A/N: Hello again everybody! Long time no see! Only been like, what, a year and a half? Pshh, pocket change.
Anyway life is a bitch and got in the way but here's chapter 8. Hopefully y'all are still with me here.
I have the next chapter with Daye and Cait pretty much done already but I thought this might be the best time to finally introduce another main character - everyone's favourite mercenary! The second half of Team Douchebag (but maybe the slightly more realistic, more melancholy, less bat-shit crazy half).
I don't think this chapter progresses the plot much, or has as much humour, but hey, I can't keep pumping out wicked zingers for you guys, especially after so long.
Forgive me, my writing is probably a bit shit.
Enjoy!
Chapter 8: I've Already Run Out of Daye Puns
Part One: In Which the Author Returns from the Dead and Introduces Everyone's Favourite Merc - and Also in Which That Merc is So Fucking Bored and Feels Kinda Sorry for Himself
MacCready was bored.
No no no, not the tepid 'waiting for your food to cook' kind of bored, or the itinerant kind of bored where he'd lose his head in the clouds as he trekked behind Daye on one of his increasingly endless and progressively seedy 'errands'. Nah, it wasn't even the ruminating kind of bored where he'd look up big words like tepid and itinerant and ruminating just so he could write to Duncan in hopes that he'd maybe expand the kid's vocabulary a little.
No. This was the stagnant, immobile kind of bored you get from sitting on your ass – uh, butt too long.
Yeah, well, too long was last week. This was… something else.
Okay, alright, well, maybe it had only been eight days but Jesus – Crust. Jesus Crust it felt like years. Mac had never been a guy to stay in one place for long, always moving, always on the lookout for the next job, the next few caps, the next town over. Wasn't made for squatting down here in the Third Rail like Magnolia, relying on the twice-daily visits of a certain British wanker of a robot to bring him his food and the ever-stimulating conversation that Dogmeat provided. Wasn't meant for springy beds and itchy blankets and atrophied muscles, this sedentary kind of being, this – this – limp, lame existence.
Hm. Sedentary. Good one. He'd have to write that down. Save it for later.
He reached over to the side table to nab his pen, but it ended up slipping through his stiff fingers and skittering across the tiled floor, rolling away under the dresser across the room. And on instinct he stretched out, fumbling to catch it –
"Fu-shi-dammit," he hissed, gasping as a vicious slice of pain rippled through his backside, coiling up his spine and sliding down his thigh, his nerve ends searing through his flesh as if a white-hot brand had been put to his skin. "Hey! Dogmeat!" he choked, strangled. "Charlie, send Dogmeat in, for Christ's sake!"
MacCready scowled in wicked agony as he struggled to haul himself further up the bed, white-knuckled grip on the bedframe making his thin arms quiver with the effort. Another spasm of pain, and then another, each one nearly worse than the last, a deplorable surge and crest of black-watered misery threatening to utterly drown him.
He paused, once upright enough, and panted, chest heaving with excruciating effort, and then dropped his sweat-slicked forehead against the cool metal bedframe, the anguish like cold hard steel on his tongue.
"Shit. Ah. Shite."
This was getting… out of hand. He should be better by now. He should be up and moving around, out of this room and this bar and this town, out there doing something, anything. With Daye. Probably robbing or conniving, hungover and high. Yet here he was – still – not even able to peel his ass – butt off this wiry bed.
Goddamn raider assho-pricks. Raider pricks.
So it was a somewhat long yet unequivocally embarrassing story that no one but Daye knew, and thank God Mac had some dirt on him too, lest the mad bastard shout it across the rooftops to all of Greater Boston.
Right. Well, those raider pricks on the corner of Binney and Third Street shot him right in the ass. Butt. Butt.
Two shots, two stray submachine shots was all it took, bam-bam, sprinkled across the broken pavement and right into the flesh of Mac's buttocks. Just minding his own business, he was, trying to loot a Nuka-Cola machine or mail bin or something, not even bothering no one. Daye had been there too, off to the side, taking a piss against the brick wall. Raiders just up and opened fire on 'em which, in retrospect, is kinda what raiders do, so that's why Daye had taken point. He was supposed to be watching out for stuff like raiders, but instead had chosen that exact moment to not take point and piss away all the Gwinnet brew he'd downed the night before in Bunker Hill. And also in which he refused to take even an ounce of blame but shifted it over to Mac instead for leaving his back exposed to that seedy fucking alleyway where it would be stupid for raiders not to squat and diddle themselves in.
Not that MacCready was bitter about it or anything.
"Charlie! White-fricking-Chapel Charlie! Let Dogmeat in, I need him!"
And at the time, it felt like the world was curling in on itself, the pain was so incredible. Thought his butt cheeks had been chewed off by a deathclaw. Not the countless concussions he'd earned, not the bloodbug bite that grew infected, not even breaking his arm that one time on the beach could compare to this.
