Crossfire

Summary: Chewing slightly on the butt of his cigarette, his blue eyes slowly peeked through his eyelashes as he watched through the sights of his rifle. His finger on the trigger, his breath halting to steady his aim – MacCready took the shot. The crack of his rifle sounded, followed by the echo of a bottle shattering in the distance. He turned lazily to the vault dweller next him with a smirk. "That," he drawled, "is how you aim."


Chapter 1

The liquor was watered down – a taste that MacCready has already long grown accustomed to in the Third Rail. He swilled a large mouthful of whiskey before swallowing, watching the remainder amber liquid swirl in his glass as he lazily rotated his wrist. The VIP lounge was empty this time, and the young gun for hire was alone in a room tinged in red light. When he first came here, the Goodneighbor ladies of the night used to always saunter towards him, languidly offering their services on cold nights. After discovering that MacCready was – for lack of a better word – flat broke, they ignored him.

Not like he wanted their company anyway.

Magnolia's sultry voice echoed from the main bar, her velvet tones reflecting another one of her sad stories of heartbreak. Sometimes he would hum along to a few songs, but tonight he was too inebriated to register what song is actually playing. Also, tonight he just doesn't care.

Another mouthful of whiskey later, and it burned away the ache in his chest. When the clock hits midnight it's Duncan's fourth birthday. Usually it's an occasion to celebrate, but tonight is no night for MacCready to do such a thing. He should be with his son, teaching him how to throw a ball and telling him ridiculous stories as he tucks him away in bed.

"No..." He breathed as he quickly downed the rest of his whiskey. He's here to forget, not to remember.

Some footsteps echoed down the corridor before entering the VIP room. He looked up, seeing someone in an oversized hazmat suit sit haphazardly on the couch opposite him. An assault mask obscured the head, hiding the newcomer's visage underneath. An exasperated sigh rattled through the breathing vents of the mask as the helmeted head reclined to the wall behind it with an audible bump, and an uncomfortable series of fidgets later the stranger eventually settled.

MacCready eyed the 10mm pistol holstered on the stranger's thigh, noting that the safety catch was off. Based on past experiences within the Third Rail, the last thing you want is a firearm going off in a notorious bar, whether or not the shot was accidental. Deciding to prevent the situation rather than diffuse it, MacCready sat up straight and clicked his fingers a few times to draw attention.

"Hey," he slurred as he pointed at the pistol. "Your safety is off."

The head cocked in response, the mask giving nothing away in regards to whether or not the person paid attention. They just sat there, much to MacCready's ire, with their chest rising and falling the only indication that the person wasn't just a dead body slumped on the couch.

"I love these one-sided conversations..." He drawled, sitting back in his chair. It's not his problem anyway. Let the idiot be an idiot.

Eventually a lazy hand crept down to their pistol, the gloved hand clicking the safety catch into place, before flopping their arm loosely across their lap. Another sigh rattled through the mask's rebreather.

MacCready smirked at the lethargic compliance, feeling a tiny victory at such a stupidly mundane action. He raised his glass to his lips before remembering that his glass was empty. He huffed in annoyance at his predicament, and reached into his pocket for some caps. The mercenary made a move to stand up, but was stopped when he saw the person opposite him raise their hand, palms facing him in a stop motion. It was then that MacCready noticed a bottle of whiskey beside the stranger, who promptly unscrewed the cap before hobbling over to him and refilling his glass.

"Uh, thanks." He took a tentative sip after raising his glass slightly, pocketing his caps back into the recesses of his duster. The stranger said nothing but raised a lazy thumbs up at him before huffing again.

There was an awkward silence between the two; the stranger huffing away while MacCready gulped his problems away, but neither of them decided to fill that silence between the two.

"Fuck!"

The stranger's outburst startled MacCready, causing him to spill a small trail of liquor down his front. He looked at the stranger in irritation. "Jeez, the hell is your problem?"

The stranger sat bolt upright, with gloved hands scrabbling over the mask and yanking it off before throwing it away with force. MacCready stared into the brown eyes of a woman, chestnut hair plastered on her forehead and grime smudged across high cheekbones. She was breathing heavily through her nose in an effort to keep herself calm, but he could still see her anger simmering beneath her sharp features.

She huffed as she reached for the whiskey bottle, unscrewing the cap and took a gulp straight from the bottle. A small droplet hung from her bottom lip, which she wiped away with the back of her hand, her brown eyes now staring intensely at MacCready.

"You," she breathed, recognition dawning on her face. "You stole my kill."

"The hell are you talking about, lady!?" He spat back, the whiskey she poured him suddenly tasting bitter at the back of his throat. "I've never seen you before in my entire life!"

She jabbed an accusing finger at his direction, a threatening gesture now made ridiculous due to her gloves being two sizes too big for her hand. "Libertalia," she began, "Raiders were giving trouble to a nearby settlement, and you killed the leader and took payment from my contract!"

