner’s. “I ain’t seen nothing, I ain’t heard nothing.”

The man gives you a smile, showing off a row of yellowed teeth. His facial tattoo near his right eye wrinkles ever so slightly.

“Now sweetheart,” he says, leaning towards you. “I find that real hard to believe.”

In a single, fluid movement, you’re ripped from your chair by the neck and slammed back-first against the bar. A gasp of pain from your head hitting the wood is cut short as he squeezes your throat. Instinctively, your hands go to remove his hand from you, but he’s stronger than you. He’s not someone you can overpower and has you pinned with one leg between yours. You freeze as you hear the distinct clicking of a revolver hammer being pushed back and cold metal being shoved in your ear.

Genuine fear stops all thoughts, almost if time itself has slowed. You can hear shouts, but it’s white noise to you. All you can do is stare into the man’s indifferent eyes.

“Now,” he says, pressing the gun tightly against your head. “I think you know where that fuck MacCready is.”

As his words register, your thoughts begin to race. He’s not here for you, he’s here for your boys. The MacCreadys skipped town and he can’t find your boys here. He needs your information. This guy, the apathetic resolve in his eyes, he’ll kill them both without mercy. Father and son. You can hear Magnolia screaming for Ham. A flash of red draws your eyes.

Hancock has never looked so deadly.

“Woah, woah, woah,” says Hancock, too calmly. “When in my town, you play nice with my folk. Let the girl go.”

“Stay out of this Hancock!” he frowns, tightening his grip. It’s getting hard to breathe. “That fuck killed my entire platoon and this little lady is going to tell me where he is.”

Movement catches your eye. Danse is crouched at the stairs and slowly approaching the Gunner assassin. You force your eyes back to the Gunner, not wanting to give Danse away.

“Didn’t you hear me?” rasps Hancock, face contorting. “I said let the girl go.”

Several patrons shout in agreement clicking the safety off on their pistols. Jerry has his gun fixed on the Gunner as he tells him to step away slowly.

“I heard you,” he shrugs, twisting the gun into your ear. Your cry of pain is soft from the lack of oxygen. “But I’m interested in what she has to say. Not you. So, what do you say, girlie?”

Slackening his hold, you’re able to breath again. You stare the man defiantly in the eyes and give him a look of pure disgust. No one threatens your boys. If you die here, Jerry will make sure this asshole is taken down with you. You wiggle a bit under him.

“I’d say ‘get bent,’ but from what I can feel that’d be pointless with you.”

The Gunner smirks viciously at you. His breathe is foul as he chuckles darkly in your face.

“If this was any other mission,” he hisses. “I’d make you beg and scream for mercy.”

Hancock and Danse look ready to kill.

“Promises, promises,” you choke out as he tightens his grip. Black dots are beginning to flash in your peripheral.

“Now I’m going to count to three,” he says, painfully grinding his knee into your pelvis. “And you’re going to tell me what you know or I’m going to blow those pretty little brains of yours all over this bar, and take your hat with me.”

At some point, you forgot that most people in Goodneighbor die from bullets. Residents of Goodneighbor don’t generally live long lives. The fact you made it almost a full year without being shot is damn near impressive. But as you slowly blink back the darkness creeping in your vision, you realize living in Goodneighbor is just living on borrowed time.

“One.”

You hope Danse figures it out with Nate. Maybe he’ll tell Robert what happened. Hopefully neither of them will blame themselves. You chose to wear the hat, and this guy would’ve found you wearing it sooner or later. Maybe someone will see to it that Duncan gets your comic books.

“Two.”

BANG!

Chapter Text

Your body slumps to the ground.

Wood chips fly as the bar is hit by both the ricocheted bullet and Charlie’s saw blade. Danse grapples the Gunner from behind, incapacitating him. Hancock wastes no time in flicking out his switchblade and stabbing it under the Gunner’s combat armor. Jerry is by your side, aiming his gun at the brawl.

While gasping for air, you reach up and feel your head. You feel a chunk of your hair missing, having been cut off by Charlie when he blocked the bullet. Pupils wide, your rub the side of your head and slowly observe your fingers. There’s no blood. Gently massaging your throat, you confirm you’re breathing.

You’re alive. Thank fuck.

You feel dizzy. Ham helps you to your feet. The bouncer holds your arm firmly as he helps you shakily stand and sit back down on the barstool. You’ve never been so grateful to have three ghouls, a synth and a robot in your corner.

The Gunner struggles, but can’t break free from Danse’s trained hold or evade Hancock jabs. He chokes on his own blood for solid minute before slumping in Danse’s arms. Danse drops the body like trash. Hancock and Danse stare at each other for before nodding, accepting other’s help.

“Drink up, love,” says Charlie as he hands you a shot. You automatically knock it back, recognizing the burn of whiskey. It hurts your already sore throat, but it’s another reminder you’re alive.

“You alright, sister?” asks Hancock looking you over. You nod once. Mindlessly, your eyes drift to his frock. It’s littered with wet splatters of blood. Your vision is blocked by a familiar bomber jacket.

“Look at me,” commands Danse. His eyes narrow as he looks you in the eyes before gently turning your head to assess your condition. “You’re experiencing symptoms of shock. Can you speak?”

“Yes,” you say, voice raspy. “I would like to go home now.”

“Understood.”

“You take it easy, alright? Your tab’s on me. You go rest up. Ham! Take care of the trash, will ya?”