He had screamed bloody murder, clenching his rear end, and fumbled spread-eagle to the ground, skinning his chin and palms, and then he fuck- uh, fricking cried. Yeah. Like a little girl.
The skinned chin was pretty much healed now but his pride and his butt were probably forever fu-messed up. Daye said it looked like hamburger meat which really wasn't such a bad thing considering Mac never got laid much anymore so who would see? And also he had no idea what hamburger meat was anyway.
Why couldn't he have gotten a badass - hm, cool-looking scar on his arm or something, like Hancock? Or one on his face like Valentine, or even a burn scar like the one Daye had. Not the whole thing, though. Just a small one.
But nah, not poor MacCready. No, he'd be stuck with two little puckered dents on his ass-end for all eternity. No one to even see his struggles. Just his luck.
Ah. Sorry. Butt-end. God, it was so hard sometimes to curb his nasty swearing habit. Especially round Daye, who spat out more curses than normal words.
Hancock was no doctor by a long shot but the ghoul thought those bullets had probably hit a nerve or something, the way Mac's ass still hurt like it did, even with all the stimpaks and Med-X he kept pumping into his veins. Daye, being the right dick he was, rather thought Mac was just being a whiny little pussy. Told him to walk it off.
Hm. Right. Walk it off, like it was just a sprained ankle or headache. Walk it off, like he'd sat on his leg for too long and it had fallen asleep. Walk it off, like Daye very much hadn't after he came out of the Memory Den remembering a life that wasn't his – and remembering the way a man with a scar had taken both his wife and his son and the world he knew in a single frozen heartbeat. Walk it off, Daye.
He could be a mean old bastard sometimes. Always dragging him into one predicament or another, meddling around places they shouldn't be with people they shouldn't know. Felt like the guy was constantly hauling him through thick mud, deeper and deeper, further in, wading around aimlessly, knee-deep in fly bites and rotten stench, just waiting for the day when the both of them simply... got too deep and drowned in the sludge. And did he even care?
MacCready had once thought so, for a while. Cared about his wife, about his son, maybe about the world he once fought to save. But time seemed to grind down upon his partner like stone upon glass, blowing sand to the wind, and maybe he cared less with each passing day, with each thing he lost. Or maybe he never did, and Mac just got better at knowing that.
But he could see it, he knew it, it was clear as anything, and everybody else saw it, too. Valentine, Piper, Garvey, Hancock, Deacon, Danse. All of them. One day he'd fail.
You know, Mac, one of these days that mad bastard is gonna wade in too deep and sink, right to the bottom, and he's got you tied by the leg. Are you ready for that?
Guess I'll have to be. But what about you, Hancock? You hold him in your hands like he's some sort of live grenade. You won't let him go. But he's going to blow you apart.
Yeah, well, guess I like the danger.
Worth the risk?
Fuck. I guess we'll see.
And MacCready, whiny little pussy, was too weak to stop him. To walk it off. To say no. To choose others over the caps. To turn around and leave.
To go back to Duncan.
Too weak to stand after eight fucking days of laying around on his ass after only two little bullet holes.
Too weak to save Lucy.
"Charlie! Charlie!" he screeched, jaw tight with mounting fury and shame. "Charlie! What's taking you so long? Open the door, let the dog in! Goddamned robot, malfunctioning piece of shit! Fucking junk, good for nothing – mm."
The tide of pain, like broken crystal, surged upon the shores once more and he bit back his words, hot fury blistering in the back of his throat like vomit, and he shuttered his eyes to the cold hurt inside him. But it was different, this ache that swelled below, an undercurrent of not right that never seemed to truly fade away, perhaps even before the raiders shot him.
He took a deep breath, held it a second, and then let it out through his nose slowly, slowly, eyes still closed. He did it again. And again.
Breathe, RJ. Just stop and breathe. Like I taught you.
I'm – trying. You know, it – it ain't that easy.
Sure it is. It's the easiest thing in the world. Now living – that's the hardest.
It was so… easy sometimes, to get swept back up in his rage. Anger had always followed MacCready like a dark cloud, low and ominous, looming just behind him. Anger at his parents, whoever they were. Anger at the other kids in the dark. Anger at the vault dweller he once knew, who might have taken him away someplace, anyplace. Anger at the Gunners. Anger at Lucy, for loving him, for letting him love her back. For dying. Anger at Duncan for taking so much of his soul. Anger at Daye for – well, for a lot of things, really. But it was mostly anger at himself, because he knew it was all his fault. All of it.
There was a time when he would let it in, let the anger wash over him like a vicious storm, an electrical, pulsating thing, and it was dangerous. Got him into a lot of trouble. Got him almost killed once or twice, too.
It was Lucy that taught him to take a deep breath. To just… stop and breathe, let the cool air into his lungs, and drive away the cloud, for a little while. It worked with his anger, and it worked with his pain. Sometimes the two were one and the same.
