Archive of Our Own

It’s been a hell of a day. Benny’s almost relieved to see an end to it. It would be a relief if not for that sonofabitch courier deliberately doing everything he can to make Benny sweat—while at the same time making like Benny is beneath his notice, and refusing to direct an ounce of attention his way.

If there’s one thing that gets under Benny’s skin, it’s being ignored.

He’s ignored now, but this time, he’ll take it. The distraction keeps him alive for a few more minutes. Benny ain’t exactly eager to get up on the cross.

The mooks are all busy with bringing in the courier’s “gift” to Caesar. Takes six of them to drag him in. Realistically, it shouldn’t take more than two. The courier’s doctor friend is a tall drink of water, well-built, but not big. Any one of the Legion guards would have the weight advantage. And he’s only putting up a token fight, dragging his feet and testing their grips on his elbows.

They’ve already shown him what a real fight will get him. He’s got a mark on his cheek with the spacing of a picnic table's slats. Finger-shaped bruises blooming on the back of his neck. Benny puts two and two together: slammed against the nearest surface, couple hundred pounds of Legion body weight pinning him in place, showing him how little a struggle is worth. Benny knows this song and dance all too well. Doc's glasses are cracked across one lens, his Followers coat torn half off. He’s limping and trying not to, trying to look stronger than he is, breathing sharp and shallow from what Benny would guess has as much to do with a shot to the ribs as with fear.

The doc’s smart enough to know when he’s beat, won’t throw himself against the bars of a cage just for the show of it. But his eyes don’t come to a rest. He takes in everything, storing it up for a time it can be useful. He’s down, but not out. Good for him. Benny wishes him all the best.

The guards throw the new captive to the ground at Caesar’s feet. The doc gets back up again, looking Caesar in the eye as he does, and shrugging his way back into his lab coat.

They knock him down again. He lands hard this time, and doesn’t move for a second or two. Then, throwing a fierce glare at the one who shoved him, he pushes himself up again.

They catch him before he can get to his feet. Two of them get him by the shoulders to stop him rising any further. They kick his legs out from under him. He kneels there, because he has no choice about it, but any fool can see he’ll be up again as soon as they let him go.

“Bow before Lord Caesar!” they order, and the doc raises one perfectly arched eyebrow in a way that almost makes all their posturing ridiculous.

Goddamn, Benny wishes he had that trick. Not that it does anything to change the situation, but it must be nice to make them feel, even for a second, like they ain't the ones in control.

“I don’t bow to despots.” The doc’s voice is strained. He’s hurt, and they’re hurting him more now, holding him this way. He’s scared to death. But he’s keeping his cool. Benny admires him for that.

One of them grabs him by the hair and forces his head down. "Bow!"

The doc twists as far as he can, turning his head so he can still hold eye contact with Caesar.

Caesar lounges on his throne, resting his chin on one hand, watching the whole show with deep amusement.

“Me vivo, non serviam.” The doc spits the words with audible defiance. It means something to everyone but Benny. The guards want to rip his face off. Caesar laughs out loud.

“And he speaks Latin!” The warlord claps his hands in childish glee.

Caesar makes a good show of being a friendly old man with a sense of humor about his power. The doc, like Benny, is smart enough to see the danger behind the smile. He stops resisting and lets the guards force him into a pose of submission. He may not be ready to do it of his own free will, but the Legion will accept this sign that he accepts that they’re in charge. Without his having to come out and say it. Slick.

Caesar leans forward in his chair, dropping the Cool Old Guy mask like it never existed. He’s all threat now, even though he’s still showing his teeth in what could pass for a smile.

“You’re wrong, of course, doctor," Caesar says, in a bored tone that doesn’t match his eyes. “Slaves don’t choose whether or not to serve. You’ll do as you’re told. But it’s good you can show enough spirit to keep things interesting.”

“What makes you think I would ever obey you?” the poor dope asks, like there aren't six armed men keeping him on his knees. Caesar chuckles.

“Because your dear friend Sonny told me exactly what kind of man you are.”

The doc stiffens at the mention of the courier’s name. He tries to look up, and just gets shoved back down for his trouble. His jaw tightens, holding back some emotion Benny can’t read at this distance.

And just why is Benny so interested in Caesar’s new toy all of a sudden? Well, it beats planning for the future.

Caesar makes a small gesture to his guards, who relax their hold on the captive, giving him enough room to lift his head. He doesn’t try to do more than that.

“Where is Sonny?” He hits the wrong tone. Still thinks that any question he asks, he has a right to answers.

One of the guards swats him on the back of the head, hard enough that his glasses go flying. A friendly reminder that he has no rights to anything anymore. The doc slumps forward, nearly collapses. For a second, Benny’s afraid they knocked him out. Not that it would be so bad for the doc if they did, it’d save him a few minutes of pain, but as soon as the mooks are done with him, it’ll be Benny’s turn.

