Chapter 2

The mission was off to a bad start. Beatrice closed the door to the hotel behind them, then basked in the relative silence of the hotel lobby, aside from the drip and hiss of acid rainwater sluicing off their clothes and hitting the floor. Any bit of exposed skin itched and burned where it encountered the rain, but all she could do was shake it off. Rubbing her hands against her soaked jacket would be worse. They'd made it to Goodneighbor just as the skies opened up in one of the worst rad storms she'd ever seen—which, of course, wasn't saying much since she had only been out of the vault for three months.

The storm had also brought bitter cold wind with it—more like the winters from her childhood, and she shivered where she stood, wincing as a drop of stinging rainwater landed near her eye. She glanced around at the hotel interior, curious. Her only other time in Goodneighbor had been so short, she'd seen nothing but the little courtyard making up the main entrance. But this interior… it looked familiar to her. Perhaps it was just the general way all hotels tended to feel familiar—or perhaps it was just the constant sense of deja vu she had from overlapping pre-war memories on everything she saw. Deacon shook the rain off his fedora (he'd changed disguises halfway from HQ) and handed her caps for the room.

The manager, a small, middle-aged woman with a face puckered by irritation, eyed them as they approached.

"A room for the evening, please."

The manager almost threw the key across the desk at Beatrice as she put down the caps.

"Towels and bathroom access too," Deacon put in as Beatrice put her hand on the key. She fought to keep her face neutral. That was something she should have anticipated—things like towels and hot water weren't automatics in the Commonwealth, like they had been in her day.

"That's five caps more," the manager said, her voice bored. "You can pick up the towels here when you're ready to use them. Welcome to the Rexford. Enjoy your stay. Or don't. Whatever."

Beatrice froze. "What… what did you say?"

The manager glared at her. "The towels are down here, dumbass."

"No, I mean… did you say… is this Hotel Rexford?"

The manager scowled. "Lady, if you're high, I don't have the time. You didn't see the glowing letters on the front of the building?"

She and Deacon had been bent before the storm. She hadn't even been sure there was a door in front of them until Deacon had grabbed her hand and pulled her through it.

But she knew it was true. This was the Rexford. Had she completely forgotten how close to the Old State House their hotel was? The hotel she'd stayed at with Nate for their honeymoon.

The one she'd run away from.

Early 2077

Beatrice Li—no, she corrected herself with a smile every newlywed should have—Beatrice Huang was walking on air. Years of patience, of discipline, of being the good daughter had paid off. She laughed, remembering her choking sense of fear and frustration when her mother told her they would be seeking a traditional matchmaker now her schooling was nearly at an end.

An end of freedom, she had thought. An end to myself. And why? she wondered. Why go for an old Chinese tradition when she'd been raised so American she didn't even speak any Chinese? Her parents, though, had been matched that way and apparently wanted their daughter to have at least some small part of their heritage, even if she'd missed out on everything else.

But the Chinese American community in Massachusetts was limited, and to her surprise, the matchmaker ended up introducing her to a man she'd already noticed at a Slocum's Joe when she'd met some friends for coffee: tall, broad-shouldered, a winning smile, and a crisp U.S. military uniform. Was there anything more calculated to win a girl's heart?

His name was Nathaniel Huang, a first generation immigrant, unlike herself. He had entered into the matchmaking process with kindness, humor, and a patience that exceeded anything she had been expecting in a partner. Especially one selected by the matchmaker; one that might be a traditional husband in the Chinese sense. Yes, she'd thought with relief, I think I could grow to love him.

And now, the fulfillment of those dreams. They were married; the ceremony and endless festivities were behind them. Family was behind them. They were on their way to a modest honeymoon in Boston. Alone. Finally.

Beatrice put her hand on Nate's as he engaged the shifter, just wanting to touch him—wanting to reassure herself that she was his and he was hers. Adults at last without Mother and Father to look over their shoulders. She almost shivered with giddiness. Never the outgoing type, and always mindful of her parents who thought law school a waste of time and money (her mother was a homemaker and very proud of it), Beatrice had shunned dates in college, burying herself in her studies, needing the best grades to show her dedication, to prove her parents wrong. And now at last patience and discipline were rewarded. She graduated with honors, she'd passed the bar, and… she was married.

Nate's smile looked strained. "Not while I'm driving, xiao ke ai."

Little cutie. Beatrice barely spoke Chinese, though she appreciated how Nate occasionally used phrases like that, as much a part of his identity as her own. Her parents spoke very little Mandarin and even less of that had been transferred to Beatrice. Even before the war, anti-Chinese sentiment was high. When she'd been a teenager, she'd been grateful to not know any Mandarin, especially as worries about the internment camps rose within the Chinese American community. Sometimes she felt she had missed out on huge portion of her identity… but that was something to ponder on a different day. She was on her honeymoon. No time for unhappy thoughts.