Lucy had taught him a lot of things.
He swallowed, shaking his head, and drove her face from his mind. For a little while.
Daye wouldn't – or couldn't – admit fault, even when it clearly rest on his shoulders. It was both his greatest strength and his downfall. Mac knew it would get him killed someday, it was only a matter of time. And him as well, probably.
You and me, Mac – we're going to do great things.
Oh yeah? Like what?
Live. Fucking live, right until we can't.
You're high.
Maybe. But I know that. Like two sides of the same coin, wasn't it you said?
Something like that.
Right. Me and you. We need each other. But we won't grow old. Nah, we're too legendary for that.
He knew the man inside out. He was a partner, a best friend, a brother. He was Daye's deadeye. Daye was his vanguard. Daye did the talking, Mac did the killing. Usually. Daye had saved him, picked him up by his duster, brushed him off, and gave him something to live for again. And he liked to think that maybe he'd saved him too, if just a little. They just… clicked. Like the sound his sniper rifle made a breath before he fired it. From the moment Daye quite literally stumbled into his life, he simply slid into place like he'd always been there, always belonged. It had been a long time since MacCready felt that way.
Like a rifle and a scope. Like beer and a hangover. Like Daye and his scars. They just… were.
He knew he'd never get an apology for not taking point when he should have, never hear an I'm sorry. I should've been keeping closer watch. Won't happen again.
But, in the end, he did get carried all the way here, and quite a few worried looks, and a lot of caps and Dogmeat to watch him for a time. And he wasn't too sure, but he thought all the fresh mutfruit and moonshine Whitechapel Charlie kept bringing him had been prepaid by a certain asshole he knew.
Sorry. Butthole.
He smiled. Only a little bit. Because Mac would just take what he could get, he supposed. Take it and move on. He'd always been good at that.
Daye might be a live grenade or a sinking ship or a mad bastard, or he might be the saviour of the New World or a monster from the Old one, yet it didn't really matter. Not to MacCready. He'd walk this earth beside the guy until the day he died. Because – well, it was obvious, wasn't it?
There was no MacCready without Daye.
He sucked in another lungful of air and blew it out. Let the anger go.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
And then someone knocked on the door.
Just a small, quiet rap rap rap, bony knuckles against smooth wood, and then it went quiet. Mac's ears pricked and he froze, utterly solid, heart somehow both stopped and thumping madly beneath his ribs.
The only people who visited him were the Mr. Handy bartender Whitechapel Charlie, Dogmeat, and Hancock, who all were incidentally the only people in the entire Commonwealth who knew where he was at the moment. Charlie only swore at him through the door, Dogmeat scratched it, and Hancock never bothered to knock, he just strode in on him the one time he visited, catching him in the act of struggling to change his trousers.
So who the fuck – frick could this be?
He found out exactly two seconds later.
The door creaked opened and in strode two Triggermen. Mac knew them right away, by their pressed black suits and their bowler hats and the fact that one of them had a tommygun poking out through his duster right at his face.
"Don't move," he said, and they were both remarkably quiet and professional as they stepped into his room and shut the door, palms flat against the wood by the lock in order to muffle the little click.
"Check him," Tommygun Guy whispered, and his partner tiptoed over to Mac's bedside.
Well… shit.
He didn't even try to fight. Mac knew when he was bested. He held up his hands as the sidekick frisked him over, checking in all his pockets and hidey-spots (which were very few, considering Mac was wearing goddamned pyjamas).
Both men were young, not much older than himself, really, although Sidekick Guy smelled like shampoo and sported a bushy, well-groomed moustache that Mac was (secretly) sort of envious of. He could never pull off facial hair like that. Damn.
"While I'll admit I've been craving a little human interaction lately, I have to say this is a bit much," Mac hissed.
"Quiet, you."
"What is it this time? What exactly do you guys want? Money? Chems?"
"I said quiet."
"Because I'm dead-ass broke," he said. "It's always something with you Triggermen. Like common thugs you are. Bullies."
"He's clean, boss," the moustached sidekick said, retracting from Mac and his bed.
"Well, no gosh-darn shite I'm clean," he spat. "I'm in bed and I'm practically naked. Not to mention I'm alone."
"Are you alone?"
"Jesus, are you deaf? I just said I was alone. What, you don't think I'd be out getting pissed at the bar if I could? I got shot in the back-cheeks last week and can hardly sit up without pissing myself. Not the most amicable of company right now so yeah, I am alone."
Mac had been jumped by muggers and scavs before, even Gunners and Triggermen, he could admit, this was nothing new. Hanging around in places like Goodneighbor with people like Daye and Hancock had its pros and cons. Pros – good place to find work and lay low. Cons – this.
Far as he knew, these were a couple of rookies, drunk on beer and new power, sneaking around from room to room robbing people's underwear drawers. Annoying, but nothing he'd never dealt with before. No reason to believe they knew anything. Yet.
