It was somewhere between the seventh or eight beer that Robert Joseph MacCready realized he was the unluckiest man alive.

The revelation had been a long time coming. By the fifth drink he knew he'd never find love again. Lucy had been his all, the one thing that kept him going, right up until the feral on top of her had sank its teeth into her neck. She still showed up in his dreams, shrieking, calling out to him as the ferals piled up on top of her. Sometimes she was telling him to take Duncan and run. Those nights, he slept a little better.

Sometimes she begged for him to come back.

Oh Robert they're eating me! Her moans echoed through the subway tunnel, chasing him out of his dreams and back to reality, cold sweat dripping off his forehead. Robert please!

The sixth drink had him laughing. Laughing at the irony of it all. He'd spent the last seven nights at the bar, drinking himself into unconsciousness to escape the dreams. He had a caravan ticket in his pocket, his bags already packed. A few more hours and he would've been in the clear. Free to tear up the cursed image that'd brought the dreams, free to close his eyes and not worry about seeing her bloody face.

A tear slipped down his cheek as he reached for number eight. The first bitter swallow brought anger. He shoved a hand into his pocket, bringing out the wrinkled, stained paper. Blinked until his bleary eyes could make sense of what he was looking at. The woman who'd brought the nightmares back. The woman he was supposed to be looking for.

The woman who'd walked into the Third Rail five minutes ago.

"Fuck you, General." He spat. The woman on the page didn't react, not even when he crumpled her into a ball and tossed her into the nearest wall. "Fuck you and your coffee."

You can't say that. A small voice in the back of his head scolded. She saved your son.

Duncan. One blurry, somewhat familiar name was all it took to get him to slide off the booth, crawling on his hands and knees, patting the floor.

He's got my eyes. She said, pouting at him like that was somehow his fault. I thought he'd have blue eyes, like yours. They're so pretty.

Her soft hand rubbed against his cheek as his fingers curled around the ball.

You've never seen your own eyes, have you girl? He grinned, tenderly unfurling the abused image. He'll have the whole world at his feet when he flashes those warm browns.

There she was again. Plastered across paper, smiling despite the creases. Beautiful. The woman sitting at the bar was beautiful too. She'd smiled at him when he'd stumbled past trying to get a closer look. Offered to help him to his seat. Touched his arm.

This the woman you wanted gone? This the woman who's going to take down the Minutemen?

He stuffed the picture back into his pocket. His fingers closed around something else, bringing it out without his consent.

Addictol. A drunk's best friend, before and after the war. One hit and the dizziness in his head would disappear. The pounding headache, the hangover he knew he'd have tomorrow, all gone in one breath. For most wasters, it was an excuse to do anything to their bodies without suffering the consequences. With the right timing, the chem could even stop an overdose, making it one of the most expensive ones out there.

In his time with the Gunners, he'd found another use for the precious substance. In a world where you could be attacked anywhere, anytime, a chem that'd instantly shake off the effects of yesterday's vices could be the difference between life and death. He always kept one handy, just in case.

He smirked, reaching for number nine. The part of him that knew he was too far gone to think straight was trying to make the choice easier for him. In his left hand, a cold, fresh bottle of Gwinnett Stout. His stomach was already growling at the sight. Drink that it warned, rumbling rebelliously and I'll puke it right back up. Then he'd pass out on the floor of the red room, wake up the next day when Charlie swept through, grumbling. Get on the caravan, get out of Goodneighbor, and forget this fucking mission had ever happened.

Or, his subconscious taunted, waving the hand holding the chem you could do your job. Make it quick, like you did with the doctor, and book out of here.

Was it a sign he'd hit rock bottom, that the prospect of waking up in a puddle of vomit still felt better than the alternative?

His stomach gave him an even better sign when it convulsed, bile rising in the back of his throat. The darkness creeping into his peripheral vision, the ragged panting, the tremors running down his arm; his abused body was forcing the choice. The bottle clattered to the floor. He wouldn't need number nine after all.