“You got it, Hancock,” he says, picking up the corpse.

“Good work, Jerry.”

“Just doing my job, boss.”

“Are you fit to walk?” ask Danse, pulling you two your feet. You nod, but keep a tight grip on his shoulder. He reaches past you to grab your hat that has fallen and secures it on your head. Grabbing the brim, you pull it down to cover your eyes. He says nothing as he leads you up the stairs and out of the Third Rail.

Danse brings you straight home. He presses you into a sitting position on the bottom bunk.

“Rest.”

“But my bunk is—”

“You are in no state to climb into an upper bunk. You will sleep on the bottom tonight.”

“Oh...okay,” you say, laying down. You watch Danse grab his rifle and sit on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Lookout duty.”

“But...this is my house?”

“I...don’t actually know how to expedite the recovery process,” he admits. “And I no longer have access to Knight-Captain Cade’s medical expertise.”

“...and your on the floor...why?”

“In the field, we would take turns watching over each other after a near-death situation. It’s what we did in the park, too. This is the only way I know how to help. I’m hoping the familiar scene will help you feel secure and ease your shock of a near-death experience more effectively.”

“Okay,” you say, feeling disconnected. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Now rest.”

The sound of birds chirping wake you. Blinking in confusion, you wonder if you’re still dreaming as you look up at the frame up the upper bunk. You’ve never slept on the bottom bunk before?

“Good morning,” you hear near your head. Turning you see Danse seated on the floor, his laser rifle in his lap. “How are you feeling?”

Feeling the side of your head, the missing clump of hair reminds you of your close call. Breathing in slowly, you wince as your neck aches.

“A little sore,” you say, rubbing your throat. It’s still tender. “You been there all night?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, the bruising will take a few days to heal.”

“Bruising?”

“You have a purple hand print.”

“Oh...neat. Hope people don’t think I’m into kinky shit.”

“...are you okay?”

Running a hand down your face, you sigh. Flopping your hand onto the mattress, you lay motionless for a minute before hauling yourself into a sitting position.

“Life is awfully fragile, isn’t it?” you say, looking over at Danse. He frowns at you, but nods in agreement. Reaching up, you mess with your chopped hair.

“Would you like me to even that out?”

“You can cut hair?” you question with a small grin. He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Do you think we had barbers onboard the Prydwen?”

“Actually, I kinda did.”

“It never struck you odd that my beard has remained trimmed during these past weeks?”

“I’ll be honest, I never thought about it.”

“Sit,” he says, nodding to a dining chair and grabbing a pair of scissors and a razor from his bag. An amused grin stretches onto your face.

“You’re seriously going to cut my hair?”

“Unless you find that missing patch acceptable?”

“Okay, solider boy. But no buzz cuts.”

“Roger that.”

The last time you had your hair cut was in Diamond City right after you left the Atom Cats. John had taken a half hour to tame your tied back curls that he dubbed as poodle skirt into something less poofy and more manageable. He jokingly called it the welder look after hearing about you trying to get a permit to open up a garage through the city’s rumor mill.

You hadn’t cared about the final result then, and you’re not too concerned about it now, but you are curious about what Danse is doing to your head. The sounds of hair snipping and the faint sound of Radio Freedom are the only noise as you let Danse work. He tugs your hair around, trimming around the sides, and pulling some into a ponytail. It takes a solid twenty minutes before he is satisfied with his work.

“Let me know what you think,” he says, handing you his razor. You use it as a mirror to check your reflection. Both sides of your head are cropped super short, despite your playful warning about no buzz cuts, but it’s tasteful. The top your head still has long hair, currently pulled into a ponytail. This style complements wearing it up or down.

“Well damn,” you croon. “You could put John out of business.”

“I’ll take that as it meets your standards.”

“Buddy, you could walk over the bar for my hair standards,” you tease, handing him back his razor. “But it looks good, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Interference on the radio catches your attention. Walking over, you adjust the dial to bring in the station again, while Danse gets to sweeping up the hair on the floor.

“Shroud...mechanist...” Your hand freezes over the nob. “Tune into our friends at Shroud Radio tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion of the Silver Shroud vs. The Mechanist.”

You look up at Danse who nods down at you.

“Guess you’re going to have the chance to talk to Nate sooner rather than later.”

“I...affirmative.”

Chapter Text

The hardest part of packing isn’t the supplies. You have plenty of fusion cells and rations for both you and Danse in case something happens to add time to the trip. It’s also not deciding on wearing the hat, either. MacCready’s hat sits firmly on your head and that’s where it’ll stay until you near the Castle.

It’s convincing Danse to wear your set of T-51.

“No,” he says, firmly. “It’s your personal suit and you need to wear it for your safety.”

“And I said, put the damn suit on!” you say. “We need to keep you hidden! What if we encounter some Brotherhood soldiers? They’ll shoot both of us on site if they see you!”

“They’ll shoot at me, but you’d be able to get away without much injury wearing the set of Power Armor.”

“Did you forget this is about getting you to Nate? Get in the suit!”

“I will not have your blood on my hands. Wear your Power Armor, civilian.”

“Exactly! Civilian. You’re trained to fight in Power Armor. It’s better you wear it.”

“Ladies,” croons Hancock as he leans against your counter. “You’re both gorgeous. What seems to be the issue here? I heard the radio in the State House. Thought you two tin can lovers would’ve left town by now.”