"Look pal, we ain't here to dicker around with ya, so just tell us what ya know and we'll be on our merry fuckin' way," Tommygun Guy growled in a thick Boston accent, face menacing in the low light of the small room, taking a soft step toward Mac, tommygun still aimed at his head.
"I already told you I don't have money or chems," Mac growled back, side-eyeing Sidekick Guy as he began to rummage through the drawers around the room. "Go rough up that guy in the Rexford if you're so keen on blue-balling some poor kid."
"Well, looky-here," Sidekick Guy sneered, pulling a knife from underneath Mac's scarce collection of clothes from one of the drawers. "Not so clean then, are we?" he mocked, waving the blade in Mac's face.
He growled, more internally than anything. "Fine. There's a 10mm in the closet and a pipe bolt under the bed and like, nine caps in my bag there, maybe a few stimpaks. Just take it. Then get lost. I don't have time for you second-hand thugs today."
"Nah, nah see here, it ain't money or drugs we're after," Tommygun Guy crooned, lighting himself a big fat cigar. "Although, you can bet we know all about your dirty dealings, MacCready."
Oh Hell.
They knew his name.
They were more than common stickups, then.
Fuck. Frick.
What did they know? Was it the dead drop at Echo? The relay tower raid? It couldn't have been Oberland, they'd sold the last of the Jet to one of the downtown raiders already.
Shit.
Tread lightly now, Mac.
"So? It ain't exactly a secret I deal in chems and stuff sometimes."
"Sometimes, eh."
"You're starting to sound like a broken record, you know."
"Watch it, kid, or –"
"So it's drugs, then? Look, you clearly don't know how chem dealing works, do you? You're an idiot if you think I have any chems on me now."
"The Boss might think otherwise."
A stuttered heartbeat passed.
Oh. Oh.
Well, this was bad.
Park Street Station, then. That was a big one.
"What the Hell does old Marowski want now?"
"Info."
"On what?
"You know."
"Oh, now you're just being coy. Or stupid. Probably stupid."
"I'm startin' to get real impatient now, boy."
"Look, just tell me –"
Tommygun Guy was done chatting, apparently. With a feral growl that cut sharp shapes across his face in the dank light, he pulled back and cracked the butt of his tommygun sharp against Mac's head, sending the world reeling and blossoming stars across his eyes.
"Ow – what – ?"
"Listen here, you little shit," Tommygun Guy snarled, pressing the cold barrel of the gun into Mac's cheek, hard enough that his teeth nearly cut into his mouth. "I've had enough of your pussy-footin' around. You know exactly why we're here and you'll tell us exactly what we need to know or I won't hesitate to put a few more holes in ya."
Mac blinked away the daze and blood dripping down into his eyes and shook to rid himself of the absolutely penetrating headache consuming his entire skull like wildfire. Didn't help much.
"You – fucking lunatic," MacCready hissed, finding it more and more difficult to focus on his interrogator's face. "I don't know what the Hell you're talking about."
"Oh yes, you fucking do. Where is he? Where are the chems?"
"Who? The what?"
"The fucking chems, you little jabroni. Seven crates full. From the docks. Where's he hiding them?"
Mac blinked. The docks?
"I don't know what the fuck – "
Crack! Another sharp blow to the side of his head, and this time his teeth really did cut the inside of his mouth.
"Fuck!" he wheezed, clutching his face as he spat out a wet wad of blood onto the bedsheets. Charlie would be pissed. The man slipped out of focus and then back in again, making MacCready's stomach turn.
"Tell me! The crates from the docks. Five days ago. Where Storrow meets Bay Street. Seven fucking crates!"
"You mean," MacCready coughed, spitting out another wad of crimson blood. "You mean – Park Street? The uh – the station raid? Wasn't that much."
"Did I say Park Street? It was Storrow and Bay, by the docks!"
"I don't – I don't know anything about the docks, fuck. I swear."
"I'm done fucking around, you slimy fucking merc. I won't ask again," Tommygun Guy snarled, shoving the barrel right into the crook of MacCready's neck so hard it hurt to swallow. "Where. Are. The motherfucking chems?"
It was then MacCready started to panic a bit. The docks? Seven crates? He didn't think anyone was capable of pulling that off. Unless –
Shit. Daye.
And of course, anything that son of a bitch did automatically meant Mac did, too.
See? The death of him.
Although there was some part of him mildly jealous that he did it all without him.
Mac ground his teeth. "I. Don't. Motherfucking know."
Snap! Blow number three, right to his temple, and the world went dark for a moment, then fizzled back into a hazy sort of half-focus, red with blood and blue with stars. The dresser and the lamp and the chair wavered dangerously to the left, yet the Triggermen leaned more to the right, causing Mac to tilt his head just to see them somewhat properly.
And he could taste blood now, hot on his tongue, and he could smell it, warm and coppery in his nose, and it clouded his vision, made him blink too much, stinging his eyes.
