A/N: I've had to upload this chapter far too many times due to my finding mistakes. But, I believe I've worked out all the kinks. We shall see.

So, this chapter actually ties in with my main fic. If you're one of those who are looking forward to the full-fledged fanfiction, just know that it is coming. I'm almost done with itI think. But, yeah. This one shot is nicely nestled up between chapters two and three, so keep that in mind when reading it.

Also, I use songs as inspiration when writing, so if you happen to see a title and artist, check it out—because it gives the reader a better look into the story I'm trying to create. The horizontal lines just signify a change in time, attitude, or point of view. Nothing too extreme.

I adore your reviews, so don't be shy to drop me one on here. I always look forward to them! :)

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Having Worth

Beth POV

Shortly after hiring MacCready, I couldn't help but notice how cynical he could be. Whether it be somebody mouthed off to him, or even him saying something he thought was dumb—he's constantly hard on himself.

When he stopped me in Goodneighbor, and wanted to know why I hired him as an extra gun, I couldn't tell him. How could I? I still find it hard to think about, nonetheless talk about it. So, he still doesn't know—even as we've been on the move continuously for about a week—and haven't been too far from each other since grouping up.

At the moment, we're not too far from Fort Hagen—a place I really don't wanna get too close to. Since I'd been there with Nate a couple times, I don't want to relive the memories. So, MacCready and I went around it and found a small, but nice, shack on the face of a cliff. Whoever was here before apparently thought it'd be cool to launch off some giant canisters, as there are two lined up, ready to go. But, the shack seems to have been abandoned, so it shall be our shelter for the night.

"You can have the bed, Beth," MacCready tells me as he sits down on the chair at the foot of it. "I'll take first watch."

"We're probably far out enough to be safe for the night. You might as well get some sleep yourself."

He shakes his head. "You never know."

"I'm sure it'll be fine—"

"I said I'll keep an eye out." His tone leaves me staring at him. Did he have to be so harsh? He looks at me like he knows his tone was aggressive, but says nothing besides, "Just… get some rest. I'll let you know if I get tired enough." He turns his face the other direction, looking out toward the city.

"Okay." I lay down on the bed, facing the wall. Well, that was weird. Like I know him very well, but after a week, I know that was odd of him. Wonder what caused it…


I've gotten used to waking up every few hours since leaving the vault a couple months back. I was already sort of used to it due to Shaun needing feeding through the night—I'm just glad it continued. It's nice to wake up ever so often, knowing you're not dead.

I realize MacCready hasn't gotten any sleep yet, and since I feel rested enough, I decide to take watch. "Hey, MacCready." I stand and rub my eyes, letting them adjust. "I'm ready to switch if you are—" What lies before me cuts my words off instantly.

He sitting on the edge of the "window sill," or whatever it's called—a bottle of some sort in one hand, a pistol in the other. He glances back at me for a second, only to face the other way again. "Well, you're going to be keeping watch for a long while, if I go through with it. So you might as well get some more sleep." His words are slurring greatly, showing just how much of the alcohol he'd already gone through.

"Where did you get that?" I ask him, not even sure if I mean the gun or the liquor.

"This?" He holds up the latter of my two guesses. "This was under this shed here. Somebody thought they stashed it in a good place. They were wrong." He takes one last pull from the bottle before throwing it into the night. It takes several seconds for me to hear it shatter against a rock, somewhere far off from us. "But as for the gun," he waves it above his head. "It was under the bed. Full magazine and everything." He takes it out and checks it again—like a pro, even in his intoxicated state.

"What are you planning on doing with it?" I ask him, nervous why he's acting this way.

"Not sure yet," he says. "I might use this, I might jump. I haven't made up my mind yet."

"You want to commit suicide?" I ask, my voice shrill—probably too loud in case of hostiles in the area.

"What else would happen if I shot myself or jumped off this thing? I'd probably die, so yeah."

I remember Nate having told me in the past that he'd had to save one of his squad's lives from suicide. He said how if he went to them fast, trying to physically stop them, they'd see it as a threat and do it sooner. If you tried to talk them out of it, they might do it sooner. The best bet would be to talk about the problem—to try and make them see the reason isn't a good enough one to take their life.

"MacCready—I don't see why you'd want to do that." Even though I feel my mind wanting to pull me closer, in hopes of stopping him, I stay where I am. "What could be so bad that you'd want to die?"

"I'm a failure," he says, dejection very evident in his voice. "Everything I've ever done, everybody I've ever cared for. Nothing turns out good, and it's all because of me."

"I'm sure there were always other reasons for those situations to turn out poorly, or for those people to be gone. Nothing is on you." Although I know I shouldn't, my foot edges forward, taking me one step closer to him—one step closer to possibly stopping him or pushing him to do it.