It had never occurred to Curie that too much smiling could make her face hurt.

She took a few short breaths, trying to collect her thoughts during a brief moment of respite from what had seemed like a never-ending stream of questioners. Each had slid into the empty seat beside her wearing a broad smile she'd felt obliged to return. Sometimes they touched her hand, a gesture that sent tingles up her arm. She reciprocated—it was only polite—placing her hand on top of theirs and rubbing gently like they had done for her. Their smile would grow wider, they'd lean in closer until she could smell the alcohol on their breath and whisper a question. So many different people, each with long, fascinating lives and they were asking her a question! Her heart had fluttered nervously at every new encounter.

Thankfully, the questions were all rather simple, and she'd answered to the best of her abilities.

Are you from heaven?

No, I'm from Vault 81.

You an angel?

I'm Curie.

How good are you with those fingers?

I'm still getting used to—and here she grasped at the air, mimicking picking up a bottle. The man's eyes had bulged at the gesture, tongue hanging out of his mouth—grabbing things.

It'd been terribly disheartening to see their smiles fade the longer she spoke. Some would frown, others would get angry. Many left before she had a chance to ask them what she was doing wrong.

The last man had lingered longer than most. He'd also been drunker than most, evident from the way his hands jerked and shuddered on her shoulder. She'd reached out to touch his shoulder too, wondering if this meant they were now friends. But when his hand dipped lower, brushing past her collar bone to rest on her chest, she flinched. Pulled away, remembering Lily's warning. As alien as the concept of love was to her, she felt certain that the strange relationship she had with this man did not qualify. There was something else in his eyes, some passionate emotion that created heat in her stomach and spread it quickly to the extremities.

A delightful feeling she thought, watching her palms take on a pinkish tinge. There must be a name for this.

He'd beckoned her to lean forward, then cupped his hand and nestled it over her ear.

A secret!

"How much for a night?" He whispered. Curie tried not to let her disappointment show. This was not a secret but a question, and a simple one at that. Still, she leaned over and imitated his gesture, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke.

"Twenty caps." She'd hardly returned to her original position when the man thrust a pouch into her hands.

"Let's go." He panted, tugging on her arm.

"Wait!" She cried, handing the man back his caps. "You need to go to the Hotel Rexford. Give them to the manager."

His face split into a wide grin. "Which room?"

"I think they will assign you one." Curie replied.

The man winked, a gesture still far beyond her abilities. So she smiled once again, tensing her straining facial muscles until he'd disappeared up the stairs.

Nobody had come near her since then.

She turned her attention to the man sitting on her left. He'd been quiet so far, content to keep his head cradled in his arms while the others came and went. He had dark-brown hair, mostly obscured by a green cap pulled low over his eyes. The fingers of his right hand were curled around a brown bottle.

"What're you having?"

Curie started, turning away from the man. The Mr. Handy behind the bar was looking right at her.

"Water, please."

"There's water in the sea." He growled. "Here we sell beer. And if you ain't buying beer, you ain't sitting here."

Thud. Three eyes turned in unison to gawk at the silent man. He brought the bottle down again.

Thud. "Oh no. Tired of cleaning up your vomit, MacCready."

Curie perked up. She'd heard that name before, hadn't she?

Thud. Louder. The bartending robot hovered away, and the man sunk deeper into his arms.

"MacCready?"

The tangle muss of brown hair shifted slightly. A pair of moist, red-rimmed eyes peeked out at her. Curie smiled.

"Way you're smiling's giving every guy in this bar the wrong idea." He murmured into his sleeve. "Stop it."

"Oh." Curie poked her cheek, thinking hard. She couldn't quite figure out where she'd heard his name before. "Have we met before?"

The man took his time replying. With some effort he managed to lift his head up, swaying as he regarded the empty bottle.

"Maybe." His brow furrowed. "Don't recall."

"Ah! I remember!" Curie exclaimed, and the man stiffened. "You were here before, ordering a drink."