"Let me handle this, boss."
Sidekick Guy hauled MacCready up off the bed by the collar, the latter groaning in sharp protest as his ass-wound bloomed in red-hot agony, only vaguely aware or concerned about the knife pressed tight against his throat.
"Look here, kid," he seethed, hot breath damp and reeking in his face, his moustache nearly brushing against his cheek. "I don't wanna kill ya, I really don't – see, I just got this suit cleaned from the last guy I gutted and do you know how long it takes that robot to clean out bloodstains? Too fuckin' long. But I'm gettin' payed to spill your guts. Figuratively or otherwise. Now how far that goes," he flared, pressing the sharp edge of the blade a fraction into the flesh right below Mac's Adam's apple, "is entirely up to you."
"You guys are – fucking insane," MacCready gurgled, blood dripping from his head and his mouth and his neck. "I don't know what fucking chems you're on about."
"Maybe this will jog your memory."
He reached out and plucked Tommygun Guy's fat cigar and, without hesitation, pressed it against MacCready's collarbone.
Mac howled. Well, would have howled, had Tommygun Guy not slapped a hand over his face to keep Whitechapel Charlie or someone from barging in.
The pain was incredible. Mac had been in the way of a few too many laser shots in his time, the plasma almost melting his flesh clean through, but this was so very different and so very wrong. It was fire, in its most basic form. And fire didn't melt, it liquified.
"Trish's chems, you fuckin' dolt!" Sidekick Guy raged, shaking Mac till he rattled his bones. "Trish's chems on the dock that night! Where Storrow meets Bay! Seven fuckin' crates! Remember now?"
Mac gasped for air, the cigar burn smouldering in his skin. He didn't answer, he couldn't.
"You and that guy you're fuckin' swooped in and took 'em! Killed his client, killed his guys. Killed Trish. It's Nate, ain't it? The Boss ain't too happy with you's! Always was too soft on ya, let you get away with a sack or two here or there, but this time he's pissed. Seven crates! That's the last of the chems he sent out before his whole fuckin' lab blew – what?"
Despite everything, despite the cigar burn and the blows to the head and the knife at his throat, all the blood and burning flesh and threats, Mac bit back a smirk. "Hm. Nothing."
"The fuck's so funny, asshole?"
"Nothing. It's – it's just, why does everyone think me and Daye are sleeping together?"
"Because you are."
"Ha. I'm pretty sure we're not."
"Everyone knows ya are."
"Really? Well, can you tell my asshole that? Because I think it's in denial."
"Listen here," the guy seethed, pressing his blade in far enough to actually start hurting now. "Trish is dead. The lab is gone. Boss is pissed. So you best start talkin' or you'll be –"
"Swimming with the fishes?"
It was Hancock.
Glorious fucking Hancock.
Standing in the doorway like some sort of comic book hero from the Old World.
Well, not quite. But close enough.
"What –?"
Quick as silver, the ghoul pulled out a pistol from the inside of his famous red jacket and aimed it at Tommygun Guy, snapping a nice little bullet hole in his neck.
He dropped to the ground like a sack of wet tatos, clutching at his throat as he drowned in his owned blood.
And then shit got real intense and kind of fucked-up because Mac was half-conscious and Hancock was involved.
But it went a little something like this:
"Fuck!" spat Sidekick Guy, dropping Mac to the floor like – yes, also like a sack of tatos, if you must know – and spun around to face the ghoul intruder. He was fast but Hancock was faster, and the snap! of the second bullet hit the man in the shoulder.
"Fuck!" he screeched again, yet before Hancock could even aim the third shot, the Triggerman slung Mac's blade at the mayor, a wicked grin spreading like cancer across his face as the dull whump! of the knife found it's mark in the ghoul's chest, right to the hilt.
"Ah, shit," Hancock groaned, almost like the blade was a minor inconvenience instead of a potentially life-threatening wound. All the same, it gave Sidekick Guy just enough time to reach out and slap away the gun from his wrinkled ghoul hands, skittering it across the floor and under the bed.
So then they violently leapt upon each other, snarling and swearing and clawing and gouging like a couple of molerats fighting over a scrap of trash. Mac did everything he could to try and stay out of the way, to focus on them, wiping the blood from his eyes and his mouth, and (not – okay fine, definitely) clutching his ass as the old bullet wounds sizzled through his flesh, making his leg spasm and stiffen in cold agony.
It was in one of his throes of anguish that MacCready spotted his pen underneath the dresser, the one he'd dropped there earlier. Biting through the pain and the blood, he stretched out under it and seized it, clutching it in his hands like it was Excalibur itself. He crawled over to the ghoul and the Triggerman, ducking beneath their vicious clawing and grunting, and stabbed down with all the might he could muster, right into the meaty part of Sidekick Guy's arm.
Hancock's arm.
Oops.