"Oh, yeah? You ever have something happen so bad to you that you just want to die? Like, an important person in your life is taken from you—killed in front of you?" How does he know? I feel my eyes widen. He must see this as he looks back at me, because he says, "Yeah, so that happened." He faces me a little more, turning his body ever so slightly away from the view of the city he's been staring at for who knows how long.

"You want to talk about it?" I ask, noticing my voice sounding small. "Maybe it'll help…"

"What? Like a shrink? Hell no." He holds the pistol up, looking at it seemingly in a different way. "You know, I think I made up my mind. She didn't die quick—so I shouldn't either." He turns back to me once more, tossing me the firearm. "Those aren't too easy to come by. Maybe you can use it, or sell it to hire another merc. I hate to do this to you—cause it seemed important that you hire me—but I can't do this anymore." He faces the city and scoots forward, ready to fall off the edge of the sill and down the cliff.

"MacCready, no!" I lunge forward and grasp the material of his shirt as he falls.


MacCready POV

I've been thinking that she should know. But I just can't tell her—how could I? I can just imagine how it'd go now. I'd tell her, "So, this thing happened, and I've been really depressed for a really long time." She probably wouldn't take too well to that, and just fire me on the spot. So, my depression would get worse, I'd slum back to wherever, get news that he's died, and just kill myself. Why not just do it now? My inner demons taunt me. Make it easier for everyone, and do it. Right now. "Shut up," I whisper to them, too quiet for Beth to hear as she leads the way to tonight's shelter.

We're near Fort Hagen, and although I mentioned taking refuge in it would be safer than most alternatives, she refuses and continues on. She finally spots a shack not too far from us, and we make our way there for the night.

"You can have the bed, Beth. I'll take first watch." I take a seat on the chair at the foot of the bed I speak of.

She looks at me with reluctance in her eyes. "We're probably far out enough to be safe for the night. You might as well get some sleep yourself."

I shake my head at her. I need some alone time. "You never know."

"I'm sure it'll be fine—"

I feel myself snap. "I said I'll keep an eye out." She stares at me with a slightly concerned, slightly scared expression. I know I should apologize, but can't bring myself to do it. "Just… get some rest. I'll let you know if I get tired enough." I turn and face the "window," or at least where some canisters are prepared to take off like rockets, yet never will.

"Okay." I hear Beth climb into the bed and go silent. I take the chance of stealing a glance back at her. I see she's facing the wall—her best attempt to look away from me. I shouldn't have done that…


It's had to been at least an hour since Beth passed out. I look down to my watch and see the time: half past midnight. I was right. About an hour, I think. I can hear Beth's soft snores behind me, and I'm glad she can sleep so well. I haven't slept that good in four years. Too busy waking up from nightmares, or not even being able to sleep in the first place. I don't know how I've functioned this whole time. I think back to my home in the Capital Wasteland, back to my only reason for living—and even that is being threatened at the moment. What if he doesn't make it? I've asked myself that same question for far too long now. At least half a year—I've lost track of time up here. Kate's got it under control. She has to… She's always been a strong woman—someone everybody looks up to. I don't know how she does it.

I hear Beth stir behind me and look back to her as she flips onto her other side, her snoring resuming within seconds. What could be so important to her that she'd hire a complete stranger to keep her safe? I feel my legs starting to go numb from lack of movement for so long. So, I stand and quietly walk out the door, noticing a pistol lying underneath the bed Beth is sleeping on. I make my way down the ramp leading into the shack and around the corner, looking toward the city still—just from the outside this time. I wonder who used to live here, and why they left their gun behind. Although I am curious, I don't care enough to linger on the thought for too long.

As I'm walking around the small building, I notice a gleam in the moonlight. Bending down to investigate, I see a bottle of moonshine. Well, hello. I pick it up and pull the cork out, throwing it over the edge of the small cliff the shack sits on. Taking a long drink from the bottle, I can't help but to cough when I come up for air. This shi—er, crap's strong. I glance around the area—and once I'm happy to see nothing dangerous around—I slip back inside the shed where my boss sleeps. Just in case something comes in behind me, I grab the pistol. That way, the pistol can't be used against me, and I have something else besides my sniper rifle. They don't always work close range. Need to get something else for that. I sit back down in the chair I'd been sitting in and set the pistol next to me, ready for use.


A couple hours later, I find that I'm not only at the end of my bottle of moonshine, but that I'm also sitting on the edge of the window, staring out into the night with the pistol in my hand. I had way too much, I think as I take another drink—maybe two or three more drinks left in it. I've been awake too long. I glance back at Beth, still soundly asleep. I don't wanna wake her up. She's sleeping too good right now.