“Hancock!” you say, exasperated. “Tell, soldier boy to get in the damn suit.”

“You’ll think he’ll listen to me, sweetheart?” chuckles the mayor.

“No, but then maybe it’ll at least cross his thick skull that it’s the best option!”

“I’m not letting you travel unarmored through verified areas of known Super Mutant camps.”

“We can go around!”

“I am not going to show cowardice in the face of those abominations. Super Mutants should be exterminated on sight for their crimes against humanity.”

“Then get in the suit! You can take point! I know how to stay hidden and shoot from distance!”

Hancock loses his shit as bursts out in loud laughter. You and Danse stare unimpressed at him as he wheezes on your counter.

“This situation isn’t funny,” says Danse, glaring at Hancock. “She could get hurt.”

“Well, Dansy,” smirks Hancock in amusement. “From where I’m standing, it sounds like a pair of kids unable to decide who’s turn it is with the toy.”

Danse scowls, but remains quiet as Hancock looks up seriously.

“Our little greasy garage rat here—”

“Hey! I’m probably one of the top five cleanest people in town!”

“—is probably right,” finishes Hancock, leaning his chin on his fist. “She makes a good argument. You need to keep your face hidden, brother. Her Power Armor is a good way to do that without impairing your ability to fight any unfriendlies you may face out there. Her point about your fighting ability in the armor is valid, too.”

“See?” you huff. Hancock frowns at you.

“His arguments are on point too, sweetheart,” says Hancock. You deflate as Danse seems to stand a bit straighter.
“You are going to be at a disadvantage. Last time you traveled to the Castle, you had your suit on. Had it when you came back, too. Greaser jackets don’t stop bullets.”

You sigh loudly.

“If I walk over to KL-E-O’s right now and buy a chest piece, will you please get into the suit?” you ask Danse.

“Yes.”

Shedding your jacket and tossing it onto a workbench, you march over to KL-E-O’s in your undershirt and jeans. The boys can hear KL-E-O’s laughter as she displays her armor pieces. Danse nods at Hancock as the ghoul winks at him.

“Watch out for each other, will ya?”

“Roger that.”

By the time the Castle comes into view, you’re tired and have splatters of dried Super Mutant blood on your shadowed metal chest armor. Danse’s...enthusiasm for killing mutants recolors your once white Power Armor to red. At least he hasn’t too badly damaged your suit yet. The same cannot be said for your patience.

“Do you think he changed his mind?”

“Doubt it.”

“He could have found someone else...it’s been several weeks and he seems to know everyone.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“What if he changed his mind on killing me? I wouldn’t blame him.”

“He won’t.”

“What if—”

“Danse,” you sigh, feeling a little frustrated. “Will you calm down already? You’ll be fine. It’ll all work out like it’s supposed to. Have faith in Nate.”

“...understood.”

“Good,” you say, taking a deep breath. You take off your hat and carefully store it into your backpack. While his eyes are hidden by your helmet, you can feel Danse’s stare.

“We are approaching the Castle,” he says, slowly. “Why are you taking your hat off now?”

“Because I’m scared, Danse,” you say bluntly. While Danse appreciates your honesty, he frowns at you.

“Of?” he inquires, despite already having an idea.

“That I’m making a mistake by coming here.”

“Because of the mercenary?”

“He has a name, Danse.”

This silences Danse as he watches you adjust your welding goggles around your neck. Your demeanor has changed, and he doesn’t like it, but he finds himself understanding it. He vows to explain himself thoroughly to the mercenary—MacCready—and make this right.

“Eyes on allies! Open the gate!”

You hear the shouts of the Minutemen as the gate of the Castle opens.

“Never thought I’d be so nervous to enter a place without hostiles,” says Danse, voice light with humor. You find yourself chuckling as the two of you near the Castle.

“Funny how life works, huh?” you say in agreement. You take a deep breath and holster your laser pistol. Danse clutches his rifle tightly.

“Don’t break your gun,” you say, weakly grinning. “I didn’t bring my tools.”

“Understood,” he says, forcing his grip to relax.

Nate is waiting for you in the courtyard, dressed in his General of the Minutemen hat and frock. As you cross the yard, you notice he has replaced his combat shotgun with a Gauss rifle. It’s amazing how much a change in weapon makes him appear more leader-like.

“Welcome back,” greets Nate with a small smile. He looks tired, older, more like a wastelander and less of the vault dweller you first met in Goodneighbor. “Looks like you met some trouble on your way here.”

“Smashed some mutant skulls on our way here,” says Danse, standing in front of Nate. “Nothing we couldn’t handle, General.”

At your deadpan expression, Nate chuckles. Your suit of Power Armor opens and Danse steps out. A breeze off the ocean fills your nose with Danse’s sweaty body odor. Trying not to gag, you realize you’re going to need to wash out your Power Armor frame.

“You look well,” observes the General. “I’m glad.”

“It’s good to see you Nate,” says Danse with a small smile. The two men stare at each other, glad that the other appears to be in good health.

When neither make a move, you give Danse a light slap on the back.

“You have something you needed to discuss privately with Nate, didn’t you?” you say, giving Danse a push. He looks sternly at you, but his red tinted ears give him away. You wink and step into your set of T-51. “I’m going to walk this over to the warehouse for a good washing and check it over. Let me know if you need me for anything.”

“Will do,” says Nate. He gestures towards the Castle walls while looking at Danse. “We can talk in the meeting room?”