But Benny doesn’t have to step into the spotlight just yet. The doc shakes his head, plants his fists on his knees, and stays upright.

“Please,” he says. Everyone laughs.

Benny winces in unexpected sympathy. At least the worst pain the Legion put him through was physical. They had no stake in humiliating him, too.

The doc reaches for his lost glasses. They’re not far, but the guards yank him back into place before he can cross the distance. He looks up at Caesar with a pleading squint.

“What do you want from me?”

“Your surgical skills.”

“My—what?” Again, he twitches toward his glasses, and again, the guards jerk him back.

“Surgery. I’m told you’re familiar with the concept.”

“I—" The doc’s mouth snaps shut, cutting off his clever retort. He’s learning already. A crying shame, not only for Benny’s lost entertainment, but because having a sharp wit and the brass to show it might be the only chance this guy has at staying alive. Caesar has a thing for pretty boys with smart mouths.

“You’ll learn to be grateful for the opportunity,” says Caesar.

“You’ll excuse me if I doubt that very much.” Then, reluctantly, the doc asks, “What kind of surgery?”

Caesar sends his guards away before he explains. These are his most trusted men; they spend enough time with Caesar to know something’s wrong with him. But even they don’t get to know what it is.

The doc stays on his knees, but he throws his shoulders back, and he takes the chance to grab his glasses while no one’s close enough to stop him. Good for him. He should take whatever he can.

With his glasses on, he looks Caesar in the eye. They talk in low tones that won’t carry to the guards. Benny gets maybe every third or fourth word, but it’s all so technical, he probably couldn’t make sense of it even if he had it all straight. Something about headaches, but he already knows that much just from watching.

The doc rocks back in reaction to something Caesar says, shaking his head.

“I’m not a neurosurgeon.”

“We have an Auto-Doc. Get it working, and it should be able to provide you with enough support to get through a complex surgery.” Caesar looks at the guards. That’s all the signal they need to rejoin the conversation.

“No,” says the doc. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t perform brain surgery. I don’t have the training.”

“We can provide you with all the reference books you need. You’ll figure it out,” says Caesar.

“Why should I?” He asks the question even though the guards are looming over him, ready to beat him into the dirt for his disrespect.

“You’re bound by the Hippocratic oath,” Caesar reminds him. “First do no harm.”

“That’s a narrow definition of harm. I would do more harm to the world by allowing you to live.”

The same two guards get the doc by the arms again, ready to wrestle him into submission. They don’t like him implying he has the power to allow or not allow anything. But Caesar perks up. He likes being challenged—when he’s sure he can win.

“You want to debate medical ethics with me, doctor? What about your duty to your patient?”

“You’re not my patient. You’re my abductor.”

“Is that what you think?” Caesar leans forward, smiling, toothy as a deathclaw. “I’m your master.”

There’s still a couple of feet between them, but the look in Caesar’s eyes scares the doc enough that he tries to move back, straining against the guards’ hold. They keep him still.

Fear doesn’t lead to good decision-making. The doc is trapped, he knows he’s trapped, and he lashes out with the only thing he has left.

“You are no one’s master, you’re a deluded monster in a bad Halloween costume.”

What they do to him for that is less than it could be. He still has value to Caesar, so they won’t do any lasting damage. It still ends with him sprawled on the ground, helpless to do anything more than wheeze and whine and regret his show of temper. Benny knows that feeling. His mouth runs away from him more than he’d like.

A guard grabs the doc by the hair and yanks his head up. The glasses drop off again. A knife to the throat keeps the doc from going after them.

“Do you wish his blood spilled, Lord Caesar?”

“Not yet,” says Caesar, with a dismissive wave to the disappointed guard, who puts his knife away. “Submission is not easy to learn, but all slaves find their place in time. This one will, too.”

“And if I don’t?” the doc challenges. Benny sends his silent support. It takes a brave man to challenge Caesar from his position.

Of course the mooks don’t like it, but they already know they’re not allowed to kill him, so they just manhandle him back onto his knees.

Caesar gets up from his throne, picks up the glasses, and puts them back on the doctor’s face. It looks like a friendly gesture, but he shoves hard enough to rock the man’s head back. Then his hand slides down, palm resting against the doc’s cheek, fingers curling into his hair. The doc tries to pull away. Caesar tightens his grip.

“Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo. You’re not the only one who speaks Latin around here.” He pats the doc’s cheek once before turning away. Again, it’s friendly-looking. But it’s the next best thing to a slap.

Whatever those words mean, it scares the shit out of the doctor. He sits frozen for that long moment while Caesar holds eye contact. Then, when the old man’s back is turned, it all breaks loose.

