3. Spill the Beans

Beth POV

Shelter from the Storm by Bob Dylan

It's been about two weeks since I hired MacCready down in the Third Rail. We'd spent nearly all that time just wondering the Commonwealth, getting to know each other—understanding how each other operates. I found out that he gets pissed off pretty easily, even at small things. Plus, I've noticed a weird habit of his: he can't swear—or rather, won't. Everytime he's about to, he cuts himself off and uses another word. I want to ask him about it, but he probably wouldn't tell me, so I guess I'll have to continue wondering about that.

Also, he keeps giving me this odd stare whenever he thinks I'm not looking. I really don't even know what to make of it. That's something else I'd like to ask him about, but don't know how. I have a feeling that this list is gonna grow before I can mark anything off it.

But for the time being, I really couldn't care less about any of that. I'm happy due to the interesting company for one, but mostly because of the bottle of rum we found after killing all the ghouls in Fiddler's Green Trailer Estates. When we first got here, he startled me by suddenly saying, Always wanted my own trailer... it'd be midnight blue with a leopard-skin interior. After receiving a surprised look from me, he continued with, Hey... it beats living in a cave. So, here we sit on the floor in one of those trailers. And since I'm on my third glass of rum, I'm curious enough about his comment to finally ask him.

"You know that thing you said earlier?" My words slur together ever so slightly. I'm surprised my alcohol tolerance hasn't changed in all these years.

"Uh, what thing?" he asks, a bit tipsy himself. "We've been talking for…" He looks at his watch for a second. "I don't know. A while. What thing?"

"The thing about the trailer," I clarify.

"Oh," he laughs. "Yeah, what about it?"

"What made you want to have a trailer in the first place, but especially to have it like that?" I laugh myself.

"Oh, I don't know," he responds, pouring himself a fourth drink. "I saw some when I was younger, just leaving Little Lamplight. Thought it'd be cool. Plus, why couldn't I make it midnight blue with a leopard-skin interior anyway?" He refills my glass while he has the bottle. "That would so have been better than Lamplight."

"Lamplight?" I ask. "What's that?"

"Little Lamplight's where I grew up. Back in the Capital Wasteland. So, when I said that the trailer thing would beat living in a cave," he takes a drink, "I know what I'm talking about."

"So, you grew up in a cave?" I ask, trying to hide my chuckle and failing.

"Yeah, I guess I did. But, hey, it's not funny. You should try living underground for a while. It sucks." I can add another moment he's gotten mad over something small.

"Uh, I did." I wave at my blue vaultsuit.

"Oh, right. I forgot, Vault Dweller," he chuckles.

"Like seriously. How could you miss it? It's the brightest blue I've seen for a while," I chuckle along with him.

"So, you know," he says. "Sucks, right?"

I just scoff, my mood changing erratically from drunk and pleased to depressed in a split second. "Wouldn't know." I peer into my glass, as if that'd help my past be erased.

"But you're around my age. You have to remember it. Unless you were in a coma or something." He snickers again.

"Well, that's not too far from the truth." I grin into the glass sarcastically.

"Really?" He seems legitimately curious. "What happened?"

I sigh, not wanting to relive it, but I can't help but dive into that dark abyss due to the booze stopping my common sense from taking over.

"My family and I… we moved into Vault 111. Hear of it?" He shakes his head, so I continue. "It's up north of here. Anyway… We had no idea. They had these cryogenic pods, and they froze us in them… I was the only one to walk out of it. The pods—they failed or something. Everyone in the vault is dead. …But my baby… he—he got kidnapped. While I was still in the pod, I couldn't do anything but watch… and scream at them. And my husband—" My volume drops a bit at the end as I put my hand over my mouth in grief. I feel the wetness streaming down my cheeks at the memory of Nate. "…They shot him. Just left him there. I couldn't do anything but sit and watch as they killed him right in front of me." I bow my shoulders, my entire posture crumpling in mourning.