“Sounds good,” says Danse, following Nate.

The smell of Super Mutant gore and body odor makes your Power Armor reek. Exiting your armor at station, you immediately get to work filling buckets with soapy water. Scrubbing your armor inside and out, it slowly returns to it’s original white color. As you rinse off your suit, you catch a flash of familiar colors in the sniper’s next. Squinting, you can see MacCready is faced away from you. You sigh. There’s no way he doesn’t know you’re here.

“Need a change of clothes?” says Sturges as he slowly approaches you. He hands you a bundle of clothing. “You’re look like you rolled in some mutant’s meat bag.”

“You just don’t understand fashion,” you say playfully and smiling. Sturges laughs at you while you gratefully take the clothes from him.

“Right,” he chuckles. “Well, if you want get that stylish blood off you, I got showers set up near the kitchens now.”

Oh, that sounds so nice.

“You’re amazing, Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, waving you to follow. “It’s this way. Don’t be too disappointed. Still working on a boiler.”

The showers are cold, but it feels good to get the blood and grime off. Changing into the spare clothes—a flannel shirt and jeans—you bring your wet, rinsed undershirt and jeans over to the warehouse and fling them on your Power Armor to dry. Sitting down on a dry patch of dirt, you lean against the warehouse and stare up at the partly cloudy sky.

You wonder if you should leave as soon as your T-51 dries.

“You’re with the big guy now?”

Turning to the disapproving voice, your eyes meet Duncan’s brown ones. He glares at you with his arms crossed. Why is this child capable of intimidating you more than almost anyone else?

“No,” you say honestly. “He’s only a friend that needed help.”

“So why are you and dad acting like stupid mungos, then?”

Stupid what nows?

“We had a misunderstanding. I—we never got the change to clear it up.”

“So why don’t you do it now?”

You forgot that Duncan always has questions.

“I’m scared, half-pint.”

Duncan squints at you as he tilts his head. For a moment he is quiet as he stares you down. He uncrosses his arms, but still fixates his ‘are you stupid’ face on you.

“Of dad?”

“Never,” you say clearly. “I’m scared I lost him to a misunderstanding. That I shouldn’t be here.”

Duncan sighs, looking much older than he is. He plops down on the grass next to you.

“Adults are stupid.”

“Yeah, half-pint,” you laugh softly. Things are so simple from the perspective of a child. “We are.”

As the two of you sit in the shade, you spy Nate and Danse returning to the courtyard. The two men are red faced, walking shoulder to shoulder and suspiciously happy. Good for them. You don’t envy Nate. He’s going to need the patience of a saint with Danse.

Danse catches your eye and you feel your smirk widen as his face darkens. He covers his face when you give him an exaggerated wink. You don’t feel too bad about embarrassing him though, seeing his smile. Nate shakes his head at your antics. Duncan looks between the adults with a confused face. There’s a joke, but he doesn’t understand it.

You watch Nate and Danse discuss something. Whatever it is, Nate seems to approve. Nate starts walking your way while Danse heads in a different direction. Maybe Danse doesn’t want to risk being teased further right now?

“Get your man?” you ask. Nate smiles at your knowing face. You raise an eyebrow seeing his sheepish grin.

“Yeah...”

“Congrats.”

“Thank you.”

“You know,” you tease. “When I told you I could fix any machine, I wasn’t expecting you to drop a gen three at my door.”

“That’s not why, and you know it!” he laughs. You lean forward and lightly wack him on the knee.

“Don’t break his heart. You hear me, old man?”

“Crystal,” he says, smiling gently.

Chapter Text

It’s been weeks, but as Danse searches for his target, he feels like himself again. Just him, and the task at hand. How long has it been since he had a mission, personal or otherwise? Too long.

Danse marches confidently up the stairs to the upper walls. Haylen used to tease him about his ‘man on a mission’ strut when he got focused on a task. He hopes she is doing well. Perhaps Nate could...no, that would be foolish. Nate would contact Haylen for him, he’s absolutely sure about that. However, doing so would put everyone he has left in danger. While he would like to at least apologize to his old squadmate, it would be safest for everyone involved if he remains no contact.

Catching sight of MacCready in the sniper’s nest, he starts heading in his direction.

The situation is familiar. There had been times in the Brotherhood where he had to explain his relationships to others to avoid or correct misunderstandings. As a Paladin, it was expected of him to take initiative on such matters and stomp out any sparks that could cause tensions with his fellow soldiers, though it rarely happened. He remembers how off-guard he had been when you joked to Nate and his associate Cait after the ghoul mission.

He had been mortified. Had you been his soldier, you would have reprimanded, on sanitation duty for two weeks, then reassigned to a different squad. But knowing what he does now? The memory is...humorous. Precious even.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he didn’t have many friends in the Brotherhood. It’s bittersweet knowledge, but it gives valuable insight on who his true friends are. Friends who would put themselves out there for him, regardless of rank, and he must be willing to do the same.

Which is why MacCready is going to listen to what he has to say whether the civilian wants to or not.

“MacCready, I need to speak with you.”

MacCready fixes Danse with a dark expression.

“You’re the last one I want to talk to,” he spits. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, MacCready gets up and leaves. Danse reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder to stop him. MacCready rips his shoulder away from Danse.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I need you to listen to me,” says Danse, standing his ground. MacCready flips him off before turning back around to leave. Once more, Danse grabs MacCready, this time by the arm. “Stop!”