Doc’s out of the guards' grip faster than Benny can follow. One’s bleeding from the nose, another’s doubled over with his hands up his own skirt, and the rest are left staring dumbly as their prisoner sprints for the tent flap.

Benny cheers him on. Silently, of course, because Doc ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of actually making it, and the last thing Benny wants anybody to do is notice him now when they’re all riled up.

The guards don’t react fast enough to stop the escape, but someone else does.

That little weasel of a spy, the one with the dog on his head, comes in from outside. He’s one of the few who can enter Caesar’s tent uninvited. Dog Boy doesn’t bat an eye to see a man running at him full-tilt, just hooks a foot around the doc’s ankle and knocks him to the ground.

The guard with the bloody nose tackles Doc a second later, too late to get the glory, but in plenty of time to knock the wind out of him. The mook drags the doc up, feet all the way off the ground for a second as he’s spun around to face Caesar.

The doc throws feet and elbows everywhere he can, but it’s all a pointless exercise. The escape attempt hasn’t gained him anything. Caesar looks impressed that he’s tried, but that just means Caesar will take a personal hand in beating the fight out of him later. The old man likes a challenge.

Dog Boy watches the struggle without emotion. He’s a spooky one. The group of guards—all except the one with the crack in his family jewels, who’s in no state to do anything—gather around to have a laugh at the doc’s failing efforts. But Nosebleed, there, is mad as hell, and getting madder with every twist and kick the doc throws his way.

If he’d just stop panicking and go along with it, he could get away with just a beating. He’s made Caesar smile. He could leverage that. But no, he has to keep thrashing around, hoping to land another lucky hit on a guard who has no patience for it.

The guard catches the doc’s left arm mid-flail and gives it a twist, pinning it behind his back, pushing a palm against the shoulder to put extra pressure on the joint. The doc stops fighting. The guard doesn’t even notice that he’s won.

“No,” the doc gasps. “No, stop—“ He tries to move with the pain, back bowed so far he looks like he’ll snap in half, but there’s no way out of this hold until the goon decides to let him go. And that ain’t happening.

Even Caesar is ready to put an end to this. Not out of his bountiful mercy, but because he’s clearheaded enough to see that a one-armed surgeon is no use to him.

The guard doesn’t see Caesar’s frown. All he sees is a man weaker than him, a man he can break with one sharp jerk of the wrist.

The crack might as well be a gunshot. Benny flinches. Caesar scowls. The doc’s knees buckle, and the guard, shocked into awareness of what he’s done, let’s him fall.

The doc collapses in a heap in the ground, but he doesn’t stay down. In a second, he’s up on his knees again, left arm hanging loose, right arm curled around it for what little protection that gives. They look he gives the guard is almost triumphant.

“There goes any chance that I could perform that surgery. Congratulations. You’ve just killed Caesar.”

“There are other doctors,” Caesar says flatly. “Vulpes, dispose of both of them.”

Dog Boy draws a knife as long as his arm.

“I can pop it back in,” the guard offers, almost babbling in desperation. He hauls the doc back up. Docs face goes white with pain as the dipshit yanks him around by the hurt arm, but he doesn’t put up a fight.

“You’ll break it,” says Benny.

The whole room freezes. Now they’re all looking Benny’s way.

Why in god’s name did he have to go and open his fat mouth? All he wants is to fade into the background and maybe live five minutes longer, but can Benny do that? No. Benny has to thrust himself into every situation that doesn’t involve him, because he’s dramatic like that.

He’s not wrong, though. If the shoulder’s just dislocated, and not fractured already, this ham-fingered Legion goon is going to destroy it trying to shove it back in place.

Doc knows that. He looks to Benny, wide-eyed and hopeful, thinking he’s just found a friendly face. Benny curses himself for that. Much as he’d like to get friendly with a tall blond doctor, giving him any kind of hope in a place like this is just cruel.

“And what would you know about dislocations?” Caesar asks, in that same tone he always uses when he's forced to notice that Benny still exists.

Caesar is Benny’s opposite. California-born, brought up in civilization, now playing dress-up because he thinks he’s tough enough to hack it as a tribal. Whereas Benny was shaped by the wasteland, and trading up to a life of comfort doesn’t mean he’s forgotten where he came from.

“Seen a lot of hunting accidents,” Benny says. “And fights.” Usually fair fights, not six hulks against one unarmed man, but even when the odds are good, shit happens. “I can take care of it,” he says. “If your trained ape don’t rip his arm off first.”

“Hmm. Interesting. You wouldn’t be trying to make yourself useful just to prolong your lifespan, would you?”

“Is that on the table?” Benny asks. He’d like to be cool about it, but he can’t help the spike of hope that steals his breath away. Benny ain’t too proud to do whatever it takes to survive.