MacCready sets his glass on the floor and crawls over to my right side, putting his arm around my upper back. "I'm so sorry." He grabs my drink and sets it down right before it's about to slip out of my fingers.

My body suddenly takes over as I put my head on his shoulder, without my mind's consent. If I wasn't on the verge of being wasted, I'd be embarrassed about it, if I would have even done it in the first place. But in this moment, I really don't care. He takes it in stride, letting me take solace for a minute as he pats my knee, and says in a grave tone, "I know the feeling. Losing someone you care about." He shifts his weight a bit. "That's the worst thing about living out here. At least if I did live in a cave like when I was a kid, I wouldn't have to worry about deathclaws or Raiders. Ghouls… Any of that. I could just… live. That would've been nice…" His words trail off, going deep into thought, I'd guess.

"That is the worst part," I croak, my voice growing somewhat stronger after crying. "Although, it all is really bad. I never would have imagined the world like this…" Now my own words trail off, my mind going back to October 23, 2077—the sirens, the bombs… the vault. I raise my head off his shoulder, deep in thought.

He interrupts my deliberation of the past with, "But you were in the pod for just a little while, right? You had to have known what it was like up here while you were just living in there before they froze you."

"I never lived in the vault—they only had quarters for staff. I was frozen the whole time." I sigh. "I really don't want to talk about it anymore." I stand up, grabbing my glass on the way. "I'm pretty tired. I'm gonna go find a pillow or something. Be right back." I take the last sip of my rum, setting my glass down on the way out.

Leaving the trailer—away from MacCready and his shadowing gaze—makes me feel vulnerable again. Like anything could jump out at me in this darkness and I'd die, plain and simple. Well over tipsy and unprepared, the fear gets the best of me. I make a mad dash to a trailer I see has a sliding door. I slide it aside and jump into the trailer in a matter of seconds, feeling safer as soon as I slide the door home and latch it. Staring at the lock for a few seconds, I feel satisfied enough to turn around finally.

I find myself face to helmet with a full set of T-51 power armour. Generally, I'd be happy to find it, and want to take it back to my house in Diamond City right away. But my emotions clearly aren't functioning properly, cause I could care less about it right now. Walking past it to a tan sofa, I push the skeleton siting on it into the floor and curl up into a loose ball. "Sorry, I wouldn't normally do that, but you don't need this anymore, and I kinda do, so…"

I close my eyes, hoping sleep will find me when I hear my name being called. I growl under my breath.

"Beth? Where are you?" Sounds like MacCready.

I contemplate for a second if I want to answer or not. As I hear my name once more, I call, "In here!" The volume in my voice makes my head throb a little.

I hear noise coming from the door. It's not hard to open a sliding door, I think bitterly. "Uh, door's locked or something," he says. Jeez. I huff as I stand and make my way to the door, unlatching it but leaving it closed. Turning back around I head toward the couch again, staggering slightly on the way. As he comes in, closing the door behind him, he watches me silently until I'm seated. "Little wobbly?" he asks. Turning my head to him, he sees the hard look in my eyes. I don't feel like jokes, they say. Apparently, they haven't lost the redness either, from the look on his face.

I can feel his curiosity boiling over. Beating him to the punch, I just tell him. "It scares me out there. I felt exposed as soon as I left that trailer. I needed something more familiar. Like a door. So, I ran in here." I sigh. "Like the coward I am."

He steps in front of me, squatting down and keeping his balance really well for someone who just drank almost four glasses of rum. "You're not a coward. I think the past two weeks have proved that much to me." He catches himself as he starts to sway a little. "What're you scared of?" he asks lightly, looking between my eyes, trying to read me or something.

"To be honest? Everything. It's just so different now. I wasn't built for any of this. I haven't had the experiences out here to make it—something that people half my age do have. I shouldn't have to even look for my child—I should be raising him at home right now, undisturbed by this…wasteland. And I'm definitely not supposed to be sitting here, crying in an old trailer park over my past life." Great, here come the waterworks. "I miss people. Not like the people these days, but just humanity as a whole. Wanting to go somewhere, so you just hop in your car and go—you didn't have to worry about dying on your trip. I miss my job as a lawyer, a housewife, a mother. I miss green trees and grass!" I stop myself there, hearing the hysteria in my tone. Plus, with all the things I miss about my old life, it'd take literally forever to voice them all. I'd said enough to make my point anyway.