Danse is shoved back and dodges a fist to his face. His patience for this civilian wears dangerously thin. Having missed, MacCready goes for his rifle, but Danse is quicker. In a swift movement, the former soldier grapples the other man to the ground and pins him beneath him. The sniper’s face flushes red in anger.

“Get the fu-frick off me!”

“You are going to listen to what I have to say, mercenary!” commands Danse with authority. He keeps his hold firm while MacCready struggles.

“Get the fuc—!”

“Nothing happened between me and your girlfriend, MacCready!”

The mercenaries profanity dies as he finally appears to be listening. Danse keeps his face trained in a neutral expression, though he wouldn’t mind returning the scowl he’s receiving. Or sending back his own middle finger...or trying to get his own swing in. But he can’t.

“As I’m sure Nate has made you aware, I am a synth,” says Danse, staring the man down. “Nate brought me over to her house to lay low. She directed me to change out of my Brotherhood uniform as it would draw unwanted attention. The pants she gave me were too small and she was discussing how to alter them to fit. That is what you saw, civilian.”

MacCready is no longer struggling against him, nor is he looking him in the eye. Danse eases his grip.

“I realize I should have spoke out sooner, but how you responded was uncalled for, mercenary.”

“What do you know?” hisses MacCready softly. Danse finds himself tightening his hold.

“What I know,” growls Danse, leaning closer. “Is everything that happened after. How she acted like everything was optimal during daylight hours, only to cry herself to sleep every night holding a particular green hat.”

Seeing the man flinch gives Danse a dark sense of accomplishment.

“What I know is how she damn near came to blows with me when she couldn’t pretend anymore. How we got into a screaming match only to break down. What I know is how much she was hurting. All while trying to get my head out of myself-pitying ass.”

Whatever MacCready wants to say, he can’t find the words as he opens his mouth, only to clench his teeth.

“Yet somehow,” continues Danse with a deep frown. “She still cares about you.”

MacCready hesitantly meets Danse’s disapproving gaze.

“After your childish argument, after everything you said, after every tear she shed for you, she still put her life on the line to protect you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have a lot of enemies, mercenary. Gunners, right?”

Danse can feel MacCready’s muscles tighten under his hands.

“No way...” whispers MacCready eyes wide. “Nate and I killed every one on the Pike!”

“You were sloppy and missed one,” states Danse. “She was wearing your hat while at the Third Rail. The asshole waited for me to leave her alone for just a moment before slamming her against that robot’s bar and putting a .44 to her head. He was looking for you and recognized your hat. She refused to tell him and damn near got her brains blown out for it. She’s exceptionally lucky to have only lost some hair.”

“...why are you telling me this?”

“Because she is one of the few friends I have left and the closest damn thing to family I have now,” he says. Danse exhales loudly as he loosens his grip again. “I don’t know what she sees in an insubordinate civilian like you, but she appears to be in love with you.”

“And you’re in love with her?” scowls MacCready. Blinking Danse looks down at the mercenary a bit puzzled.

“No,” he states firmly. “I do not see her in a romantic way.” MacCready stares at him in disbelief.

“Bullsh—crap.”

“I’m being honest,” says Danse. He sighs and releases MacCready. “Besides, I am now in an official relationship with Nate.”

“Okay,” says a bewildered MacCready. “I didn’t expect that.”

Danse stands up and dusts off his clothes.

“She helped me come to terms with what I am and my feeling towards Nate,” he says holding out a hand. MacCready doesn’t take his hand, opting to pick himself off the ground. A frown pulls at Danse’s face. “She was hurt you didn’t trust her. I advise you not hurt her again or you will not like the consequences.”

“She wasn’t the only one hurt, ya know...” grumbles MacCready, dusting himself off. Danse’s frown eases as he assess the man in front of him.

“I’m aware,” says Danse boldly. “And she knows too.”

“Damn it,” hisses MacCready as he runs his hand through his hair. After watching the emotions race over the mercenary’s face for a moment, Danse decides to throw him a bone.

“For the record,” starts Danse, his face twitching into a small grin. He turns his gaze towards the ocean. “She wore your hat most of the way here. She only took it off when we got close to the Castle.”

“...really?”

“Affirmative.”

“I...see. Thanks, I guess.”

“Talk to her.”

“I plan to—the hell?”

Danse abruptly turns his eyes back to the mercenary, hearing his change in tone. MacCready isn’t looking at him, instead his attention is in the courtyard. Following his eyes, Danse immediately finds the source of the man’s concern.

Two new figures are in the courtyard, both in sets of Power Armor. Danse’s heart skips a beat in panic, but he quickly realizes that neither figure wearing Brotherhood issue T-60. It’s a suit of T-51 and X-01. That doesn’t ease him as much as it should, especially since the two sets aren’t flying Minutemen colors either. Instead, an uneasy feeling settles in his gut, seeing you and Nate standing in front of the two armored figures without suits of your own.

“Crap,” hisses MacCready, peering down his scope at the set of T-51. “I know that flame job. Atom Cats. What are they doing here?”

“Aren’t they allied to the Minutemen?”

“It’s not the Minutemen I’m worried about.”

“Agreed,” says Danse, drawing his laser rifle. “Are you capable of taking a lethal shot if necessary?”

“I’m the best shot in the damn Commonwealth. Of course I can.”

“Outstanding.”