He relaxed, bobbing his head. "Yeah. That's it."

"My name's Curie." She offered him her hand. He stared for a second before slowly reaching out to grab it. A proper handshake, one that involved not just her fingers but her palm as well. A few hours of watching people greet each other had taught her quite a bit.

"Robert. Listen I—" His cheek bulged outwards and he jerked his hand back, slapping it across his mouth. Swallowed hard, wincing. "I'm not here to talk."

"You're drunk." Curie noted.

"Very. So…" He flicked his hand in her direction once, twice. Strange.

"What's that?" She asked, pointing to a crinkled piece of paper lodged in his fist.

The man let loose a deep, guttural groan that was terrifyingly similar to the snarl of a feral. She shrank back as he unfurled the page, smacking it down in front of her. "Happy?"

It was a sketch of a woman. Fine pencil strokes outlined a chin, round eyes, a pair of delicate ears. If the woman had a nose, and Curie was yet to hear of one who didn't, it was hidden under a large, brown blot. Her face was frustratingly familiar; like the man, she was almost certain she'd met her before.

"Who is this?" She asked, trailing her fingers over the portrait's lips. "She looks happy."

"My wife." Robert answered in a soft whisper. "I lost her years ago."

"I'm so sorry." Curie replied, wondering if this would be the appropriate moment for a hug. The man looked so small, so defeated, that she powered through her apprehension and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

He shivered a little at her touch but didn't pull away. After a few seconds, Curie let the hand slide off and offered him his drawing back. "You're a marvelous artist."

"Thanks." He grunted, tenderly folding the image up and putting it in his pocket. "Today was our anniversary so I…" He tilted the bottle her way "drank a little more than I should've."

"Can you walk?"

"Think so." He slid off the stool, then tumbled straight to the ground. Glass shattered, and she gasped when he clung to her leg, nearly toppling her too.

"Go puke outside." The Mr. Handy grumbled over her shoulder. "And you!" A metal claw jabbed into the small of her back. "Thought I told you to make way for paying customers."

MacCready groaned, rising to his hands and knees. Curie reached down to help him to his feet.

"Maybe not."

"I can help you." Curie offered, propping him up as he stumbled forward. "Is your home far?"

He shook his head, taking another wobbly step.

"I can help you." She repeated, sliding a hand under his armpit to keep him upright. "Just tell me the way."

The drunk nodded heavily, eyes wisely aimed at the floor.

When Lily had first entered the magnificent main hall of Hancock's den, it'd been like entering a castle right out of a storybook. Hancock had carried her in on his shoulders, bouncing her around while she giggled and buried her hands in his thick, blond hair. She'd smiled and waved at the Triggermen stationed at every corner, earning whoops and cheers that solidified her position among Goodneighbor royalty.

Her return to the grand remains of the Old State House was a lot less exciting this time around. She was older now, and a lot taller. The building wasn't as large as she remembered it, and she had to admit the place felt empty. There were no loyal subjects to greet her, no noble steed to carry her up the stairs.

Wonder what Hancock would say if I asked him to carry me again?

He'd probably poke her stomach. Squishy, squishy smoothskin having trouble with the stairs? Lay off the sugar bombs, will ya?

She'd have to chase him again, and the old man was way faster than he looked.

Lily smiled as her steps echoed through the hall. Maybe it wasn't the high ceilings and marble steps that made her feel like royalty. Maybe it was just him.

Although Hancock owned the whole building, his 'den' was really just one room. Even if she didn't know the way by heart, the smell of smoke would've brought her to where she was now, standing in front of a large double door. Tendrils of black ash curled up from the bottom, forming wavy patterns against the faded white paint.

Once a year, Hancock would recruit her into a top secret mission he'd call the Painting. Top secret, only once a year. He'd hand her a bucket of gloopy white paint and point to the door. Get rid of the darkness, protect us all!

It took four years for her to realize he'd turned her into a Mr. Handy.

"Hey Hancock, what's with the door?" She demanded, pushing her way past the ageing oak. "Couldn't trick anyone else into painting it for you?"