I continue to stare toward what used to be Boston. The light Diamond City puts off is nice. Too bright, though. Way to go unnoticed, guys. I take another drink.

I don't want to be awake right now—don't wanna be alive, really. Being alone for the past three hours or so hasn't done me any good. Although Beth doesn't know me that well, she's still nice to talk to. It's what we've been doing this past week—talking, getting to know each other. Because if something is important, it's that you know your employer and they know you. That's something I've learned in the past. But, there is something I haven't learned in the past very well: how to protect those around you.

I really suck at that. You know that, MacCready. You really suck at that, I think to myself. I think back to her, to him. Just can't do it, can you? My thoughts take on another person's perspective—other than me talking to myself—and it's actually kinda mean. You couldn't protect them. What makes you think you can protect blondie over there? Just because she payed you doesn't change the fact that you're useless. "Shut up," I whisper, hearing just how drunk I've gotten by slurring my utterance. He's gonna die, the voice continues, and there's nothing you can do about it. "Shut up," I say louder—loud enough for Beth's snores to cut off somewhat. Now you did it… The voice fades off, and I'm glad to be rid of it.

However, it being gone doesn't mean its words are gone. They replay over and over in my head, refusing to leave me alone.

You're useless.

He's gonna die.

Couldn't protect them.

You suck at that.

"Shut up!" I end up yelling, completely waking my boss up. Doesn't matter, I think. I've been wanting to do this for a long time now. Doesn't matter if she tries to stop me. It won't work. Nothing can.

"Hey, MacCready. I'm ready to switch if you are—" Her words cut off once she sees me. I look back at her, and her expression matches that of what I thought she'd be wearing. It doesn't matter, I repeat to myself.

"Well, you're going to be keeping watch for a long while, if I go through with it. So, you might as well get some more sleep." I know my slurring may have made me hard to understand, but I don't care. Didn't really want her to know all that. I've always said too much when drunk—and this instance is no different.

"Where did you get that?" She asks quietly, and I'm not even sure which one she means.

I hold up my near empty bottle of booze. "This? This was under this shed here. Somebody thought they stashed it in a good place. They were wrong." I take the last drink and chuck it from my perch. It takes several seconds before I hear it break against a rock somewhere far from here. Wow. Either that's a far drop, or I'm pretty strong when I'm smashed.

"But as for the gun," I continue, waving it above my head. "It was under the bed. Full magazine and everything." I take the clip out and check again—although I must have a hundred times already.

"What are you planning on doing with it?" She asks me, a nervous edge to her tone.

"Not sure yet. I might use this, I might jump. I haven't made up my mind yet." There I go again with over-informing. Ah, forget trying to keep it a secret.

"You want to commit suicide?" Her voice is high-pitched, loud.

"What else would happen if I shot myself or jumped off this thing? I'd probably die, so yeah." I know I'm being really sarcastic, but at this point—what does it matter?

She stays planted where she is—either deliberately or because she's just shocked about it. "MacCready," she starts, "I don't see why you'd want to do that. What could be so bad that you'd want to die?"

If only she knew. I decide to sum it up for her. "I'm a failure. Everything I've ever done, everybody I've ever cared for. Nothing turns out good, and it's all because of me."

"I'm sure there were always other reasons for those situations to turn out poorly," she tells me. "Or for those people to be gone. Nothing is on you." If only she knew, I think again as she comes closer by a single step.

"Oh, yeah? You ever have something happen so bad to you that you just want to die? Like, an important person in your life is taken from you—killed in front of you?" Her eyes widen—either because she knows what I mean, or it's possibly happened to her. "Yeah, so that happened." I turn to face her slightly, but still on the edge, ready to jump at a moment's notice.

"You want to talk about it? Maybe it'll help…" She asks me, although I can barely hear it. Might be cause of the ringing in my ears, might be cause of how quiet she said it.

"What? Like a shrink? Hell no." I finally make up my mind. Holding up the pistol in my hand, I say, "You know, I think I made up my mind. She didn't die quick—so I shouldn't either." I face her once more, tossing her the gun. "Those aren't too easy to come by. Maybe you can use it, or sell it to hire another merc. I hate to do this to you—cause it seemed important that you hire me—but I can't do this anymore." I face toward the city again, and scoot until I feel the window sill no longer under me.

"MacCready, no!" She yells, dashing forward in time to catch the fabric of my shirt.


Beth POV

F**kin' Perfect by P!nk

The adrenaline of the moment must have given me the extra strength I needed to pull MacCready's body from the fall. It took a lot of pulling—to which he begged me to release him—but I managed to get him back in the shack.

