CHAPTER 27
Bitter
It had been two weeks since Grey had last sat at that bar.
Her brain had been sputtering back then, Kellogg's memories so vivid she could all but taste them. Blood on the walls of a San Fransisco bar, iron being cradled in a child's timid hands, Nate's death. All jumbled in her desperate, plotting brain.
Grey wrapped her hands around the tumbler, watching black ice melt into the swill Whitechapel Charlie dared to call Bourbon. Condensation beaded along the glass, pooling against the edges of her fingers. Just like before.
She slammed back the drink.
After her chat with Hancock, she'd left the Old State House to find Danse glowering from the confines of Daisy's shop. His frown had only intensified as she'd approached. Grey had opted to ignore it, instead thanking Daisy for keeping things under wraps. The merchant implied the Paladin hadn't been so easily soothed with her unscheduled departure, but at least he hadn't gotten himself shot. Grey was happy to take her wins where she found them.
Danse's displeasure had failed to dissipate, however, even after they'd left the market. His movements had been terse, gaze drawn and critical. Only when Grey heard the gap in his footsteps did she turn. He'd stood by the blown-out remnants of a bank, a mess of broken wood and gnarled steel emerging from within.
"What was the purpose of that spectacle, Knight?" His words were curt, but his expression was downright icy.
Nate had looked at her like that before. More than once. It had always been a warning that she needed to tread carefully. Because somehow, somewhere, she'd fucked up, and only so much more of her bullshit would be condoned.
"Things work differently here in Goodneighbor, Paladin. It's a delicate system of fear and respect. And what you saw back there," she'd said, motioning towards the Old State House, "that's just theatre, and the show wasn't for us."
Danse had looked unconvinced but remained silent.
"He'll have the information for us tonight," Grey'd continued. "The mayor, I mean. Think what you want of Goodneighbor, but Mayor Hancock's a man of his word and there is scarce little going on in this town that he isn't privy to."
"And the cost?"
"Our company." She'd let Danse digest that with a smirk. "You and I are to join the mayor for a drink this evening at the Third Rail. So a small price to pay, all things considered, for intel on our man."
Grey wasn't about to tell Danse about her and Hancock's deal, nor about her and Tegan's arrangement. She had a feeling the Paladin wouldn't approve of the Proctor's dealings or of her participation in them. He was also unlikely to approve of Tegan getting into bed with Hancock, so to speak. Grey, however, fancied the idea of a Brotherhood Proctor now owing her a favour. That was how she operated, after all—leverage and debts.
Before Danse could respond, a pair of drifters had stumbled within earshot, hanging off one another and passing a bottle of piss-yellow liquor. The men lingered, falling down and hollering with drunken laughter. One proceeded to vomit over his shoes.
Grey had looked to Danse. He shook his head. Their conversation—whatever its goals—was over. They'd quickly made their excuses to separate, Danse and Dogmeat heading to the Rexford to secure lodgings for the night, and Grey to the Third Rail to catch Whitechapel Charlie before the evening rush.
She'd found the Mr. Handy restocking the bar. He'd been intrigued by the provisioning arrangement, but was savvy enough not to ask too many questions, not where his employer was concerned. After she provided Teagan's drop-off and collection points, Charlie thanked her with a drink. Grey wasn't someone who fancied liquor at 3 PM, but between the exhaustion that came with crawling through raider-infested Boston and Danse's increasingly disapproving mood, she welcomed a distraction.
"Thought I spied a familiar face." Magnolia's fingers flirted with Grey's bleached ends as she slid onto the nearest stool. "New hair though. I like it."
Grey smiled at the singer. She'd seen Mags work the crowd many times. She was a brilliant performer, both on and off the stage; the right amount of sultriness and warmth to make anyone feel special and seen. It was a talent Grey admired, and one she knew she'd never have.
"Was wondering when I'd see you again," Mags continued.
"When or if?" Grey posed, humorously.
"Definitely 'when'. I know a survivor when I see one. Nothing's going to get in your way." Mags slipped her coat off her shoulders, folding it across her lap. "Told your reporter friend that last week. Not sure she believed me, but…" She shrugged. "It's good though."
Grey frowned. "Good that Piper thought I was dead?"
Mags chuckled. "No. Good that you have people who care about you. Goodness knows they're hard enough to come by. So do remember to treat them well, and try not to break their hearts." She smiled softly as she pulled a cigarette from her clutch, filter perched between her red lacquered nails.