“Dictum meum pactum,” says Caesar. Benny figures that means something like “dictator makes a pact.” Anyway, if it meant no, the old man would just say no.

“I’ll need my hands free,” says Benny. “Don’t worry, I won’t try anything. I know how far an escape attempt would get me.” He’s trying to be helpful, but Caesar looks at him like he just used the wrong fork at the Ultra-Luxe.

Maybe the old man can tell what Benny’s thinking. That he might be smooth enough to pick a guard’s pocket, which could lead to all kinds of interesting possibilities. Free hands could be the first step toward something a hell of a lot more subtle than just making a break for it.

“Vulpes, see to it,” says Caesar.

Ouch. Okay. Benny puts that daydream away. He ain’t picking Dog Boy’s pocket.

Dog Boy hardly even looks at Benny as he slices through the ropes. Benny’s heart is in his throat watching that blade flick across his wrists, but Dog Boy is precise if nothing else.

“What else do you require?” Dog Boy sounds bored, but he’s sharp. Benny doesn’t dare ask for anything beyond what he actually needs. Nothing that could help him, just the doc.

“A table to lay him out on,” Benny says. “At least half an hour of peace and quiet without the flying monkeys looming over him, or else I’ll never get him relaxed enough to get the job done. A blanket. The biggest bottle of whiskey you can find. Don’t clutch your pearls at me,” Benny adds quickly, although Dog Boy is more likely to react by slitting his throat. “I know you people keep the contraband locked up around here somewhere.”

Dog Boy looks at Benny like he’s something that’s turned up on the bottom of a shoe, but he makes it happen. The mooks clear off one of Caesar’s picnic tables, throw the doc down on it, and leave him and Benny alone. Or at least as alone as it’s possible to be, still stuck in a corner of Caesar’s tent.

Doc stares after the guards as they walk away. Benny might as well not even exist for all the attention the doc pays. Benny should he insulted, but he can’t really expect the doc to use company manners at a time like this. The man’s falling apart, and no wonder.

“Hey. You’re all right, fella,” Benny says as kindly as he can. The doc shakes his head, still not looking Benny’s way.

“I can promise you I’m not.”

“Yeah, not now. But you will be.” Benny wraps the blanket around the doc, who flinches back like it’s another attack.

“What—What are you doing?”

“You’re breathing weird,” says Benny. “Pale, shaky. Looks like shock to me.”

“What? No. Shock? No. That’s ridiculous.”

“Says who? This is a lot to take in.” Benny snugs the blanket up under the doc’s chin and holds it there, laying his other hand on the man’s good shoulder.

It’s supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but all of a sudden it’s all Benny can do not to dig his fingers into the fabric and cling like his life depends on it. Maybe Doc ain’t the only one looking for a friend.

Docs hand steals up to grip Benny’s wrist, pressing Benny’s hand into his shoulder. He’s still breathing in harsh, shallow gasps, but that’s slowing now, steadying as he puts his whole focus on Benny’s face. Less panic. No less desperation.

“You—You’ve been here all this time.” He swallows hard. Benny feels the movement through the blanket. He should let go of that, but he doesn’t. “Tell me—“ The doc can barely force his words out. “What happened to Sonny?”

“The courier?” That throws cold water on whatever the hell connection Benny thinks he’s feeling.

“Did you see what happened? Is he...Is he still alive?”

“Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what? What did they do to him?” He’s near tears. Not for himself, but for the one person in this lousy world who doesn’t deserve his care.

Benny should leave it alone. Ignorance is bliss, right? But Benny’s the honest type, in his own way. He’ll look a man in the eye and hand him the truth, when it really counts.

“Your pal’s fine.”

The doc sags forward with a look of such intense relief, Benny can’t bring himself to say any more. But Doc’s quick on the uptake. It’s only the space of a breath or two before he starts piecing together what that means.

“Why is he fine? He talked his way out?” He looks at Benny, silently begging him to agree. “Sonny can talk his way out of anything. He talked Caesar into letting him go. But...” He shakes his head in confusion. “But not me?” He sees the truth, but he doesn’t want to face it. “It’ll be fine. I can hold out until he gets back. He’s going for backup, that’s all. Vegas isn’t far. He’ll get the others, and—it’s just a few days—I can hold out.” He’s still waiting for Benny to agree. Benny says nothing. “It’s just... just a few days...”

“He sold you out, doc.”

“No. He wouldn’t. Why would you say that?” He looks like he wants to shout that in Benny’s face, but he can’t. He knows. “Why would...” He shakes his head. “Why would he...” Another shake. “Did they threaten him? Torture him?” He’s not vindictive enough to want his friend to have been tortured, but fuck if that wouldn’t make it easier to swallow. To think that his courier didn’t have a choice.

