A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been following this. Questions, comments and criticisms are still greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Finger Trapping

Though the steady churning discomfort in Catherine's stomach had been replaced by a fleeting wave of relief, she was still grateful when the first bite of alcohol took away some of the edge. On the one hand, most of the sting from her argument with Mike had more or less faded and she was on her way to not wanting to strangle the man. However on the other, she had realized that her arguments with the doctor and their near constant state of proximate death had provided something of a distraction.

It was more than just simple codependence, what both of them had hesitantly admitted to. Though, that alone was something altogether foreign to the mercenary. If you rely on someone to make you happy, then they can also make you sad, she contemplated, oversimplifying the matter at hand. However, that did little to clarify whether she preferred solitude to companionship. Neither did the way her heart fluttered when she glanced at the doctor, keeping a less-than-mindful eye on his alcohol intake.

It had done the same thing when they'd been alone in their rented room despite that she had tried to get it to stop doing that. And yet… the opportunity to see exactly what lay between them had presented itself. So why hadn't she taken it? Even with a dubious level of alcohol already making her thinking less and less clear, the answer to that question was abundantly apparent.

Even though she wanted to test their relationship, the thought of not finding reciprocation, that she might find that same revulsion that had started their argument earlier, kept her from acting on the whim. So, before either of them could do something they might both regret later, she'd changed the subject and offered to buy Mike a drink. Instead she emptied another three fingers of scotch, wondering just when things had gotten so complicated.

"Um… Catherine," Mike started hesitantly. "We seem to have a bit of a problem." For a moment, she was worried that he'd begin to apologize for something else, his continence still looking slightly morose.

"I think we're being followed," the doctor explained, thankfully keeping his eyes forward rather than point. "Over in the corner, there's a man dressed like he just skinned that bear we tangled with. I'm pretty sure he was in Lever Du Soleil."

As casually as she could managed, Catherine turned around, placing her elbows on the bar as though she was simply tired of looking at the hard liquor selection.

"Do you know him?" she asked, glancing at their pursuer. He was a broad man, clothed in leathers and furs. A bushy beard and a mass of wild hair made his head look larger that it was, while his eyes seemed sunken and small by comparison. From where she was standing she couldn't see a firearm, but a baton was visible, hanging from the man's belt.

"His name's Beau. From what I've heard, he's a combination tracker, trapper and human hunter." As Mike explained, Catherine turned back to the bar. "He made a name for himself by dragging people back to Montreal. Supposedly he likes to break people's fingers."

"So you two should have something in common then?" Catherine asked playfully, wondering if she was beginning to share in the doctor's taste for graveyard humor.

"If only he was a narcissistic, binge-drinking doctor, we could create a finger-breaking, narcissistic, binger-drinking doctor's club." As he spoke, his voice completely deadpan, she clamped a hand over her mouth, smothering a stream of laughter. "Should we go talk to him?"

"Yeah," Catherine replied, beginning to wish she'd had less alcohol. "Let's go pick a fight." She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. Like the other visitors of Can Pac, she'd been allowed to keep her rifle, which was slung over one shoulder. Even though it was shorter than the assault rifles in the Capital Wasteland, she doubted she'd be able to use it properly against the trapper.

"Or we could just talk to him," Mike countered, his voice dripping with false hope. "No one would need to get hurt, or have their fingers broken."

"Wuss," she responded sweetly.

"Psycho," he countered, though he managed to inject a sliver of affection into the word. When she glanced at him, she saw her grin mirrored on his face.

Though he seemed to see them coming, Beau didn't react, even when Mike sat himself in the chair opposite from the tracker. It wasn't until Catherine placed herself in the adjacent seat, that his eyes turned to the duo, giving them a look of disdain and impatience.

"Can I help you?" the man asked quietly, sliding a thin sheet of paper into his coat pocket. Beau spoke slowly, as though he were simple minded. That he greeted them in English, considering that no one else in Can Pac spoke it, said that the trapper already knew at least something about Catherine.

"Do we happen to be going in the same direction, stranger?" Mike asked, his tone friendly and nonchalant. "Or are you following us?"

"You reach for that belly gun and I will stove your head in," Beau stated firmly. He spoke in the same slow and somewhat menacing tone, but with a conviction that left little doubt in Catherine's mind. Evidently, the tracker missed little, his eyes noticing Mike's revolver, which she'd all but forgotten about.

"Did Eben send you?" she asked, trying to piece together what little she knew about the trapper. If Eben had sent Beau, it would explain how he was familiar with her, why he hadn't attacked them while they were on the road. The Leader of Talon Company would want to handle this particular matter personally.

"One more word bitch and I'll break your fucking jaw," Beau promised, seemingly trying to deny her any information. In reality, he ended up doing just the opposite, confirming her suspicions that Eben had sent this man after her.

And it was as she came to this realization that Mike did what had to be the dumbest thing she'd witnessed in their travels together: he reached for the revolver. The tactical side of Catherine's mind understood that he was trying to pull the bounty hunter's attention onto himself, hoping that she could subdue Beau. However, the rest of her mind was focused on just how quickly the trapper's baton had suddenly flown from his belt.

Pushing the chair out from under her, Catherine put one hand on the rifle still slung over her shoulder, knowing she wouldn't be able to get her sights on the trapper before his club shattered some part of Mike's body. However, the trapper didn't even attempt to hit the doctor. Instead his short baton slammed into her fingers just as they brushed against the rifle. Moving faster than her eye could follow, Beau then brought the club into her rib cage with enough force to knock her to the floor.

The entire exchange had taken place in the blink of an eye. By the time her ass had hit the floor, the doctor was still raising his pistol. If he'd tried to level the weapon properly, Mike would have been clubbed just as swiftly as she had. Instead, as Beau's club swept toward the doctor's elbow, he fired the revolver into the table. Though there was no way Mike could see what he was aiming at, the round passed straight into the trapper's knee.

With a shout, Beau stumbled, his leg unable to support his weight, and he sat back in his chair. In the time it took Catherine to wonder if he'd do it, Mike pointed the pistol at the bounty-hunter's cheek and fired again. There was a heavy thump, and the once-infamous Beau fell to the floor, grey matter leaking from a hole in the back of his head.

As though he'd intended to shoot the dead man again, the doctor put his thumb on the revolver's hammer. After a moment, Mike let out a sigh and lowered the pistol. He reached into the dead man's coat, snatching the sheet of paper the trapper had been reading. Without another glance at Beau, he helped Catherine to her feet and the two of them made for the bar's exit.