"Spoken like a true heartbreaker."
Mags hummed in acknowledgement. "That's the problem with us performers. First love is the music; everything else ends up playing second fiddle. Makes for a good song, even a good night, but there's lots of cold, empty beds most mornings."
Grey simpered. "Aren't you a bucket full of sunshine today."
"You should see me before my first cigarette," Mags jested, her lighter sparking to life.
They mindlessly chatted for a while before Whitechapel Charlie began to grow impatient, the Mr. Handy wanting Magnolia to start her sound checks. He grumbled, aiming a series of passive-aggressive comments about distractions and time-wasters in Grey's direction. Grey couldn't help but admire the attention to detail General Atomics had put into their British personality matrix. It reminded her of her step-mother; not the accent—that couldn't have been any more different—but the propensity to voice displeasure indirectly, smugly thinking it made her appear clever. Perhaps she was more clever than Grey had given her credit for though. She'd survived, found a way to continue living in the lap of luxury, even after the European Commonwealth collapsed and England's economy crumbled into sand.
Grey's mother had barely been in the ground a year before her father returned home from London with her to-be step-mother hung off his arm. She was adorned in her mother's furs, diamond engagement ring proudly on display. That had all but obliterated what little respect Grey'd had left for her father. He'd always stood in her mother's shadow, but with Danielle gone, Grey finally realized how small and pathetic her father had always been.
After Whitechapel Charlie made another jibe, Mags finally conceded and excused herself to prep for her set. She gave Grey a wink as she departed. Alone again, Grey eyed her drink, the ice now melted and the liquid more brown than black. She pushed it away and grabbed her leather jacket. She needed some air.
She walked Goodneighbor's main streets as the sun set, hands stuffed in her pockets and flannel buttoned to her neck. There was a chill to the air, the feel of it bringing her back to her college days at NYU. She'd often walked the streets of Greenwich Village in the evening, just as the vendors packed their stalls and the nightlife began to emerge. She'd venture aimlessly, the destination inconsequential. What she required was the headspace; the absence of insipid minds and prattling questions. She'd let her thoughts wander, brain replaying lectures and seminars and how her TA, Nicole, would lick her lips before glancing Grey's way. Even after moving to Boston for law school, Grey had continued her ritual, walking the Common most nights. There would be couples pressed against one another in swan boats, buskers packing up their guitars, students dealing Mentats near the Park Street subway entrance. The faces changed but the performances were always the same. Grey would passively watch, her brain recalling fragments of statutes and their legislative origins in between absent glances. That stopped a week before she wrote the Commonwealth bar. On the night They had approached her—recruited her. After that night, her mind had little time for the pleasures of passive contemplation. After that, everything had changed. Even Grey herself.
Grey shook off the past, eyes focusing on the open flame of a cooking pot near a makeshift shack. Several drifters huddled near the fire, drinking and joking while their stew bubbled. Others lay on sleeping bags and rotting mattresses, bodies curled in on themselves to fight off the cold or whatever withdrawal held them. Beyond the town's lights, the sky loomed black, cloud cover hiding all but the brightest stars. Night had settled in while Grey's mind wandered. And now she was late.
She hurried back to the Third Rail, the bouncer, Ham, muttering, "Welcome back," on automatic. She detoured into the restroom, the smell of stale plumbing and Abraxo instantly twisting her guts. Feeling flushed, she peeled off her jacket and flannel, throwing them over a cracked basin. The mirrors were also broken, cracks like webs spun through the glass. A dozen shattered reflections peered back, adding to her growing nausea. Or was it anticipation that she felt? The notion that in a few short minutes, she'd have the whereabouts of Brandis's former contact.
Raised voices had Grey grabbing her layers and b-lining it for the door.
"Troublemakers aren't welcome at the Third Rail," Ham all but growled.
Danse frowned, his expression barely shifting as Grey appeared.
"He's with me, Ham," she said.
The ghoul looked from Danse to Grey as if assessing the feasibility of that claim. After a pregnant pause, his demeanour softened. "Then any friend of Ms. Grey's is a welcome guest of the Third Rail." He stood aside and beckoned to the staircase behind. "Entertainment's downstairs."
Grey came alongside Danse and lightly touched his arm, guiding him to the bar below. He stiffened but didn't pull away; another win, Grey decided. She snuck Ham a silently mouthed, "Thanks," over her shoulder before they disappeared from his sight.