The drive to Boston from their small town was a little boring, though Beatrice helped with the boring part by reading out loud in the car. Nate's education had been interrupted by war and rehabilitation from his injuries, so she'd been tutoring him for college credit. He never objected, like some men might, on the idea that his wife—wife!—was smarter than he was, and might earn a good living without his help. He said he was proud of her, and she could tell he meant it. She was lucky to have snagged a man like him.

In the car, for some reason, he seemed tense. She wondered if he was just nervous about the night ahead of them—which was sweet. Though she'd sought to have some time alone when they were engaged, Nate was too much of a gentlemen to take advantage of her. So much so, she had often been a little frustrated with him. But both of their families were traditional when it came to gender roles, and they'd both had a strict upbringing. Perhaps Nate was just going to have a harder time shedding that than she was.

Finally, as afternoon shadows were growing long, they pulled into the parking lot of a large hotel next to the Old State House. A Slocum's Joe was also nearby, a large fiberglass donut on top of the diner.

"Look, Nate," she said, pointing out the window. "A reminder of where we first met. We can go there for breakfast tomorrow."

Nate was gripping the steering wheel, staring sightlessly out the windshield.

Beatrice sucked in a breath. Was he having another flashback? His PTSD sometimes acted up when he was stressed, and after a chaotic wedding, she shouldn't have been surprised.

"Nate? It's okay, we're here in the car, in Boston, at a hotel," she said in a calm voice, hoping to ground him. "We—"

"What?" He looked at her, eyes wide. "No, I'm fine. Let's go." He jumped out of the car like he was fleeing a rabid animal and slammed the door of his Chryslus Cherry Bomb, going to the trunk to get their luggage.

He had both of their bags in hand and was halfway to the hotel main entrance before Beatrice caught up with him. Goodness, he's more eager than I , she thought, blushing.

The bellhop in the elevator with him prevented any displays of affection she might have wished to show him, but he was shy of displaying his feelings in public, she knew, so she contented with brushing his hand with the back of hers. His Adam's apple bobbed.

There were a dozen minute things that seemed to take forever as they finally arrived at their floor. The bellhop was a chatty fellow, talking about the latest news on the war front after seeing Nate's army duffel, then lingering in an obvious way for a tip.

"Darling, I'm going to go refresh myself," she said to Nate, taking her bag and escaping to the suite's exquisitely large bathroom. She fluffed her hair in the mirror and reapplied lipstick. Then—with a grin as she remembered her friend Maud's honeymoon advice—she changed into a delicate negligee she'd found in a discreet corner of the local Fallon's.

She cracked the bathroom door. "Is he gone?"

"Yes. Beatrice, I…"

She slipped out, knowing her face was probably as red as the negligee, but for once, not caring. She loved him. She didn't have to be afraid.

Nate was pacing in the small area near the door. He stopped when he saw her.

"Hi," she said, suddenly shy. "How about we—"

"Oh God," he said, voice breaking as he sank down onto a chair beside the armoire.

For the first time Beatrice felt uncertain. Something was very wrong here.

"Darling?" she said, hesitant. "If you're too tired, or nervous… it's okay, we can just go to dinner."

"No, it's not that," he said, still not looking at her. His hands were shoved up into his hair, his fedora askew. He took a deep breath and straightened, looking at the wall opposite. "I… I can't do this anymore. It's not fair."

"Do… do what? Nate, you're scaring me."

"I… I don't like women," he said, his voice stuttering, cracking over the words like ice in late February. "I prefer the… the company of men. My parents knew and… and they were ashamed," he choked, his eyes closing.

Beatrice's mind was spinning in a thousand directions, but she latched onto the word "prefer" and hung for dear life. "So…" she said, pressing her lips together, "you prefer men, but… but you like women too, right? I mean, I know it's possible to like both—"

"No." His voice cut through her words like a gunshot. He almost looked ill. "Only men. That's why the negotiations with the matchmaker went so smoothly. They thought they could cure ," he half spat, half sobbed the word, "me by getting me married. I went along with it because I like you, and I thought… I thought if I had to be married, I'd rather it be you because we're friends and I thought maybe it won't be so bad, but it's just hit me know that this is forever and, I can't lie anymore. If I have to do it one more time, I think I'll throw up."

Beatrice swayed on her feet, the delicate lace negligee suddenly constrictive and far, far too revealing. She ran back into the bathroom, shaking, and closed the door.

"Beatrice!" Nate's voice on the outside of the door. She didn't answer, humiliation and shock sending shudders through her body so violent, she thought she might fall. She sat down very carefully on the cold marble floor, staring at a stray Nuka-Cola bottle cap under a dark corner of the sink the hotel Mr. Handy had obviously missed when cleaning.

How long she sat there staring at that cap, she didn't know. She only noticed when Nate stopped talking to her through the door, and she heard the hotel room door close a moment later.