Chapter Text

It’s nice to catch up with Nate and Duncan. Nate’s entangled in a mess of his own creation that he can’t actually tell you about without putting you in danger. Duncan is having shooting lessons. You assume at first that his father is the one teaching him, but you quickly find out that Nate, Preston and Ronnie have taken a liking to the boy and have been also coaching him on his marksmanship.

The kids’ getting primed to be a solider or mercenary like his father. It gives you mixed feelings. On one hand, he’ll be more than capable of keeping himself safe. However, you’d rather him repair and build cool stuff rather than killing people. He has the talent for it, he just needs a teacher.

Damn, you really do need to have a serious conversation with MacCready sooner rather than later.

As you chat, the gates to the Castle open. Two individuals in full sets of T-51 and X-01 walk through. You're on your feet the second you recognize the Atom Cats paint job on the T-51. You swear, if that’s Zeke...

Don’t lose your shit in front of the kid. Don’t lose your shit in front of the kid.

“Don’t worry,” says Nate next to you with a grin. “I hired them to work on a suit for me. They won’t cause you any problems if they want to get paid.”

His words calm you down a little. You watch as Nate walks forward and talks to the two individuals. The back of the X-01 opens and a figure steps out. A lump forms in your throat and you find yourself swallowing audibly. Your eyes burn as tears try to form, but you blink them back.

Rowdy.

Rowdy slaps the X-01 with her hand and grins widely at Nate as she talks. You can’t hear much, but you know her pride face. She built something cool and is going to tell Nate all about it. It makes you want to walk up and listen to her ramble about it, watching her eyes brighten in excitement, but you feel rooted to the spot.

The helmet of the T-51 looks in your direction. You steel your nerves as the plated Cat gets Rowdy’s attention and points towards you. Rowdy’s words trail off as she stares at you with wide eyes. Unsure what to do, you give a hesitant wave.

Rowdy dashes towards you. Oh shit, she’s crying. You brace yourself as Rowdy throws herself at you, and pulls you into a bone crushing hug. You stiffen, uncomfortable with the contact, but unable to pull away. Her partner walks towards you, removing their helmet.

Duke.

Your smile is hesitant at first, but blooms into a wide, genuine grin. Duke smiles back at you while Rowdy pulls away, wiping her eyes. Her smile is wet from tears, but no less genuine. You wipe at your own eyes, making sure no liquid falls.

“Well, well,” you say, voice cracking. “What brings a set of cool Cats like yourselves to my parts?”

“Nate asked us to soup up some sweet X-01 plates for a friend of his,” says Duke. “Some former Brotherhood square, turned cool cat.”

Christ, if Danse didn’t love Nate before, he’s going to worship him now. Rowdy’s repairs and mods are nothing to sneeze at.

“The square’s no wet rag,” you grin. “He’ll love it.”

“He better,” smile Rowdy. “I put my best work into those plates. I’ll reclaim my work if he doesn’t treat his chassis right.”

“Don’t worry, he’s just as wild about Power Armor as we are.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says.

The three of you are silent for an uncomfortable minute.

“Listen,” says Duke stepping closer to you. “I’m sorry about what happened. I should have stayed behind and clocked some sense into Zeke instead of going out scavenging for suit bits.”

“Duke...” you start sadly. “It’s not your fault.”

“As the Atom Cats’ second-in-command, it is,” he says. “I’m the one who reels in Zeke’s shenanigans and it’s my job to pick up the balls that he drops.”

“Did he tell you what he was planning to do with me?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then stop blaming yourself,” you say firmly. “As far as I’m concerned, Zeke’s the asshole in this story. Not you. I chose to leave. If he didn’t lead the Cats, then maybe things would have been different.”

“Speaking of which,” says Rowdy. “After Zeke had a tumble with you in Goodneighbor, he seemed to get his screws tightened. About time, too. He’s offered to step down as leader of the Atom Cats.”

“What?” you say bewildered. Zeke step down? The Atom Cats is his baby.

“So, as acting leader of the Atom Cats,” says Duke as he pulls out a familiar leather jacket from his Power Armor storage. It’s your jacket, the one you left behind. He hands it to you. “I would like to officially ask you to rejoin the Atom Cats.”

“What?” you repeat yourself. You feel like an idiot savant, but you really have no other words.

“Rejoin us,” he says. His voice is confident and unwavering. “As leader I will make sure nothing like this will happen to a Cat of mine ever again. We’re a family, and family should feel safe with each other.”

“I would love to have you back in the garage,” adds Rowdy, almost shyly. “It hasn’t been the same without you. I miss you.”

You can feel tears forming in your eyes again. Carefully, you trace the embroidered Atom Cat emblem with your fingers. Could you do it? Could you really forgive everything and go home? Dread pools in your gut as you think of everyone you would be leaving behind if you rejoined the Atom Cats. Your eyes drift over to Duncan, who looks back at you, eyes wide in concern.

No, you already know your answer.

“I can’t,” you say, offering the jacket back. “I’ve done well for myself. My garage is successful, I freelance for the Minutemen, and I found a family of my own.”

Rowdy looks sad, but understanding. Duke nods at you.

“Crystal clear, sister,” he says, pushing the jacket your way. “But keep the jacket. A reminder that we’ll welcome you back anytime.”

The sun is setting as you sit on the wall of the Castle. Brilliant colors of oranges and violets fill the horizon as you sip your glowing Nuka-Cola Quantum. You stare in the direction of the Atom Cats Garage, wondering if you made the right choice. Only time will tell.