Hancock was in his usual spot, lounging on a couch with his back to the doorway.

"Wasn't going to try tricking anyone else, flower." He tugged on one of his ears. "I swear I'm still flaking paint."

"You looked nice in white." She replied, grinning. "Like a ghost."

"Yeah well," he brought a pipe to his lips "price of paint's gone up. You try that trick tonight and you'll be paying it off for the rest of your life."

"Pfff." There were only two places to sit. A couch opposite Hancock and a mold-green armchair leaking stuffing from about a dozen holes. She moved over to the chair.

"Waht!" Hancock cried, the pipe shifting in his mouth as he sat up. "Thack the coach."

"That's Fahrenheit's couch."

Hancock grinned. "Thack a chanse. Liv danger—" His garbled attempt at a sentence was interrupted by a series of large, hacking coughs that made him double over.

Terror set her legs in motion faster then she could think. She flew past him, landing hard on the floor in front of a large wooden bureau, Ignoring the shooting pain in her knees. She started throwing open drawers in a frenzy, Hancock's wheezing spurring on her feverish search through the piles of chems, shoving Jet and Psycho and drugs she'd never even seen before out of the way.

The last drawer was locked.

"Keys Hancock!" She cried, tugging furiously on the knob. When he didn't respond she whirled around to see him, not collapsed on the floor, overdosing, but sitting on the couch, watching her. The look on his face could have meant anything.

"I'm sorry, Lil." He whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She lowered her head until it thudded against the bureau, listening to her maniacal heart beat itself out of a frenzy. Her fingers trembled as she slid the drawers shut.

"Lily? Please don't be mad." A key of desperation now. She could feel his eyes digging into her back, brimming with concern she didn't want or need.

"I'm not mad." She muttered, rising to her feet without looking at him. "You survived all these years without me. I should've known you were fine."

"Take the couch." He said when she approached the unappetizing armchair. "Trust me, Fahrenheit's out on a job. No one's gonna bite your head off."

She eyed him, then the door, all the while sidling closer to the couch. Tested the cushions, just once, standing on her tiptoes and ready to run. After a full minute, after she was sure nobody was hiding in the closet ready to pounce, she allowed herself to fully sit.

"Jeez. She's not that bad." He tossed her something she caught on reflex. An inhaler. "Take some jet, it'll calm you down."

"No thanks." She dropped it on the floor to join dozens of others. "Trying not to shrivel up at twenty."

"Your loss." He huffed down a dose of jet, gave it a minute to circulate. Took another minute to think.

"It's good to know you still care." He said finally, glancing over. She was fiddling with the collar of her shirt, a faded Grognak rag of Fahrenheit's. When she looked over at him, he was busy playing with another inhaler.

"You could cut down a little, y'know. Get off the hard stuff."

"And what?" Hancock asked, forcing a small laugh. "Do Daytripper? Mentats? I'm trying to live baby, not ace an exam."

"It was just a thought." She mumbled.

He didn't even need to check her eyes to know that was bullshit. Raiders knew better than most about the dangers of addiction and Lily probably knew a little more than that. Red had been a user even before she'd showed up in Goodneighbor, carrying her little sister in her arms.

Change the topic, Hancock. Before you bum out the whole town.

"Ready for tonight?"

"I need to get ready?" Lily asked, eyebrow raised. "Thought we were just talking."

"With Magnolia? Lil, step up your game a little and you'll be doing a lot more than talking."

"Step up my game? Whadd'ya mean?" She pressed, trying to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks.

Hancock grinned, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa. "Go to Fahrenheit's room. Same place you found the shirt." He lowered his voice to a whisper, flicking his eyes to the door before continuing "Keep digging until you find something pink."

"Something pink?"

"A dress, Lily." Her breath quickened. "A real flashy one she doesn't want anyone to know about. Doesn't fit her anymore but…" He rubbed his chin, appraising her. "Think it might just fit you."