“Listen, Joe—“

“It’s Arcade, actually.”

“Whatever you say, pally.” Benny doesn’t care what the doc’s name is. After this conversation, he’ll never need it again.

“What did they offer him?” asks Doctor Arcade.

Benny could make something up. Say they traded something valuable. Something the courier couldn’t pass up. Even just say it was Caesar’s idea. Say something to make it seem like Sonny felt even the tiniest smidge of unwillingness or guilt.

But Benny can’t lie to him now.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” the doc whispers.

“I’m sorry,” says Benny. His voice comes out all funny. Takes him a second to realize it’s because he’s sincere.

With a gasp, the doc turns his face away from Benny, hiding his eyes—the closest he can come to privacy in a place like this. His shoulders hitch once. Then he’s still.

Doc’s still clinging to Benny’s wrist, so Benny doesn’t pull away. He should. Caesar won’t give them much more time alone. But Benny can’t let go.

The doc—Arcade—doesn’t deserve this. There aren’t a whole lot of people Benny would be willing to say that about. There’s even fewer he would care about, other than himself. But this is a decent man. One who doesn’t guard his own back because, like a lot of truly honest people, he doesn’t expect his friends to be less decent than he is. Suckers, Benny usually calls people like that. But after weeks of Legion captivity, Benny could learn to appreciate decent.

“I’m sorry,” the doc says after a minute. “You didn’t come over here to hold my hand.”

“Who says I didn’t? Maybe I want one last good thing before I die.”

The doc whips around to look at Benny. For all the pain he’s in, he still has room in him for compassion. Benny shies away from that. It’s too late for compassion to do him any good.

“Let’s get that shoulder fixed up,” Benny says. “They ain’t gonna give me much more time.” He tugs his hand out of the doc’s death grip and lets the blanket fall. “Gonna have to get that coat off you.” He doesn’t want to go tearing the doc’s clothes off. He needs the man as relaxed as possible, and stripping him down without warning is sure to tense him up.

Benny peels back the lab coat, careful of the hurt arm. The shirt underneath is a button-down, luckily. Doc tries to take care of that himself, but one-handed, he fumbles the buttons, so Benny leans in and does it for him.

The last time Benny undressed a man, in a back room at the Tops, buttons scattered all over the floor. Ruined both their shirts. Benny was drunk as a skunk, rested and well-fed, and had no idea that a quickie in a supply closet was the last good time he’d ever have.

He takes care with the doc’s buttons. Ain’t too likely the Legion will give him any new clothes if Benny ruins what he has.

Under the button-down is a t-shirt. That won’t come off as easy.

“Think you can get one arm out?” Benny asks. “If I can work it up over your head, I can slide it off the other side without hurting you too much.”

“You’ve done this before?” the doc asks uncertainly.

“Getting cats like you out of their clothes? Sure. It’s not my first time.”

“You know what I mean. Reducing dislocations.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Benny shrugs. “I can pop an arm back in its socket. I’ll do a better job of it than them, anyway.”

The doc darts an anxious glance at Caesar’s guards. He knows damn well what they’ll do to him. Benny is his best shot at survival. And probably his only shot at recovering the full use of that arm.

“If you’re sure you know what you’re doing...” He hesitates, still eyeing the guards. It’s not Benny he doubts.

Benny can’t blame him for being nervous. It’s not easy, stripping down in front of hostile strangers. One lousy undershirt ain’t much protection, but at least it’s something. Benny can still hear the goons’ mocking laughter from before. They’ll sink their hooks into any vulnerable spot they can find.

Not that the doc has anything to be shy about. Benny would take him over any over-muscled Legion meathead any day of the week. But that’s beside the point.

To buy time, Benny uncaps the whiskey and takes a healthy swig. The doc eyes the bottle longingly.

“I thought that was for me,” he says. “For pain management?”

“No, I just didn’t want to die sober.” But Benny relents and lets the doc have the rest. Crucifixion takes days, anyhow. He’d have burned through the booze long before the sweet release of death.

“He said he wasn’t going to kill you.” Doc takes a pull of whiskey, more measured than Benny’s, and passes the bottle back. “Meum dictum pactum. ‘My word is my bond.’”

“Doesn’t mean much if he didn’t give his word,” Benny points out. Caesar didn’t make any promises. He implied. Benny’s used that trick himself. But maybe the doc’s right and Benny is going to live out the week.

Fuck. Is that possible? He drinks and hands the bottle back.

“So you speak their language,” Benny says. “What’s that other thing mean, that he said to you? Pedicabby something something?”

“Nothing. That’s nothing. He was just reciting poetry.” Doc knocks back the rest of the whiskey. That’s more than half a bottle hitting his stomach all at once. He’ll be feeling fine in a minute.