"Ouch! What the Hell are you doing, Mac?" the ghoul screamed, prying away the other man's claws from around his neck.
"Oh – sorry! Hancock, I meant to –"
"I know what you fucking meant to do, you just fucked it up!"
Ouch.
Sidekick Guy throttled and punched and thrashed on the ground with Hancock, seeming to have the upper hand one moment, then giving way a little the next, and Mac just – sat there like a lump of shit on a shoe, trying not to vomit from the throbbing headache blooming across his skull.
"I – fucking told you assholes not – to dick around – here – any more," Hancock snarled, sharp nails digging into the man's arm and side, making him hiss and curse in agony.
"You – just fucking wait!" he roared back, somehow managing to roll the ghoul over on his back and clamp his hands around his wrists. "When the Boss gets word of – this – he's going to march right in here and burn your fucking town to the ground."
"Ha! I've half a mind to let you live and tell him he can suck his own dick!"
"Fuck you – ah!"
Hancock hooked up and bit the man's hand with his gnarly yellowed ghoul teeth, making him loosen his grip.
And then –right, now, MacCready would have this fucked-up image seared into his brain and take it right to the grave – the ghoul leaned even further up and bit Sidekick Guy's face off.
Okay, well, technically it wasn't his whole face. Mac had seen that before. He'd seen a jazzed-up super mutant literally pick up a raider in one hand and tear the entire front half of the poor bastard's head off with his front teeth, spitting it out on the sidewalk like it was a bad piece of mutfruit.
This really wasn't that bad. Hancock just tore the guy's nose off. Not even his whole nose, just, maybe three-quarters of it. But MacCready was dazed and half-alive and way too close to the whole ordeal that his brain might've maybe exaggerated the events. But still, Hancock bit the guy's face, and took a chunk of it off, and the guy fucking screamed.
And then suddenly Dogmeat was there, growling and snarling at the screeching, bloodied brawl, claws clicking off the tiled floor, hackles raised and teeth bared.
"What in bloody British accent is goin' on in – bangers 'n mash! Hancock!" It was Whitechapel Charlie, hovering in the doorway, rag and mug in one robotic claw, his shuttered eyes widening in hard disbelief.
"Fuck! Fuck!" Sidekick Guy screamed.
"You fucking asshole!" Hancock roared.
"Hancock! MacCready! Hancock!" Charlie blubbered.
"Bark! Bark! Bark!" Dogmeat barked. Because he was a dog.
This was all too much for MacCready.
He blacked out hard, hitting his head against the cool tile slicked with blood.
Part Two: In Which I Can't Think Up a Good Enough Name for This Second Part, So Just Read the Damn Story, Okay? Fuck.
MacCready didn't wake up safe in bed. He wasn't changed from his bloodied pyjamas, or wiped clean of his bloodied face, or even removed from the bloodied tile on which he lay.
No. As his piss-poor luck would have it, MacCready woke up eighteen seconds after he passed out.
"Hey. Hey, I think he's waking up."
Mac's eyes fluttered a moment, the usually dim light of the corner lamp too bright right then. He shielded his eyes a little, and Dogmeat whimpered to his side, then began licking his face in fervour.
"Hey, Dogmeat, give him some room. Dogmeat!" Hancock ordered, making the dog whimper again as he retracted. Mac didn't even bother to wipe the slobber from his face. It hurt too much.
Hancock and Charlie hovered over him, and Dogmeat too, just barely containing the urge to lick him again. All three haloed by the dingy light like some rather disappointing angels from Hell.
"Well, that was a goodie bag full to the tits of fun, wasn't it?"
"Eugh."
"Hey, kid. You alright?"
"Mm. No. It hurts," he managed.
"What hurts?"
"Everything."
The ghoul chuckled to himself. "Well, at least you're not a walking pincushion."
"Oh. Right. Sorry," Mac mumbled, glancing to the pen in his arm and the blade in his chest. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"Hm? Oh, nah. I'm a ghoul, remember?"
"How could I forget."
"In fact, it might've jump-started my heart a little."
"Well, take it out. It's grossing me out."
"Alright princess, if you insist." Hancock slid the blade from his chest with ease and handed it to Charlie. "Here," he said. "Wash it up. Hide it. Same as the tommygun there. Can't have them making their way out there."
"Sure thing, boss," the robot said with only the slightest hint of insolence tainting his British accent. "But what about the bodies?"
"Same thing."
Charlie's eyes narrowed. This wasn't the first time he'd washed them up and hid them. Wouldn't be the last. "Fine. I'll get right to it."
"Good. Do that, and then me and you are going to have a little chat about what happened here."
"Don't see how this is my fault, boss."
"Oh, you will Charlie, don't you worry."
The Mr. Handy narrowed his eyes even more, if that was possible, then collected the knife and gun and whirred back out the door, dragging the now-dead Sidekick Guy by the foot, a gruesome trail of blood streaking across the tile.