MacCready had gotten awful quiet through my rant. I look up at him, and find his face looking extremely appalled. I realize he must not have known about that part of me. Piper had written that article from my interview when I first came into Diamond City. I figured with how her sister pushed the paper onto people, most would have read it by now. I guess Publick Occurrences doesn't reach far outside the Wall.

"Are you saying… you're Pre-War?" he asks, sounding almost ashamed to even utter the words aloud. "…What year were you born?"

Will he even believe me? But he did ask. Ah, screw it. Like it matters anyway. "…2051. Biologically, I'm only twenty-six. Chronologically… I guess that makes me 236 years old." I decide that it sounds absolutely crazy, and if there are any running asylums still around, I should probably be committed to one right now. The eyes in his head have become giant, blue orbs, staring at me in disbelief. "So, I'm old now, I guess." I chuckle darkly. "Doesn't suck as much as my grandparents said it would, and I'm even older than them now. I knew they were full of it." My attempt at humour to lighten the mood seems to weigh heavy in the atmosphere as his silence persists.

He continues to stare at me for what feels like hours. Either his eyes are about to explode from massive dryness, or I'm about to witness them fall out of his head. Can't decide which one, though… Finally, he breaks his silence. "That explains it." He relaxes his face to an understanding look, giving his eyes a break from all the extra added air exposure.

"What explains what? Aren't you freaked out?" I have to admit I was expecting a different response—like running… or my death at his hands.

"Not really. I was at first. But now I've put it together." He finally stands up, shaking blood into his feet from crouching too long. Sitting next to me on the couch, he continues, "The first time I saw you and the time you hired me… You were two totally different women. I haven't been able to figure it out." He sounds guilty as he laughs. "Sometimes I'd just look at you when you weren't looking and try to sort the pieces, but I haven't been able to."

"So, that's what you were doing!"

He chuckles again. "Yeah, that's it." He leans onto the back of the couch. "But I did notice a huge difference. When I pulled you aside in Goodneighbor, I was serious. I can understand you blowing it off, especially at the time, considering I was a stranger. But I did notice. And I get it now. When you said that night that you couldn't die—that you absolutely could not—it was because of your son. And you not wanting to tell me why, I get that. You wanted to protect him."

"Exactly," I agree. "I mean, I just met you really, so I didn't know if I could trust you with my reasons."

He nods. "And before. You were so shy and innocent. So fragile in this world. Almost like you were made for a more delicate universe—one without violence, but love. Like Pre-War." He nods again. "I get it now," a grin rising to his lips, empathy in his eyes.

I try my best to grin back at him, but I feel like a grimace appears instead. He just laughs quietly, and stands up from the couch. "You still tired?" I shrug, not trusting my voice. "Go ahead and get some rest then." He leans against the wall to my right and slides down it onto the floor. "I'll stay up for a while and make sure the coast is clear." As I lay back down into a similar formation of my lose ball from earlier, he says, "Good night, Beth."

A bit of time had passed when I finally respond. "Good night, MacCready."

I'm not expecting an answer, so it startles me when I hear his voice. "Call me Robert. MacCready was my father's name." He snickers, "I guess it was. I never knew him. I've just always wanted to say that cause it sounded cool." I look over at him to see a small smile. Child-like humor is the best kind, I think, grinning internally.

"Okay, then. Good night, Robert." A small smile reaches my own mouth as I recall only telling him my name after feeling comfortable with him.

I immediately float into a restful, dreamless night's sleep. Knowing I have someone to watch my back, and having someone know who I actually am—having spilt all my beans tonight—it makes me feel like a person again. Not a whole one, but more than just a vengeful shell of the woman I once was.

I can now at least say I have someone to trust on this side of the apocalypse.