“Poetry,” Benny says brightly. “I like poems. You want to hear one?”

“No.”

“There once was a man from Toledo—“

“Please, no.”

Figures. Nobody has any culture anymore.

“All right. You ready?” Benny runs his fingers across the doc’s back, feeling for the outline of the shoulder blade through his t-shirt. Doc flinches at the touch, but the look he gives Benny is, if anything, grateful.

“It’s not so bad,” Benny says, feeling where the joint is pushed out of place. He can rotate it back in gently enough if the doc lies facedown on the table, but he will have to get the shirt off to see what he’s doing.

“Shame,” The doc says under his breath. “Would have been a good excuse.”

“To get yourself killed?” Benny asks.

“If necessary.”

Benny weighs that in his mind. Doc doesn’t have the same relationship to death that Benny has. Benny’s known for weeks what’s coming for him, and he’s had nothing to do but sit and stew and think and face up to it. Benny’s gotten to know death. Doc still sees it as a stranger. He’s not ready for it. But he’ll open the door to it if it means stopping Caesar. Hell, dying might be what he was hoping for when he tried to run. If not for Dog Boy, he might have ended up shot down by the men at the gate.

Doc knows what’ll happen if he says no to this surgery they want him to do. As long as he’s physically able to do it, they’ll find a way to make him. And the more he fights against it, the worse they’ll break him.

If his arm was busted too bad for them to fix, he wouldn’t have to try to hold out against them. If he was no use to Caesar, they’d dispose of him.

“I could break it.” Benny keeps his voice low enough not to carry across the tent. Doc flinches.

“That would amount to suicide.”

“Yeah.” Maybe he’s misread the doc’s state of mind. There’s no shame in wanting to live. “It’s just a thought,” Benny says, with a smile to brush it off.

“I didn’t say no.”

“Ah,” says Benny. “Okay, then.”

“I didn’t say yes, either.” Doc curls his good arm around himself, in case Benny should suddenly lunge at him.

“They’d make it a clean kill,” Benny points out. “Wouldn’t be your fault, if it turned out I was full of shit and didn’t know what I was doing. You wouldn’t get the blame for it.”

“No, but you would.”

“Sure, but what can they do to me? Nothing’s worse than what they’re already planning on.” Probably. He hopes.

Doc hesitates. He’s torn, no surprise.

“It’ll hurt,” Benny says. “Not gone lie to you there. But it’ll only hurt for a minute. Then it’ll all be over.”

“That’s…somewhat less reassuring than I think you intended.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Benny. He ain’t trying to give the Doc false assurances. No false hope between friends. He just…

Actually, what the hell is he doing? It’s no skin off his nose if something happens to the courier’s little pal. The man was dumb enough to trust that Sonny, now he gets what’s coming to him.

But that ain’t right. The courier’s a charming little prick. Benny almost fell for it himself, back at the Tops, and he had good reason to know better. It’s not blondie’s fault.

But why does Benny care? He sure picked a hell of a time to learn some empathy.

“What would you do?” the doc asks. He must be real hard-up if he’s asking Benny.

“I’d live,” Benny answers honestly. “I’d do anything it takes to live. I’d wait. And then when the chance came up, I’d hurt him.”

“And if the chance never came?”

“Pally, the chance always comes. Luck always turns.” Until it doesn’t, and you die on a Legion cross without a friend to mourn you. But hey, who’s counting?

Doc slumps, a combination of whiskey and despair kicking the ground out from under him. He doesn’t believe his luck will turn. And no wonder. He can’t see any way out of this mess.

Benny’s about to die here. The doc has to live through it. Hard to say which of them has it worse.

“Do you want me on my back or facedown?” the doc asks, jarring Benny out of his thoughts.

“Beg pardon?” As usual, Benny can’t keep his mind out of the gutter, but this is hardly the time or place.

“Which reduction technique do you intend to use?” the doc clarifies. Except it doesn’t make it any clearer. Benny doesn’t know the fancy doctor names for fixing a shoulder, he just knows how to do it.

“If you wanna be face-up, you can keep your shirt on,” Benny offers. It’ll hurt a little more, but Doc looks like he can take it. Neither of them comments on the doc’s choice. He’s going to live, and wait, and maybe make it out of this place.

The doc lies down, with Benny’s help. The booze has him more relaxed, but whiskey can’t wipe it all away. He closes his eyes and lifts his chin like he’s facing a firing squad.

Firing squad sounds nice. It would go quick, anyway.

“Can you put your hand behind your head?” Benny asks.

“I think so.” He cracks one eye open. “The Milch technique?”

Those words mean nothing to Benny, so he just shrugs. He ain’t interested in expanding his vocabulary this late in life.

Doc, with some difficulty, bends his elbow, then slowly rotates his shoulder headwards until he’s got his fingers somewhere near his ear.