Hancock stood and shut the door.
"Ah, shit."
"What the Hell – heck just happened?"
Hancock helped ease MacCready up to a sitting position as gingerly as he could, Dogmeat not helping in the slightest. "I'm not too sure, Mac. Was sort of hoping you'd tell me."
"Ah, shoot," he hissed, clutching at his head again. The blood was drying and sort of crusty, but still sticky in spots, particularly around his neck. His still-dazed gaze managed to focus on the shiny pool of blood where Sidekick Guy lay only moments before. "Eugh. You bit that guy's face off."
"No, I bit his nose off. Kind of. Anyway who cares? It's done now, and I saved your ass doing it."
"I care. That was fucking gross."
Hancock chuckled a little, tuttering at him. "MacCready, I don't think I've ever heard you swear so much in the entire time I've known you."
"Yeah, well, I think I'm dying, so it doesn't matter, does it?"
"You're not dying."
"Says who?"
"Says me. Now come on, let's get you up."
The ghoul eased MacCready to his feet, a little wobbly, a little dizzy still, and set him back down on the bed.
"Here. Just rest."
"I've been resting for a week, Hancock. I'm not getting any better."
"You will."
"You sound like my mom, if I had one."
"Ha! Well, I did, and she made me sit my ass down until I got better."
"I'm done sitting around."
"Look kid, if I have to go put on a dress and beat your ass with a switch, I will. Now sit your ass down."
MacCready gave Hancock a weak glare, but it didn't last long. Sighing, he leaned back against the pillows, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dogmeat leapt up and settled down at the foot of the bed, resting his head on Mac's feet, tail thumping contentedly.
"Damn dog. Where the heck were you when I was being lynched?"
"Outside taking a piss, Charlie told me."
"Where the heck was Charlie?"
It was Hancock's turn to sigh. He pulled up a chair from the corner and straddled it backwards, arms resting on the backrest. "Don't know. Damned robot was told to keep an eye out for Triggermen. Seems he's getting a bit rusty. Literally."
Mac cracked an eye at him sideways. "Why?"
"Hm?"
"Why Triggerman? Hancock, what the Hell – heck is going on?"
Hancock scrubbed his face tiredly. For a guy who just shot and wrestled his way out of a holy fuck-up of a mess and was stabbed – twice – and chewed a guy's face off not five minutes ago, he was remarkably unscathed.
"Trish is dead."
"Yeah, Sidekick Guy said that."
"Sidekick Guy?"
"Faceless Guy now, I reckon."
"Right. So is Eddy Hart."
Mac blinked. "Chuckles?"
"Yeah."
"Damn. Darn."
"And Marowski's lab is gone."
"Gone? What do you mean?"
"Daye blew it up."
Mac sighed again, deep into his bones. He picked at the dried blood on his neck tiredly, still sort of afraid to touch his cigar burn. "Was that the big rumble I heard a couple days ago? Charlie told me it was probably a super mutant suicider or something over by Beantown. Why? You sure it was him?"
"Yeah. Lab is trashed. Flattened. Got a big hole in the side, it's just a smoking pile of rocks. Now I'm not certain, but I can't see anyone else doing that. And no idea. Was hoping you could enlighten me."
Mac shrugged, the motion making him hiss in pain. "I don't even know where his lab is. Was."
"The old fishpacking plant south of here."
"Oh."
"You have any idea why Daye would blow it up? Did he ever say anything to you about it?"
For some reason even beyond him, a tiny shred of irritation flared inside Mac.
"Look, you don't even know it was him, okay? It could've been a raider or the Gunners or somebody."
"Deacon saw him land at The Castle in a vertibird two days ago."
"So?"
"Danse unloaded at least a dozen of those yellow crates and stuffed them underneath in the armoury."
"So? It could've been from any of our dead drops. We had almost half a dozen stashed away in the hospital."
"They flew in from the south, Mac, not the north."
"So?"
"Look, kid, I can tell you're keen on playing the plausible deniability card today for some reason but let me tell you this," the ghoul said, leaning closer. "Daye did this, I know it. I swear to Christ, next time I see that bastard, I'm punching him right in the goddamned face, you hear?"
"Why?"
"Look at you! You were already KO even before these assholes showed up today. Now your ass and your face is like a pile of hamburger meat."
"Thanks."
"Now I don't know why or how or what he plans on doing next, but I can tell you Marowski's got his fingers in deep enough to at least guess it was him, and by extension, you. Those Triggermen would've killed you today if I hadn't stepped in."
"Well shucks, you're my goddamned hero."
"You fucking know it."
"Hancock, look, I appreciate the concern, really, but I don't need you to keep an eye on me or whatever it is you think you're doing. I can handle myself."
The ghoul's eyes thinned. "Oh, really? Cause from where I was standing, it looked like those guys were balls deep in you already."
"I had it under control."
