Note: So, I got Fallout 4 for Christmas, and running with some roleplaying in my head, I got this idea. I somewhat emulated the basics of this situation in-game, but I'll go into details in the end-note. Also, pull up youtube in a second tab, and start up "It's All Over But The Crying" for the last third of the story once a certain canine shows up. Trust me. It works wonders, and it's story-compliant. I mean, "End of the World" could also work, but trust me. Go Ink Spots here the first time.
I do not own Fallout. Please review, comment, or criticize constructively. Most of all, enjoy.
Anniversary
Marcus tossed his bag down and started pulling off his armor, dropping it in a heap at the side of his sleeping bag. He looked out through the door, towards Sanctuary, and felt the pang of longing again, the same pang he felt every time he looked at it. He drew a somewhat-fresh iguana out of his pack, then walked out of the garage and moved around to the side, heading towards the unlit fire and pot strung over on a deformed pole.
Ten minutes later, he was biting into cooked lizard-on-a-stick flesh with one hand, and turning Nora's ring over in his other. He did it almost every night. Sit outside on the roof, eat something he'd hunted or found that day, look at the ring, the stars, then the picture, and go to sleep. He'd found the picture, miraculously enough, in the ruins of their end table. Cracked and lightly bleached by nuclear fire and 200-odd years of low exposure through the cracks in the wooden frame, but still legible. Still the same picture he'd took with him into war, and looked at for comfort then, too. Codsworth had confessed that he'd made sure to keep the few pictures that survived the bombs as safe and whole as he could, and Marcus was grateful for that. More than he could ever say.
On some level, he knew this wasn't healthy. He knew he was worrying, well, everyone. He'd been coming up short on leads, kept running into cold or useless trails, so he'd thrown himself wholesale into the work of others alongside, simply so he could feel like he was doing something. Because if he didn't… He didn't want to think about it. But he knew that he was running himself ragged, sometimes not checking in for days at a time before finally returning, covered in light burn scars and bandages that healed up with proper treatment, often from the hands of a fussing Curie, clothes and armor rent and shot to pieces. He knew he seemed damaged and even obsessed at times, though everyone at least had the courtesy to not say it to his face. To say nothing of his stout refusal to set up in Sanctuary.
He lived out of the Red Rocket Garage, alone. Dogmeat spent most of his off-hours with him, but the only halfway-suitable doghouse and food dish anyone could find or build were back at Sanctuary, so he'd retire there each night after giving Marcus a generous, happy licking. Though, truthfully, Marcus also suspected Dogmeat loved Curie's fawning over him too much to stay away unless he was needed elsewhere.
He'd set up beds, real beds of metal, cloth and straw, sometimes feathers, painstakingly collected and allocated once used, for everyone in Sanctuary. Had more built as more people poured in, and organized similar efforts in outposts all across the Commonwealth. All he had for himself was a sleeping bag on the floor of the garage, off to one side so he wouldn't step on it coming in. He tried to tell himself it was just… the same thing it had been with his old bed, in his old house, when he'd been discharged. After years of being used to rough military cots, standard issue sleeping bags, sometimes just straight on the ground with rocks and packs for pillows, real beds had felt strange; foreign in their comfort and softness. He'd had a hard time admitting it to Nora, who'd been so worried about him those first few weeks back, how he couldn't sleep, couldn't rest. He'd started telling the story when Piper, stopping off to check on everyone, and him, had expressed concern at his set-up. He hadn't been able to bring himself to finish.
Marcus tapped his Pip-Boy, checking the screen. He'd been told, by so many people, that the date-and-time count was one-hundred percent accurate. Part of him wished, so desperately, that they were wrong. Because tomorrow was going to be hell.
Codsworth had, discreetly to be sure, informed everyone he could of the unfortunate circumstances. The people of Sanctuary had been easy; they were all close at hand, and all owed Mister Marcus a debt, but it was beyond that. They looked up to him, respected him, cared about him as he did for them. From everyone in Mister Garvey's little band to the many people who'd moved in since. Codsworth had also gone out, to some of the Sir's other friends, contacts, and let them know. That Mister Marcus was on a downward slump, and today would perhaps be the worst day, excepting perhaps his first one in the Commonwealth.
He'd let everyone who cared to know that Sir might well need some serious looking-after, know that he'd need it today of all days. It had been a hard thing, to journey across the Commonwealth to Mister Marcus's associates not based in Sanctuary. To say nothing of doing it without Mister Marcus learning about it. But he'd done it, because he knew Mister Marcus, however much he acted otherwise and buried himself in his search and the battles of others, needed to lean on people who cared before he toppled over and simply gave out from trying to distract himself from all that he'd lost. Codsworth had been there, in the centuries following the bombs. Certainly not to the degree that Mister Marcus was, but he could understand on some level. And he knew what he'd wished for in those times. He'd wished for Mister Marcus, Missus Nora, little Shaun. He'd wished for Woodhouse, the Handyman from two houses down who he'd swap tales with every now and then when they'd found themselves unoccupied with housework, and who had wandered off in despair after the first twenty years, never to be found. He'd wished for friends and family.