"I hope you like jazz," Grey murmured as the first muted notes of sax and keys coiled up the stairwell. She decided to press her luck and wrapped her hand around Danse's forearm, ushering him forward as the bar lights hushed.
Magnolia stood stunning on the makeshift stage, sequin dress sparking in the spotlight and red nails glinting against the silver mic. As she opened her mouth, the audience squirmed with approval, a whistle cutting the suspense.
Grey looked up to see the tension begin to ebb from Danse's face. She gave his arm another light tug, leading him to a secluded corner beneath the stairs. He cautiously sat in a raggedy armchair as Magnolia flipped her hair and crooned, "No need to feel like a stranger 'cause we're all a little strange in here."
Grey settled in on a red settee, her gaze flitting between Mags's sultry performance and Danse's indiscernible expression. She remembered her first time at the Third Rail several weeks back, the strange nostalgia she'd felt once Mags began to sing. She'd reminded Grey so much of the jazz singers she'd known before the war, handsome women performing in smoky speakeasies, pearls and sequins strewn across their hungry frames. Mags's voice had been honey and cognac to Grey's ears, and for the first time since Grey had awoken in Vault 111, she'd felt a moment of calm. She wanted that for Danse she realized. He hadn't exactly had the easiest time these past few months, and Grey had done little more than complicate his already complicated life. He deserved some reprieve as well. And the visuals weren't that bad either.
Applause erupted from the packed bar as Magnolia finished her first number, the sax's final notes drowned out by wolf whistles and cheers.
Grey leaned towards Danse to gauge his reaction, but she was instantly pulled back as a ruffled arm wrapped around her and drew her into an embrace. She tumbled back into the settee, Hancock's grip surprisingly tight.
From the corner of her eye, Grey saw Danse's face re-harden and she gave Hancock a frown. He smiled at her deviously, keeping his arm wrapped around her as he settled back into the couch.
"Charlie," he yelled across the bar as the applause began to die down and the first strums of guitar marked the next track. "A bottle of our finest whiskey for the table!"
"That's a little rich for my blood," Grey said.
"Nonsense, sister. You're kicking it with Hancock tonight and we're here to celebrate."
"And what exactly are we celebrating?" Danse's tone cut across Hancock's jovial mood.
Grey paled, not liking the conversation's direction. But Hancock wasn't so easily rattled. He smiled deeply, propping his boots up on the table while continuing to cradle Grey's shoulders. "Why, a successful search for a certain sought-after person."
Eagerness blossomed in Grey's chest, but before she could speak Whitechapel Charlie appeared juggling three tumblers and a bottle of Olde Royale premium whiskey. He served it up with a surprising amount of flare, practically shoving the drinks into Grey and Danse's hands. Hancock was clinking glasses with them before she could think. And that was the problem, wasn't it—all her thinking and plotting and planning.
She knocked back the shot.
"So you have our name?" she asked as the irradiated aftertaste began to subside.
"Chill," the ghoul soothed, voice hushed and gruff. "Have a little faith, and a little fun. You deserve it."
Grey rolled her eyes but allowed Hancock to pour her another dram.
After Magnolia finished another song, Grey whistled and Hancock took the opportunity to lean around her, deviousness plastering his face as he leered at Danse.
"So, Brotherhood, huh?" he said with a smile. "Like to see what you're capable of without all that power armour."
Danse scowled. "Trust me, freak. You wouldn't."
Grey grimaced, but Hancock's smile remained. "'Freak', huh? Love the originality. They teach you that in Brotherhood Bigot School?"
"Boys," Grey warned.
Hancock settled back into his seat, throwing his arms across the back of the settee. He tipped his head to Grey's ear. "Don't furrow that smooth brow, beautiful. Don't want it to start looking like mine."
Grey lightly jabbed him in the chest, his grin only deepening.
A crash then sounded across the bar, a drifter colliding into a woman's stool and taking her down with him. Another gentleman jumped on top of the man, pulling a punch. MacCready then appeared from the backroom as if summoned, grabbing the second man by the collar and slugging him in the solar plexus. The man collapsed on top of the first to the muted cheers and approval of the patrons. The merc straightened his collar before looking up and spotting Grey. He approached with a grin, getting an appreciative nod from Hancock.