You hear foot steps coming closer behind you. A sigh escapes you as you slowly turn around.

“Preston, for the love of God, stop asking—”

MacCready’s eyes meet yours as the words die in your throat.

“I’ll mark it on your map,” he says, doing his best Garvey impression and grinning shyly. You blink in surprise before snorting in amusement and bringing your attention back to the ocean. MacCready slowly approaches you and sits down next to you.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you give him your full attention. MacCready runs his fingers through his hair as he finds his words. Not pushing him, you take a sip of your cola.

“I’ve been acting kind of...well, foolishly,” he starts. “I allowed our relationship to fall apart, because I couldn’t handle my jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” you question, pausing your drinking. Your face scrunches in confusion. “Jealous of what?”

“Danse.”

Huh?

“I’m lost, what?”

MacCready stares intently at your face. There’s no guilt, only genuine confusion. You really have no idea what he’s talking about. He feels like an idiot as he runs his hand through his hair again.

“He’s tall, educated, perfect smile, and built like a brick shi—outhouse. Bet every gal and some of the guys in Goodneighbor couldn’t take their eyes off him and his washboard abs,” he says with a sigh. Your eyes widen as everything clicks into place. MacCready finds Danse attractive, so therefore he thought you did as well.

“He’s everything I’m not, but...” he trails off as he licks his cracked lips nervously. “I miss being close to you, and I just want things to go back to how things were.”

“MacCready...”

“And I know I don’t deserve it,” he continues, looking down at the beach. “After preaching about trust and not being able to.”

“RJ.”

“If you don’t want to, I don’t blame you after how I treated y—”

He’s cut off as you roughly grab the collar of his duster.

“Robert, shut the fuck up and kiss me already.”

He freezes for a moment, processing your aggressive words, before quickly grabbing your shoulders and kissing you. The kiss had no business feeling as good as it did. When you part, he places his forehead against yours. You can’t help returning his relieved smile as you reach up and wipe away one of his fallen tears.

“How about we take it a bit slower this time?” you offer with a grin. “We did kind of dive right into...well, everything.”

MacCready laughs breathlessly, leaning into your hand and places his own on your cheek.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

Everything feels right, again.

“You mungos fix your bullshit problems, yet?”

MacCready chokes as he whips his head around to see Duncan. A giggle morphs into full blown laughter as you look between MacCready’s embarrassed face to Duncan’s innocent one.

“Yeah,” you say, through your guffaws. “We fixed our bullshit problems.”

“Good,” states Duncan as he plops down between the two of you. A wide smirk settles on your lips as MacCready hides his face in the palm of his hand. Duncan eyes your drink. “You gonna finish that?”

Wordlessly, you hand your cola to the child. He takes a large drink of the mostly empty Nuka-Cola Quantum. Smiling, your eyes soften as you look from Duncan to his father. MacCready has removed his hand from his face and is looking just as softly between you and Duncan. Over the kid’s head, you share a content and happy look with his father.

Yes, everything feels right.

Chapter Text

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

You groan, yanking the blanket over your head. It’s not even light out yet. Waking up on your own is one thing, but being woken up on your day off is another.

“Don’t wanna,” you grumble. RJ’s chuckle of amusement wakes you up a little more as you feel his hand stroke your head through the fabric.

“It’s kinda important you do,” he chuckles.

“Is the Castle under attack?”

“Nope.”

“Did someone’s musket explode?”

“Nope again.”

“Is there an emergency with someone’s suit of plates?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Then it’s not important.”

“Sorry sweetheart,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. “But you agreed to be the best man for the tin can.”

Damn, that’s today, isn’t it?

Grumpily, you pull the blanket down to look at your husband. RJ smiles as he leans down and kisses you softly on the forehead. The creases on your skin soften as you try to hide your grin.

“Why can’t they just have a quick union like we did?” you whine, dramatically flipping the blanket off you. RJ laughs at you, his messy bedhead swaying with the movement. “Quick skip over to Diamond City and ten minutes.”

“Do you honestly think Nate, the freaking General of the Commonwealth Minutemen and destroyer of the Institute, would get away with that?”

“Noooo...”

“Exactly.”

“We need less popular friends,” you huff, forcing yourself out of bed. RJ chuckles as at you again as he places another kiss on top of your head.

“I’ll be sure to let Nate know how much of an inconvenience his sparkling image in the eyes of the people is.”

“Please do.”

Yawning, you stretch before walking down the wooden stairs to the makeshift bathroom. RJ’s house in the walls of the Castle is bigger than what your shack was. His place had two floors. The top floor being a sleeping loft converted into two bedrooms, and the bottom floor had everything else.

Moving to the Castle and working full-time for the Minutemen’s armored militia was hardly a tough decision. Laser weapons and Power Armor all day every day, and living with your husband and adopted son. A statistically lower chance of being shot is also a bonus.

Life is good.

Grabbing the clean gray suit, you slowly pull it on. Where it had been a bit baggy several weeks ago, now fits almost snugly to your body. You try not to let that bother you. The tie takes a few attempts to get right, but it eventually knots in a way that looks good. Looking yourself over in a cracked mirror, you feel a bit ridiculous, but at least Preston’s going to be wearing the same suit. You two can look like fancy clowns together.

“You look like a fucking square, mom,” says Duncan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You pull at the tie, loosening it just a little.