Something at the back of his mind clicked, the memory now clear. He sat back in his seat and grinned. "Ah, so you're the lady that bailed on my client."

She visibly balked at his words, but chose to drink from her whiskey bottle again instead of shouting profanities. She swallowed her mouthful, took in a breath, and wheezed from the whiskey burn. She recovered quickly. "'Bail?'" She repeated, clearly offended by the notion, "I didn't bail, I was scouting the area. Then you came along and fucked up my plans."

"Well, you obviously took too long on recon because your employer grew so impatient, he hired me instead." He sipped from his glass leisurely, satisfied that this woman in front of him obviously couldn't handle her own liquor. "I would also like to add that I was paid double of what you were offered."

Her brows furrowed at this revelation, visibly upset that she was swindled out of her own job and obviously stood to be grossly underpaid if she had succeeded. She shook her head and crossed her legs, silencing her muttered curses with another drink. The pained gulp was loud enough for MacCready to hear, but he took her defeat as sign of victory and lit up a cigarette. He offered her the open box, but only in pity.

Her gaze flicked to the box, but she eventually gave in and took one in truce. She had her own lighter, which was brown with rust, and she struggled with getting the flint to spark. She managed, after a few flicks, to get it lit. She inhaled and relished it on her slow exhale. MacCready watched as her lidded eyes glazed over, the whiskey tingeing her tanned skin a darker shade of pink. She sighed once more and then tilted her head in his direction.

"Charlie said you're a gun for hire," she told him, the true purpose of her visit to the Third Rail now clear. "MacCready, isn't it?"

He nodded, watching her closely. She made a small hum before she took another drag from the cigarette and flicked the ash to the ashtray on the table next to her. "How much?" She asked.

"Two-fifty," he confirmed on the exhale of his own cigarette, "Up front, non-negotiable."

Her brow cocked in speculation, obviously not happy with his offer. "Everything is negotiable," she said coolly, "Call it two hundred."

No, he thought, irked at her gall. "Listen, lady," he sat up, "I said that it's non-negotiable. Two-fifty is my flat rate. Any lower, then you can forget it."

She shook her head, but she smirked knowingly at him. "I'm not paying you for one contract, I'm offering two hundred per week." She stubbed out her cigarette, "Salary. Plus a share in loot." The scowl on his face disappeared, which only caused her smirk to grow. "I've also paid off your bar tab with Whitechapel."

There was a brief pause between them, the stranger relishing in MacCready's lack for words. Eventually he recovered and composed himself once more. "That's a hell of a gamble you're taking there," he said, "What if I still said no?"

She wiggled her eyebrows, raising the whiskey bottle and sloshing the contents inside. "This here is a bottle of Johnnie Walker, platinum label." She took a sip and smacked her lips, ignoring the disgusting aftertaste. "It's worth double of your outstanding tab. I would have just told Charlie that you're starting a new tab with it. Call it a good riddance gift for taking my previous contract in the first place."

She watched his reaction, satisfied that the conversation has taken a turn into her favor. She stood up unsteadily, walked over to his end of the room and held out a shaky hand to him. His blue eyes flicked from her hand to her face, then made a frustrated sigh as he took her hand and shook it. "Okay," he said in defeat. "It's a deal."

"Meet me at the Rexford tomorrow afternoon," she said, leaving the bottle of whiskey with him, "I'll pick you up at the lobby."

MacCready took the bottle and set it aside, his gaze following her as she stumbled over to the other side of the room to pick up her mask.

"Sure thing, boss."

She made an indignant scoff at the word "boss," and proceeded to place her mask on to hide her scowl. "Don't call me boss," she muttered, her voice now muffled from the mask. "Just call me Dawn."

X

The wasteland was as unforgiving as ever.

MacCready and Dawn had found shelter in an abandoned bus, the metal roof resonating loudly from the downpour of rain falling from above. It was nightfall, and the both of them were tired from a day's worth of walking; a feat made harder due to the both of them being hungover from their whiskey binge the night before. MacCready looked over at Dawn, who sat at the far opposite end of the bus. She was busy rummaging through her pack of supplies. Eventually she came across what she was looking for and pulled out a flask of water.

"Here," she threw the flask to MacCready, who caught it flawlessly with one hand. He nodded in thanks before taking a gulp and throwing it back to her. Dawn didn't catch it with the same grace as him, and it clattered noisily on the metal floor. "Shit, sorry," she cursed apologetically before holding it out of the window, the rain refilling the rest of the flask.

Once full, she capped the flask and placed it back in her pack. Dawn sighed in some sort of internal defeat and removed her mask. MacCready busied himself by counting out the rest of his ammo, but the occasional glance upwards gave him the opportunity to also study the woman ahead of him. Now with the grime washed off from the rain, he could see that her skin was absolutely flawless. Her hands were small too, and the skin on the back of her hands were un-marred from any sort of labor or fighting.