"Moonlighting as a bouncer now, are we?" Grey teased.
The slight man chuckled and took a swig from the open whiskey bottle.
"Sure, go ahead, help yourself," Hancock chided. MacCready took another swig and gave the Mayor the finger.
"So," MacCready said, finally detaching his lips from the bottle. "Been a while since we've seen you around, Grey. Piper was looking for you. Nick, too."
Grey sighed. "So I hear."
"Nearly told them you were asking about the Brotherhood but decided you wouldn't actually be stupid enough to try to join up with that lot, so I kept it to myself."
Hancock snorted and Grey shot him a scowl.
MacCready looked from one to the other. "Wait, what am I missing here?"
Hancock flicked his hand in Danse's direction. "Behold, her bad decision making."
MacCready paled as he finally seemed to notice the Paladin. "Oh f—." He cut himself off and plopped down on the opposite couch. "The Commonwealth doesn't need the Brotherhood right now."
Danse scoffed. "That is a rather poor appraisal of a dire situation. Unless abominations running amok and sentient machines replacing living, breathing people is your idea of calm and stability."
"Like the stability you've brought to the Capital Wasteland?" MacCready shot back. "Do you know how many wastelanders you've displaced? The damage your brethren did to Underworld? There were children in there. Children."
"We do what's necessary," Danse replied.
A vein bulged in MacCready's forehead. "Necessary?" Before he could retaliate, Grey leaned forward and touched his hand. It was shaking, she realized. MacCready jerked back, shooting daggers at her before he regained control, features quickly schooled.
"Whatever," he muttered and took another swig.
This was turning out to be a wonderful evening, Grey thought bitterly as she downed the remainder of her drink.
Hancock signalled to Charlie for another bottle as more applause sounded across the Rail. Magnolia thanked the crowd and said she'd be back in five. Grey expected her to grab some water at the bar, but she sashayed her way to them, Charlie following behind with more bottles and tumblers.
"Well now, who's this new face," she asked curiously, perching herself on the arm of Danse's chair. She leaned in, wearing a sultry smile. "Like the show, handsome?"
Danse straightened. "Uh, yes. Most… entertaining." Grey could have sworn the Paladin's skin was flushed. Was he sweating?
"You're leering," Hancock whispered in her ear.
Grey swivelled her head, catching the ghoul's devious grin.
"Told you Mags liked a man in uniform," he said, quietly enough that only Grey could hear.
She frowned. "Don't be an ass."
He laughed, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "You wound me, Miss Grey."
"Right," she feigned as Charlie poured her another dram. She slammed it back and turned in towards Hancock. "We've had our drink, Hancock. Pretty sure that was my fifth."
"Damn right," Hancock said, clinking her empty glass and knocking back another shot.
Grey leaned in further, her face so close that she could smell the telltale notes of methamphetamines and fertilizer clinging to the ghoul's skin. "The name. Now."
Hancock smiled, eyes darting over her shoulder. "You sure? Your boyfriend there seems to finally be enjoying himself."
Grey kept her eyes on the mayor and smiled. "As he should. But see, I also want to have a good time. And my version of a good time," she purred, fingers toying with his frayed cravat, "involves a certain politician following through on his promise."
Hancock held her gaze, the edges of his semi-ghoulified eyes crinkling in approval. "I do love a woman with spunk." He produced a scrap of paper from his inside pocket, dangling it above their heads. "Promise fulfilled, sister."
Grey plucked the note from his hand, fighting the urge to frantically tear it away and huddle in the corner to consume its contents. Scribbled in pencil was an address: the intersection of Lagrange and Tremont.
"Shit."
Hancock topped up her glass. "Yeah, I don't envy you that."
Grey crumpled the paper and downed another shot. When her head snapped back, she finally noticed the edges of her vision were fraying. Probably a good indicator to slow down, but considering what lay ahead of them… Hancock had barely topped her tumbler back up before she had it to her lips once more.
"Word on the street is that your man owed Shinjin a debt a few years back. Not sure the particulars of the situation, but he didn't feel safe in either Goodneighbor or Diamond City anymore, so he found himself a place where Shinjin couldn't touch him." Hancock shrugged. "Smart move, I'll give him that."
"So he's still alive?"
Hancock nodded. "One of my men saw him there just last week."