“So, it looks okay?”

“Yeah, it looks good,” he says. “Glad I don’t have to wear one.”

“No, but you and your dad will be taking baths today.”

“...this house is a nightmare,” groans Duncan. You tilt your head at your son.

“You like baths.”

“But getting dad to take one will be like pulling teeth.”

“Make sure your dad takes one and I’ll give you fifty caps.”

“Deal.”

Danse is an absolute wreck when you enter the Castle’s war room. His tux is hastily thrown on, hair a chaotic mess, and eyes are wild with panic as he paces.

“Thought I had a tough morning,” you tease, catching Danse’s attention. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I’m going to ruin his life,” he chokes, dangerously close to a complete meltdown. Breathing slowly to compose yourself, you crack your neck and walk calmly to your best friend.

“No, you’re not.”

First thing’s first, the suit needs to be tidied, and the tie redone.

“Yes, I am. Shaun needs stable parents. I can’t be that for him. I don’t know anything about raising kids.”

You hate bowties. They never want to sit nice and straight. Also look ridiculous, but you didn’t have the heart to tell the grooms that.

“You’ve trained squires, Danse. Probably got more experience raising kids than Nate does at this point. You will be fine.”

Wrangling the man into a chair, you comb your fingers through his hair. A little spit to take care of that cowlick and he’ll be right as irradiated rain. Danse is so lost in his head he doesn’t comment on your ‘unsanitary hair practices.’

“I’m not father material. I have no memory of parents! How does a snyth without memories raise a snyth—”

You slap both of your hands against his cheeks and hold his face.

“That’s enough, solider,” you say, firmly. Danse straightens his back as he gives you his full attention. “Nate will not let you do this alone. The two of you are about to be married. You’ll get through the ups and downs as a team. He has your six, you have his.”

“I—you...yes. You’re right.”

“I know I am,” you grin and wipe some dust off his tux jacket. “Now, you’re going to go out there and make your new spouse proud. Understood, solider?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Outstanding,” you smirk. He returns your grin.

The wedding feels like a complete waste of resources, but it’s sight to behold. The Castle is decorated like one of those pre-war wedding magazines Nate had you read. Strips of cloth hang from the walls and strings of lights Sturges strung drape through the courtyard. There’s a buffet table full of drinks and food towards the back. Everyone looks clean and are wearing fresh clothes.

Tables and chairs have been set up to seat people. All available chairs are taken with standing room only. Many faces you recognize, many more you’ve never met. RJ looks grumpy and clean next to Duncan. Your friends from Goodneighbor are here, along with a few of the Atom Cats. Familiar faces from Diamond City are a surprise. You expected Nick and Piper, but the Zwicky’s, Rodriguez’s and Danny Sullivan were unexpected additions. Looks like Travis couldn’t make it.

It feels like another world.

Standing behind Danse, you side-eye Preston, trying not to laugh as Ronnie Shaw attempts to officiate the wedding. Preston’s twitching jaw gives away his amusement. It takes ten minutes of her stumbling through the unfamiliar words before Nick Valentine calmly takes her place and speaks in front of the crowd. His smooth, rehearsed words calm the crowd and return everyone back to the wedding atmosphere. Good ‘ol reliable Valentine.

“Will the best people present the couple their rings?” says Valentine, his yellow eyes flicking between you and Preston. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a shiny steel band, engraved with today’s date. Danse smiles fondly at you as you hand him the ring to put on Nate’s hand. Nate places his gold wedding ring on Danse’s finger.

“I now pronounce you married. You may now kiss your spouse.”

The crowd of friends and allies laugh and cheer at the newlyweds. Hancock and Deacon let loose loud wolf whistles as Danse and Nate kiss. Nate’s shoulders shake in laughter as Danse’s neck and ears go scarlet. Several people coo when Shaun runs up and hugs both of his dads.

It’s incredibly wholesome.

You see a teary-eyed Curie elbow a grinning Cait as the redhead pretends to gag.

This feels right.

You spy Preston hand your gift to the couple to the radio operator. Minutemen Radio’s classic tune changes as the holotape blasts through the speakers. Nate and Danse look stunned as “Crazy He Calls Me” begins to play. You playfully push the couple to the center of the courtyard.

“Hope you like my family’s little gift to the newlyweds,” you wink. “I cashed in a favor Travis owed me.” Nate looks absolutely thrilled as he pulls Danse into a slow waltz. Danse smiles at you before getting lost in his dance. Turns out Danse isn’t that great at dancing. Who would’ve guessed?

No dancing for you though. Exhaustion hits you like a sprinting set of Power Armor. Spotting your family at the buffet table, you sit down on a chair near them. Your ankles are killing you.

“Tired?” asks RJ while passing you a plate of food and offering you an open Nuka-Cola. Your nose wrinkles as you grab only the plate and begin to inhale the Yao guai roast and Blamco. RJ laughs at you as Duncan snatches the cola from his dad.

“Dibs!” calls your son as he chugs the drink.

“He gets it from you,” snickers RJ as he plops down next to you with his own food.

“Guilty.”

The MacCready family watches as people crowd the newlyweds in content silence. You begin to rub your stomach with a grin as the meal settles. You’re definitely going to get seconds. RJ slings his arm around your shoulders.

“When did you want to tell them?” he asks. You lean your head into your husband, your free hand still on your slightly showing belly.

“Let’s ask them if they want to be godparents after the honeymoon.”