“Best I can do,” he says apologetically. Without being told, he straightens the elbow so the arm is sticking straight out.

Benny grips the doc’s wrist with his right hand, supporting the shoulder with his left. Here’s where the mooks would jerk him around, grinding bone on bone, straining muscle and tendon. They’d either tear the whole thing clean out of the socket, or break it trying to force it back in.

“I’ll be gentle,” Benny promises. Then he almost has to smile. “Ain’t had a chance to say that in a while.”

“That ship has sailed,” says the doc.

They both chuckle, surprised to be able to find any humor in the situation. Benny’s just relieved he can get some sexy banter in one last time. Even if the Legion were willing to flirt, they ain’t got the knack.

Benny does his best not to hurt the doc, pulling gently but firmly on the wrist at the same time that he rotates the arm back toward its natural position. The ball wants to be in its socket. It just needs Benny to guide it back, not force it.

Doc gasps once, then doesn’t breathe again, his whole body tight and tense.

“Relax,” Benny reminds him. “Breathe. We’re almost there.”

Doc forces himself to take a couple of shallow breaths, then a deeper one. The fingers of his good hand wind around the edge of his lab coat and pull tight. Anything to take his focus off what Benny’s doing.

Almost there. Benny doesn’t let up. He can feel the bone slipping as he turns the arm. So close. Almost. Benny pushes his left thumb against the head of the arm bone, still supporting the shoulder with his fingers and pulling steadily on the wrist. It’s not easy work. Benny’s coming close to losing his grip after what must now be a couple of minutes of steady effort. If he lets up, he’ll have to start all over again. But then—

Pop.

Doc cries out, despite his best effort to hold it back. He doesn’t want to let on that they’re finished, any more than Benny does.

A second later, he goes limp, wrung out from both the intense pain and its sudden, almost total relief.

“All good?” Benny asks as he carefully maneuvers the doc’s arm to lie across his chest. It shouldn’t be hurting anymore, but it’ll be a while yet before that shoulder can stand up to any kind of rough handling.

“I wouldn’t say all good, but—that’s better, yes. Thank you.”

Benny glances at Caesar and the guards, hoping to find them all oblivious. No such luck. They’re coming over.

“Make then give you a sling,” Benny suggests.

“That could actually lead to more problems, long-term—“

“No,” Benny interrupts. “It’s not for you, it’s for them. Remind them that you’re hurt. They’ll be more careful if they can see it.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Doc watched the guards approach. All trace of a smile disappears.

Benny leans in close to poke and prod the doc’s shoulder. He doesn’t need to. He already knows it’s set. But getting close gives him the chance to whisper in the doc’s ear, unnoticed.

“You’re gonna make it out of here, doc.”

“Um—what? I’m sorry, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll find a way. You’re smart. You’ll find your chance and you’ll take it.” He doesn’t have much time. He can’t lay out a fully formed plan, but he tells the doc, with every scrap of urgency he can convey, “Get your hands on my platinum chip. Take it back. Get it to Yes-Man, on the Strip. That’s how you hurt him.”

A second later, the mooks are pulling Benny away. He goes, unresisting.

This is it. Benny ain’t coming back from this one.

The doc stares after him, wide-eyed, more startled by the suddenness than anything else. Benny’s well out of reach by the time understanding dawns.

Doc looks horrified. That’s one thing to keep Benny warm while he’s up on the cross. There’s one person left in this lousy world who’s sorry to see him go.

Doc lurches upright, frantically shaking his head.

“Wait!” He whips around to glare at Caesar. “What happened to ‘dictum meum pactum’?” He’s still talking to the warlord like he thinks they’re equals, but this time Caesar lets it pass, and takes the question seriously.

He motions for the guards to stop. They hold Benny between them in the middle of the tent.

Is there a chance? Caesar’s listening to blondie now. Is there any fucking chance he’ll let Benny live?

As unlikely as it is, the hope expands through Benny’s chest until there’s no room left for breath.

“I am a man of my word, doctor,” Caesar says mildly. “I gave my word that this profligate would die.”

“But—“ Doc looks desperately from Caesar to Benny and back again.

“I didn’t make any deals with him.” Caesar’s already getting bored. The glimmer of hope fades away.

“So make one now,” says the doc. “Make a deal with me. A life for a life.” He looks Caesar in the eye, shaking—terrified—but not backing down.

“Men don’t make deals with slaves.”

Doc flinches at that, but he squares his shoulders, saying without words that he is not a slave, and he never will be.

Benny’s almost glad he won’t be around to see Doc learn better.