She had a faraway look to her as she gazed out of the window, watching her surroundings as if she wished she was someplace else. A daydreamer, he concluded, suddenly regretting his decision of being hired by this pampered scatterbrain. She wasn't wearing that ridiculous hazmat suit; she had sold it to Daisy before they left Goodneighbor, and now she donned more appropriate road leathers and leather armor. She still insisted on hiding her face with an assault mask whenever she could.

At least she's quiet, he thought.

"You can sleep if you want to," she said, but she never brought herself to look at him, "I'll stay awake and keep watch."

A small scoff escaped from his lips at her suggestion, the very idea almost laughable. "No offense, boss, but this place isn't an ideal place to sleep." He made a vague gesture at the metro station nearby, "We're too close to danger, and subways are crawling with ferals. They come out at night, and they'll be all over us in a few hours. Rain or no rain, we've got to find higher ground."

Dawn seemed unfazed by this, but sighed once more before putting her mask back on. She gathered her pack and made her way outside, not caring if she's getting soaked once more. He placed his ammo back in its respective places and followed her out. She nodded her head to an apartment building a few blocks down the street and walked ahead of him. She knew her way around well enough, and MacCready could only trust her sense of direction and follow obligingly.

There was rubble everywhere when they made their way inside, with trash and broken furniture obscuring and tripping them both up as they progressed deeper into the building. MacCready lost his footing and profanity slipped from his lips before he could stop himself, but he picked himself up and proceeded behind Dawn.

"It's too dark in here," he berated, but reached into his pocket for his own flip lighter to aid him. Dawn picked up on this in sudden realization and paused mid step. She swung her pack forward and rummaged inside once more, and MacCready hoped that she had a flashlight in that bag of hers.

When her hand retreated from her pack, something big and bulky emerged from within. He looked on with curiosity when she clasped it around her wrist and turned a few dials on it. It clicked and buzzed, then the hallway they were in was bathed in green light.

"You have a Pip-Boy?" He said in awe. "So you're from a vault?"

Dawn didn't answer, but just walked ahead of him and began walking up a staircase. He grunted in frustration, not liking the fact that he was blatantly ignored, but followed anyway. A few more flights of stairs later, they walked through more hallways before they came across a locked door.

MacCready reached into the pockets of his duster for some bobby pins, but Dawn abruptly stood in front of him and took out something shiny and metallic from her own pocket. She observed it closely, and in that brief moment MacCready realized that she was holding a door key. She opened the door and slowly trudged inside, the door swinging open in her wake. More questions were raised than answered the longer he traveled with this woman, but he decided to just keep his questions to himself and enter the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

It was a small apartment, but it was wholly different from the trashed apartments on the floors below. Raiders and scavengers haven't come across this particular apartment yet, so most furniture remained upright and in place. The windows were broken, and there was a large coating of dust and leaves on most surfaces, but otherwise this place was untouched. Dawn placed her pack on the counter top of the open-plan kitchen, and he noticed that some dust was haphazardly wiped off from visits here before. Once again, he chose not to ask any more questions.

"There's a bed in the next room over," she stated, taking off her mask and sitting on a mattress placed by the broken window. "We will leave at sunrise."

He didn't argue and complied, muttering a pedantic "Yes, boss" as he went into the room next to the kitchen. As with the living room, this place was also relatively untouched, but he could tell that a few recent adjustments and activity had been made. The bed sheets were clean, albeit dusty, but he didn't complain. It was most certainly in better condition than all of the beds combined in the Hotel Rexford, and he didn't hesitate to remove his boots and duster before he laid himself down on the squeaky mattress. A few springs were poking into his back uncomfortably, and he readjusted himself to get better comfort.

As he laid on his side, he noticed something on the wall opposite him. There was a picture frame still hung on the wall, a small hand print was smudged over the glass to clear the film of grime from the surface. He sat up to get a better look at it, squinting his eyes in the darkness.

It was a photograph of a woman, donned completely in black and wearing a ridiculous black hat of sorts. She was smiling happily at the camera with a small scroll clutched delicately between small hands, the whole pose looking ludicrous and carefree.

"The hell?" He stood up now and took down the picture, bringing it towards the window in the room to get a better look in the dim light from outside. His own dirty hands wiped off more of the dust from the picture frame, and the picture was much clearer. The smiling woman was staring at him with brown eyes, chestnut hair peeking out from under the black cap she wore, a wedding ring glinting from the left hand that held the scroll. It's a pre-war graduation picture, and she was smiling back at him with pride through the dirty glass frame.

"Boss?"

X


Author's note: I am ridiculously addicted to Fallout 4 rn and I can't get enough of Macdoodle. Ughhhh.

This fic is named after an amazing song, which I think is a perfect song for our lovable sniper. Give it a listen on YouTube "Crossfire by Stephen"

Special thanks to Mr. Snarks on for being my Beta for this chapter! Highly recommend!