"She'll kill me." Lily whispered, bouncing on the sofa with nervous energy. "She'll kill me just for finding it."

"No she won't. Besides, you're the one who always wanted a dress."

"I'll tell her it was your idea." She warned, rising to her feet. "She gets angry and I'm skipping town."

"You do that." Hancock shooed her towards the door with lazy flicks of his pipe. "And wash your face while you're at it."

She stuck her tongue out at him. Only after the door slammed shut behind her did she let the smile take over again.

A real dress.

She was back and pounding on the door sooner than he'd expected.

"Come in!" He called, mentally preparing himself for whatever came next. As much as the girl sang and read about dresses and princesses, she was a born and bred raider. Not a group that was well known for their sense of fashion. As the door creaked open, he realized this would probably be the first time he'd even seen one of them in a dress.

"Locking the door, Hancock?" A soft female voice that wasn't Lily's asked. Hancock jumped, whirling around to see a tall woman wearing a dark leather jacket and a very amused smile. "What're you hiding in here?"

"Fara?" He choked on his pipe. "What're you doing here?"

"Jobs done." She said, swaggering towards her couch. "Kessler's boys practically gave this one away for free."

"Listen there's something I have to—"

"Is it about Red?"

The pipe slipped out of his fingers. "How'd you know?"

"Met one of her raiders over by Clutch's old place. You remember? The clothes store?"

He nodded.

"Turns out the General squished her." She winced, swinging her legs over the armrest. "Literally, from what he told me."

It was a full minute before Hancock spoke and when he did, it was only after throwing a nervous look at the door she hadn't bothered to close.

"She's dead?"

Fahrenheit rolled her eyes. "You're high aren't you? Yeah she's fucking dead. Splattered all over the road. It's been a week."

"A week?" He cried.

The redhead scowled. "Yeah a week. Seriously, gimme a hit of whatever you're on." She yawned, settling deeper into the couch. "Why do you even care? We both knew it'd happen sometime."

"How'd it happen?" Hancock asked, trying not to panic. "Minutemen said they took down Tower Tom but he's still alive."

"Exactly why they aren't screaming her name from the rooftops. Her gang's still in the city, scattered across their territory. What'd the people say if a caravan was ambushed by a gang that was supposed to be dead?"

Hancock's silence didn't stop her from going on. "Man was scared shitless when I met him. He was with another group, somewhere near the river when they were ambushed by blues. He's the only one left."

"And Lily?"

"Oh." She gave him a small half-smile. "She was a smart girl, wasn't she? I'm sure she got out of there just fine."

"Where'll she go now?" Hancock muttered, mostly to himself. The redhead shrugged.

"Maybe she'll start up her own gang. Or settle down at one of those farms." She grinned, tilting her head towards him. "Can you imagine that silly tato-head settling down, planting more tatos? She'll have a whole tato family before you know it."

"She's really dead then?"

Fahrenheit sighed, rolling onto her belly and stretching her arm until it was picking through the chems on the ground. "Yup. Dead as dirt. She was kinda cra—"

"Who's dead?"

The voice from the open doorway stole what little was left of his high, leaving him with all the jitters and head pounding but none of the fun. He had to say something. Something pretty to make the truth easier to swallow. Something soft to blunt the knife sticking out of her heart.

Too bad that something didn't exist.

It was Fahrenheit who made the move. Beautiful, brilliant, Fahrenheit who fixated on the girl wearing her pink dress. The look of despair on his face, the concern for Red, the redhead at the door; she managed to piece it all together in an instant.

"You." She growled, rolling off the couch.

"It was Hancock's idea!" The girl cried, looking to the ghoul for support. She tried to back up but Fahrenheit was too quick. One hand snaked under her arm and onto her back. The other rose to rest lightly on her rosy cheek. Close, so close she could feel the girls heart begin to race, as her eyes misted over and her lips parted slightly.

"It's been so long." She whispered, brushing an errant strand of hair back into place. "You've grown so much, Lily."