As he now lies on the floor, he tells me, "You should have just dropped me. It wasn't worth your effort. …I'm not worth your effort…"

I stand from the floor myself—having been flung onto it when I succeeded in pulling him up. "You are worth my effort. You have worth" I argue. "There is no reason—no situation—bad enough for you to take your own life. Besides, I won't have it, because I need you out here. And I'm sure there's someone out there who needs you, too. So, do not give up. Do not. Give up.

"I'm your boss, right? No need to keep such a formal relationship between us. If you need help, I can give you help. I care for you as a person—I'm not like those people before the War, the one's that care for their employees only as numbers. Uh-uh—no, sir. You, MacCready, have worth. And we're not leaving this shed until you promise me that you won't do something like that again.

"I've already lost so much… I can't lose someone else. So, don't make me have to deal with another death, because I don't think I can."

He looks at me from his spot on the floor for what seems like hours. His face shows no emotion other than the depression that caused all this in the first place. But when he looks away, his expression shifts—depression turns to brief anger, but then changes again into him acting on that sadness. He rolls onto his side and starts sobbing.

I want to let him know it'll all be okay—whatever the thing is that's been bothering him—but not even knowing what it is, it'd be hard to. I want to comfort him in some way—my motherly instinct taking over—but realize it'd be too weird, too awkward, so I don't. I just decide to sit down on the chair at the foot of the bed since it's close to him.

I don't know what else to do, so I just to sit here. Sometimes, somebody just being around helps. He continues to lay on the floor, crying his eyes out. Eventually, his tears stop, and—he's so tired from the long night—that he passes out, right there where he landed when I pulled him up from the window. I'm just happy to see him sleeping, safe from doing something stupid like that again.


MacCready POV

I wake up in the morning with a start—from that feeling you get when you're asleep, like you're falling. But what's in front of me doesn't add up to what I remember.

I'm sitting up in the bed, Beth kicked back as far as she can manage in the armchair at the foot of it. She's fast asleep.

I stand up and feel a pounding in my head. "Ugh. Been a while, Hangover," I greet it with a solemn attitude. Wait. Hangover? Did I get drunk last night? I honestly can't remember much past me taking first watch.

"Hey, Beth." I go up to her and shake her shoulder gently. "Beth?" She opens her eyes sleepily.

"What is it?" She becomes more alert. "Are you okay?" She stands quickly, glancing around the small room before picking up a pistol and putting it between her vaultsuit and her leather armour she slept in.

"Yeah, I guess so," I say. "Feels like I have a hangover, but I don't remember drinking last night. What happened?"

I see a look cross her face before disappearing. It almost seemed like she has a secret she's keeping. "Uh, yeah. You did drink last night actually. You found a bottle of God-knows-what, and drank all of it." She chuckles, although it sounds forced. "You got pretty sozzled honestly."

"Oh. Well, that explains my pounding headache. But I don't even remember you taking watch and me crashing."

"Probably because you were drunk. Sounds like you don't remember a whole lot from last night, huh?"

I shake my head, only to stop due to the extra pain it causes. Yet, I can't help my thoughts as they go other places. What did I do? Did we do anything? My worry at this apparently shows on my face, and she guesses right when she tells me, "Nothing happened between us, if that's what you're thinking." She chuckles at my sigh of relief.

Although it's morning, she still looks incredibly tired. "Maybe you should go back to sleep. I'm sure that chair wasn't very comfortable to sleep in. You can have the bed back." As soon as I'm done talking, she's looking at me with a strange look in her eye, like she's inspecting me. Once she sees my confusion as to why she's doing that, she smiles, satisfied with whatever she found on my face.

"Okay. Wake me up after an hour, if you would. We need to get traveling north soon." She goes and lays on the bed, passing out after a couple minutes.

So, here I am, sitting in the very chair I started the night out in. I look down to the floor and see a big wet spot. Odd, I think. What could have caused that? I take a drink from one of the water bottles we carry with us and realize I'm parched as hell is. I slam the entire thing back, blaming my thirst to my being dehydrated due to drinking. I look back down to the wet spot, and then it hits me.

I did that last night.

I remember it all now: my being depressed, finding the moonshine and pistol, Beth finding me sitting on the edge of the window, her catching my shirt and pulling me back up somehow…

I look back to the woman behind me—my employer, and ultimately, my saviour. You have worth, she'd told me. I've already lost so much… I can't lose someone else.

She pulled me up from the window, and then put me in the bed—with all that adrenaline pumping, she must have been able to do it—and told me she cared for me. And that someone else is bound to care for me, too. How right she was. I think back home, again, to my only reason for living.

I look back to my rescuer, my friend. Maybe he's not the only reason to live. Right here and now, I promise myself to never attempt suicide again. I owe Beth that much.