Just about everyone had turned out; that dreadful ginger, the synth detective, the ghoul in that uproarious outfit, and many others. The Paladin was absent, otherwise occupied with Brotherhood business, though he'd told Codsworth before he'd left to send his condolences along.
They'd all gathered outside the Red Rocket, but as the morning moved on, and Mister Marcus failed to emerge well after the time he usually rose, they grew concerned. By noon, they searched the place, and found him missing. Codsworth could guess where he had went, and he wasn't about to tell anybody. And if anyone did figure it out, he'd stop them cold. If Codsworth was right in his assumption of where he'd gone, and he was certain he was, Mister Marcus would want to be alone.
Marcus kept himself on the steps of the bay as the tears he'd never had the time to properly let out flowed forth. He couldn't approach her cryo pod, not again. He'd done it once, in desperation when his had somehow let him out, hoping against hope that the freezing had somehow saved Nora from her wound. He'd waited for what he felt was long enough, given the circumstances, took her ring and left her with a promise.
But now he knew, he hadn't had the time, hadn't truly felt the grief because of the desperation of Shaun's abduction, and the madness and obsession that had followed once he'd seen what had become of the world above. He hadn't let himself feel, instead throwing himself into everything he could in an attempt to distract himself from everything he'd lost. He'd felt it keenly when he'd first come out of the Vault, saw the ruins of Sanctuary Hills and found Codsworth still tending, believing that Nora and Shaun might be safe and nearby. He'd felt it then, but he'd buried it. And now… They'd technically been married for two-hundred and four years now. Or they would've been.
He heard the pattering of feet on the floor, and felt a furry head bump and rub against his side and shoulder. Dogmeat. Somehow, he'd gotten down here on his own. And he'd followed Marcus. All the way into the heart of everything, before either of them even had an inkling that the other existed.
Dogmeat whined in sympathy and licked at his hand and face, his tongue lapping at the tears still carving trails into Marcus's face and his steadily growing and unkempt stubble. Marcus reached around with his free hand, his other occupied, as they so often were, with the ring and the picture, and scratched gratefully behind the dog's ears.
"Good boy." Marcus gasped out, a sad, if grateful, smile coming to his face. Dogmeat whined again and sat himself down, head between his paws, seemingly resolute to stay as long as his master would have him, and likely beyond then too. "Good boy."
Eventually, Marcus worked up the courage. He set the photo down and slowly descended the steps, walking past the other pods, full of dead friends and neighbors. Dogmeat remained in place, recognizing that Marcus needed to do this on his own. Marcus reached up and set his hand against the still-cold metal of the pod, gazed at Nora's strangely peaceful, frosty face. His foot slipped on something that wasn't the floor. He looked down, and saw a tiny knit hat. Shaun's. Must have come off of his head in the struggle. Marcus reached down and clenched it in his fist, his gaze returning to Nora as he rose.
"I'll find him." He whispered. Reaffirmed what he and she both already knew would happen, no matter what he had to do to do it. "I'll find him." He paused, drawing in a shaking, sobbing breath. "I love you. So much, I love you." His head dipped as he choked out the last few tears, swallowed the last of the pain he'd been keeping in. "Happy anniversary, honey."
He walked back to the steps, pushed Shaun's cap into his coat pocket, folded the photo the and slid it into his other coat pocket. He pulled a glove off, and slipped her ring over his finger on his off-hand. He grabbed his belt, gun still holstered, off the floor and wrapped it on as he ascended. He tapped at his Pip Boy, setting it DCR.
"Come on, boy," Marcus turned his head slightly, looking back one more time at Nora's pod as a strumming guitar and a piano began to fill his ears. "It's time to go."
First off, Woodhouse is absolutely an Archer reference. It's just the perfect fancy butler name, and it fits even better for a Handyman.
So, this fic has its roots in a couple ideas, and things I did out of a roleplaying sense in-game. A lot of it comes from my original bed set up in Sanctuary; it's almost exactly like the story describes, in that SS built everyone else nice beds and pillows in the few standing houses, and built up decently-sized shacks over the foundations of the destroyed ones. All he made himself was a tiny prefab wooden room and a sleeping bag (which Curie later stole), because he wasn't ready to try and even sleep in his old house again (nevermind live out of it), and could care less about comfort in his kinda-not-really-concealed state. He does operate almost entirely out of Sanctuary, though; Red Rocket is a dumping ground for companions so they're easy to find again, but him living alone and away from everyone just works better for the story. Curie and Dogmeat is also something I totally suspect would happen if Bethesda had the time to write and animate co-companion relationships; there's no way she could resist not fawning over him, and no way Dogmeat wouldn't love the sweet French bot/lady to bits. I figure that, date-wise, things take much longer in actuality than they do in video-game-time, hence why Marcus has gone a long time without solid leads on Shaun even though they all fall immediately into place one after another in-game. I also figure that enough time will have gone by at some point after he thaws out that his and Nora's anniversary would come around. Shaun's little knit cap being on the floor is an artistic touch I decided to take; he was certainly getting shaken around enough during the abduction that it could've slid off, and it'd be an easy thing to overlook considering the circumstances afterwards. It was also slightly inspired by trying to have a part that lined up thematically with the song line of dreams that keep trying to come true. This almost turned into a song-fic because of how heavy that song's influence was, but I somehow managed to resist.