Grey chewed on her bottom lip, brain turning, albeit at a much slower pace than usual. How much had she drank? She eyed the empty glass in her hand, torn between dropping it and filling it back up. The Olde Royale was starting to grow on her, her tastebuds dead enough that she could no longer taste the whiskey's coppery staleness.
She glanced over her shoulder, watching as Mags rose from the Paladin's chair, her red nails caressing his jaw as she sauntered away. He looked down, turning something over in his hand. A key, Grey realized, and not to the Hotel Rexford. Her stomach clenched.
Grey rose to her feet and the world tilted. MacCready reached out to stabilize her, brow knit with concern. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and he retracted his hand.
"Hancock," she said, looking to the ghoul. "A pleasure doing business, as always."
He tipped his hat. "Ditto. Plus anytime you want to help me put a dent in my top shelf stash, you know where I am."
She nodded and made for the exit, easily losing herself in the sea of bodies as Magnolia began her second set of the night. Grey jostled from side to side, world swimming and shifting and strangely warm. She remembered the sound of her boots clicking on the stairs, Ham wishing her a good night, saying something about the cold. And then she found herself in the middle of Scollay Square, sky frightfully black and streets oddly quiet. Her body began to shake and she clumsily hugged her bare arms, goosebumps prickling her pale flesh. Hadn't she brought a jacket or had she left it behind? But before she could turn back, she felt something cool and familiar slip around her shoulders. She pressed a hand to the worn leather, the familiar smell of gunpowder and dog trapped in its stitching.
Strong hands led her across the square, the flickering red Rexford lights like a beacon high above. She had a room there, she remembered, but she couldn't recall which. They walked through an empty lobby, Clair slouched against the counter and murmuring a half conscious greeting. They climbed the stairs then, Grey's eyes fixed on her feet, another set of boots walking in tandem with hers. Guiding her up and through and over.
She swayed against him when the momentum stopped. The hallway was unevenly lit, a yellow light leering to her right whilst the left was shrouded in darkness.
He unlocked the door behind her, pushing it open with an agonizing creek.
Grey moaned in protest, burying her face in the warmth of him.
He smelled of ozone and iron, she realized, beneath the stench of whiskey and smoke. She trailed her fingers along his chest, feeling the twists of hair and muscle beneath his ratty flannel. Stubble shadowed his neck and chin, covering the faint lines of scars long healed. His hand grasped hers, strong but gentle, pulling it from his shirt. She gazed up, his hazel eyes drawn and curious.
"Don't you have a date?" she slurred, the words strangely bitter in her throat.
Danse furrowed his brow. "Pardon, Knight?"
"Mags." Grey smiled, the name hot on her tongue. She leaned into Danse's hold. "I hear she's a good fuck," she whispered, pressing her hips against his, feeling the curve of him, the alignment of muscle and bone. "So play your cards right and—"
Grey toppled as the Paladin jerked away. He caught her arm, but the world continued to spin. Arms wrapped around her, stabilizing her. She again found herself peering up at his stubbled face, creases forming between his brows.
"You're drunk, soldier."
She laughed, body swaying as her head tilted. "A master of deduction, as always. That's what I like about you. No bullshit. No games. Just the facts." She smiled, voice lowering to purr. "No wonder she wanted you."
Her feet came out from underneath her then, body tumbling until it wasn't, feet sweeping off the floor. Her head rolled into the crook of his neck as his arms wrapped around her legs and torso. He carried her into the room, floorboards creaking underfoot. Shadows danced across his face, cast from the single nightside lamp, morphing and twisting as he brought her to the bed. Her back touched the mattress and she coiled her fingers through his lapel, pulling him down towards her, wanting him there with her. The feel of breath on her face, fingertips on her sides, heat pressing into her flesh.
She peered up at him, eyes tracing the lines of uncertainty, the tension cradled in his brow.
She raised her mouth to his, her voice but a whisper. "Nate."
Her head dropped back to the pillow with a snap.
The door slammed shut, stillness oozing like wax.
Grey pushed herself onto her elbows. The room continued to spin. Dogmeat peered up at her from the floor, ears cocked and eyes curious. Grey fell back onto the bed and pressed her hands to her face. Her skin was flushed but her fingers were cold. Cold and trembling and—
She launched the pillow across the room, lamp crashing to the floor and darkness falling. Furiously she rolled over and buried her head in the rotting mattress. She only hoped sleep took her fast. Because the last thing she needed was to be awake.