As if that was her cue, Beatrice struggled out of the red monstrosity she was wearing and put on normal, sensible clothes: a blue everyday dress, and her handbag. Then she was out. Nate's duffel and her suitcase were still by the door, but she left the room, walking as fast as her legs would carry her, which was far. She was tall for a woman and she ate up the distance with satisfying speed. Outside the hotel, she hailed a cab.

"Where to?" asked the driver, and she blanked. Where was she going? Home? She had no home, not really. She was a married woman—her new home was with Nate. If she went back to her parents, if she told them… she inhaled a shuddering breath, squeezing her handbag. It wouldn't do to sob in front of this cab driver. Her handbag was harder than she remembered and she opened it, seeing the small Remington Derringer tucked inside that Nate had given to her for her birthday.

"Do you know where the nearest shooting range is?" she asked the cabbie.

"Yes, ma'am."

He pulled in at a place right under an advertisement for a family board game called Blast Radius, and she paid him. "Good place, this. Boston PD sometimes uses it, so it's safe and reputable," he said, giving her a quizzical look. She supposed he didn't often drop off Chinese women at shooting ranges, but she found that for perhaps the first time in her life, she didn't care what someone thought of her.

"Thanks," she said, and left the cab.

A middle-aged man in a wrinkled jacket and battered fedora was leaving as she walked up the steps and held the door for her.

"See ya later, Nicky. Tell Jenny I said 'hi'," said another man behind the counter as she walked in.

"Will do, Jim. Excuse me, miss," said the man at the door, touching the brim of his hat as he edged past her.

Fortunately, "Jim" behind the counter didn't question her right to be there other than a lift of the eyebrows. She was used to going to shooting ranges with Nate. Wanting to try to get to know him more as negotiations progressed with the matchmaker, she'd found out that he kept his army skills sharp and decided to join him. Surprisingly, she had enjoyed shooting—was good at it—and he'd gifted her the Derringer soon after.

Now, she snapped on ear protection, put her handbag under the counter in front of her, and loaded her gun.

Bang. The little gun bucked in her hand but landed on the white of the target. She steadied her breath and her aim. Bang . Still in the white. She frowned. Time to reload.

"That's a terrible weapon for a lady," said a voice in the silence, muffled through her ear protection.

She turned and spotted a blond man in shirtsleeves and suspenders, also wearing ear protection in the cubicle next to hers. Normally this was a situation where she'd either pretend not to have heard or would make a quick excuse and leave the conversation. But her life was crumbling to pieces, so what the hell? She lowered her ear protectors.

"It does the job and it fits in my handbag," she said crisply. "Stick it against some mugger's ribs and he's not going to care if it's a 'terrible weapon for a lady'."

"True, but I think you're underestimating yourself," he said, and lowered his ear protection. "You're tall for a woman, so you need a slightly bigger weapon. That little Derringer is a disservice to hands like yours."

"Oh? And you think you have the right-sized weapon for me?"

His grin widened, and she blushed, suddenly aware of her unintended innuendo.

"Here, check out the guns I brought: a Detective Special, Smith & Wesson model 10, and a Carter Worth .38," he said, gesturing toward the three different pistols laid out in his cubicle. "I'm Rob." He stuck out his hand.

"Beatrice."

And suddenly it was natural conversation. She asked questions, he answered, was polite and interested without being overbearing and condescending. It was a welcome distraction from what had just happened at the hotel.

So many things make sense now, she thought, lowering one of the guns that Rob had lent her. No wonder I thought Nate was such a gentleman…

"Hey," Rob said, tapping her shoulder. She put the safety on the gun and put it down. His smile was a little nervous. "I know we just met an' all, but do you want to go grab a drink or something?"

And next thing she knew, she was in the back of Rob's car in the parking lot and he was kissing her the way she'd always wanted Nate to kiss her, his mouth eager but not bruising, his hands firm but not crushing. This was what she had wanted in her honeymoon, this thrill, this pulsing desire…

This was wrong.

She tried to focus back on the kiss, but instead all she could see was Nate's red-rimmed eyes. He was her friend. Yes, he'd lied, but… didn't he deserve the honeymoon he wanted too?

She pulled away, Rob's breath hot on her cheek. "I'm sorry," she said, heart thudding against her ribs. "I have to go."

He swallowed. "So, uh, can we get that drink later? Rain check?"

She shook her head, double checking all her buttons, and edged toward the door. "I can't… I… I just got married this morning. I'm sorry, I can't explain. Thank you for the information about the guns. Good night."

She closed the car door gently on his stunned face, and hurried down the dark street until she saw a yellow cab and flagged it down.

She was afraid Nate would be gone when she got to the hotel, but upon her gentle tap at the room door, it swung open immediately to Nate's tear-stained face.

"I'm sorry I left," she said. "Can we talk?"

He nodded. "Yes, I'd like that."

A/N: Once again, thanks to Quinzelade for helping to smooth the wonky bits of this chapter.