“If you expect me to help you, I’ll need an assistant,” the doc says. “I wouldn’t trust your men within ten feet of an operating room, but he has at least enough medical knowledge to keep my instruments in order.” He gestures with his hurt arm, a demonstration of Benny’s skill. Frankly, setting a dislocation is the upper limit of Benny’s first aid skills, but he keeps that information to himself.

“Huh,” says Caesar. “See, now, that is a compelling argument. He could make himself useful enough to justify his own existence.” He looks Benny over with maybe a spark of interest. Hope soars. “But you’re operating under the wrong assumption here. You don’t need an assistant. We have an auto-doc. If you can get that working, you’ll hardly have to do anything at all.” Hope plummets.

“A broken auto-doc? And I’m just supposed to fix it? I’m not an engineer.”

“‘I’m not an engineer,’” Caesar mocks. “‘I’m not a neurosurgeon.’ So what use are you?”

That strikes a nerve, even though the doc doesn’t even want to be useful to Lord Caesar. That’s the problem with trying to be something good in the world. Living for other people, sometime or other you inevitably fail, and then you have to feel bad about it.

Doc looks at Benny again, a look of helpless apology. He’s losing ground. But he keeps trying.

“I can perform the surgery, with assistance—“

“And I told you what kind of assistance you can have, doctor. If you’re unwilling or unable, I can find someone better suited to the task.” Caesar shows his teeth again. “Your Sonny has plenty of other friends. I’m sure the scribe knows a thing or two about machines.”

“No,” Doc whispers. It’s not an argument. It’s a no of defeat.

“She’d be quite the asset,” Caesar says, with the kind of lift to the corner of his mouth that makes it damn clear he’s crudely thinking, piece of ass. “And I'm sure she’d know better than to say no to her masters.”

“She would not,” Doc says firmly, but with an edge of desperation.

“She’s a woman. They’re easily taught.”

Doc turns back to Benny with a tiny shake of his head. It’s time for him to fold.

“S’all right, Doc. You tried,” Benny says. Goddamn, did he try. He stuck his neck out like no one else would do, but when it comes to throwing his real friends to the wolves, well. It’s more than Benny could ask for. Not more than he could hope for, but more than he could expect.

So Benny doesn’t get to live out the week. He's no worse off than he was an hour ago. He can hold his head up and face it with dignity. Or at least make a good show of it.

“Don’t forget.” Benny nods sharply, not willing to say Yes-Man’s name where Caesar’s men can hear it.

Benny’s legacy is in the doc’s hands now, and if that ain’t ideal, well, at least it’s a chance. Doc’s smart, and he’s good. He’ll do what he can to stop the Legion. If things work out right, he’ll follow Benny’s plan. Benny will leave his mark on New Vegas, even if he ain’t around to see it. They’ll remember him. At the very least, the doc will remember him.

Benny looks back as the guards hustle him out of the tent. He gets one last look at the doc’s face, pinched, pale and miserable, before he’s blinded by the harsh Mojave sunlight.

This is Caesar’s last chance to say, “No, I’m just yanking your chain. We can keep Benny alive if it means that much to you.” He’s running out of time to turn this into some big joke. Will he? No? No. The tent flap falls into place.

Benny turns his eyes forward, to the gate and the line of crosses beyond. This is it. There’s no last minute reprieve.

At least he’ll have a nice view when he goes. Maybe he can’t see as far as Vegas, but he’ll be looking in the right direction.

Damn.

Damn.

Benny’s feet drag. The guards don’t cut him any slack. He gets a shove between the shoulder blades to hurry him along. They’re impatient to get this over with, even though they have all the time in the world.

The second they put a scalpel in the doc's hand, Benny hopes he cuts Caesar’s throat. He won’t, not with his ethics tripping him up. But wouldn’t it be swell if he dug into the old man’s skull and just slashed around at everything he found until the whole thing was mush?

But then he’d die for it, and Benny ain’t looking for company on the cross. Better that Doc plays along, bides his time, and then…

And then…

What? He gets the platinum chip, somehow, and gets it all the way to Vegas, and what? He gives it to Yes-Man?

How’s he supposed to do that? Benny didn’t tell him who Yes-Man is.

It just damn well figures, doesn’t it? Benny’s a man who can see all the angles, but he keeps dropping the goddamn ball when it’s time to act.

He’s a fucking failure in the end. All his schemes come to nothing. He’ll die alone and forgotten, and his city—the only thing he ever loved—will be crushed under someone’s heel. If not Caesar’s, there’s always House.

Sorry, Doc, Benny thinks to himself. Maybe together, they could have pulled off a miracle, but now Doc’s on his own. Benny’s helping hand made him a friend, but it’s too little, too late. If Doc drags himself out of this mess, it won’t have anything to do with Benny at all.

This whole thing has been completely pointless. Just like everything else Benny’s ever done with his life.

It just fucking figures, doesn’t it?