"Ha! You're funny, kid. Hilarious."
"Piss off."
"Alright, so I'll just let the bad guys cut you up next time, is that it? Come on Mac, don't be a little bitch. Admit when you need help. It's not that hard."
MacCready seethed to himself, livid and exhausted and embarrassed at everything, but mostly at himself. What a pathetic little radroach he'd been today. Daye seemed to be rubbing off on him – no matter how hard he tried, he just simply couldn't admit it, that Hancock – he was right. He usually was.
"What were you doing here, anyway? Seems mighty convenient you walked in right when you did."
"Mac, Goodneighbor is my town. Built her from the ground up. I'm like Jesus, or Santa Clause. I know when shit's happening."
"Hm." Right. He'd believe that the day he could beat Valentine at poker.
Which was never.
"Why'd you tell Charlie to watch out for Triggermen?" he asked again, his first question still not answered.
The ghoul bit his wrinkly old lip, hesitating.
"Hancock."
"They… paid me a visit, the other day."
"Who?"
"The Triggerman. One. By the name of Snail. Told me about Trish and Chuckles and the chem deal gone wrong. I got the feeling then that Marowksi knew it might be you. Daye and you, I mean."
Mac's brow furrowed, understanding dawning on him slower than usual. "So… wait, you knew about all this? And you didn't bother to warn me?"
"I don't know," he shrugged, "I thought it might be safer for you, to keep you out of the loop."
"To keep me hidden down here like a fucking side-whore, you mean."
"Mac –"
"Dammit Hancock, I could've – I could've gone and found him, warned him Marowksi was on his trail. He probably has no idea! He's – he's probably fucking dead!"
"MacCready, he's not –"
"He's my partner, Hancock! Mine! Don't you dare keep shit like this hidden from me!" he seethed, poking a finger to Hancock's chest. "I need to know, and I can deal with it!"
"Look at you, kid!" the ghoul laughed. "What the fuck were you going to do, huh? You can barely stand on your own. What, you thought you were going to march in and save the day like fucking Grognak? Like the Silver Shroud himself? Hate to break it to you, son, but you ain't no superhero."
It looked like the damned ghoul had at least five more arguments tucked away in that withered old head of his, but he never got to wield them.
Mac just – deflated.
"Huh. Yeah," he sighed, rubbing at his blood-crusted face. "Yeah. I know."
It was Hancock's turn to sigh. "Look. Mac. I know about you and your son and – and Lucy," he ventured, wary of what the merc might say.
Mac said nothing, only frowned.
"Daye told me. Only a little. I get it. You're scared of failing the people you love."
Now Mac ground his teeth at that. Not because Hancock was wrong – but because Hancock was right. So right it hurt.
The mayor of Goodneighbor stifled a small chuckle. "Ha. I have no idea why you include Nathaniel fucking Daye under that unbrella but hey, there it is. It's scary, really, how alike you are. Like two sides of the same coin."
"Like holding a live grenade?"
"Like staying on a sinking ship.
Mac smirked a tiny bit too, and Hancock placed a withered hand on his arm. "He'll be fine, Mac. He always is. And you will too."
"Yeah. I know."
Hancock smiled at MacCready in the sad way he so often did, and heaved himself from the chair.
"Well, guess I should be going then. I'll send Charlie back in with some water to clean that gore off your face, and something for the pain. And some food, if you're hungry."
"Okay, sure."
"You want Dogmeat here?"
"Yeah, just leave him," Mac said, patting the dog's now-snoring head. "He's probably dreaming about girl-dogs and chasing radstags."
"Ha, yeah. Probably. Oh. Here's your pen," he smirked, yanking it from his arm and handing it back to the man.
"Uh, thanks. Sorry about that."
"Hey, no worries, kid. Just, next time, maybe aim for the bad guys, alright?"
"Will try. No promises."
Hancock hovered in the doorway, half in, half out, like everything in his life.
"Okay. See you around, kid."
You alright?
"Yeah, you too, Mr. Mayor."
No. But I will be.
"Okay, then."
"Hm."
"What?"
"You bit a guy's face off."
…Thanks. For everything.
Hancock smiled. "Yeah. I guess I did."
Anytime.
And then he was gone.
Mac knew he wasn't the strongest guy out there. Or the smartest. But he had a good head on his shoulders, and he was trying to do good things. He believed that. And he believed Daye was trying to as well, in his own convoluted ways. He knew there'd come a day when their luck would run out – had to. And he knew there'd be a time where he couldn't save him. Not living their lives the way they did, not with the dangerous, reckless adventures they had. There would come a moment where all of Mac's skills and knowledge and fears would surmount to absolutely nothing in the end, and he would fail. Like he had before, like he had with Lucy.
But there was a… strange sort of peace in the knowing. In acknowledging. And he figured that maybe the challenge everyone had wasn't in the fighting and the failing and the dying – it was in the accepting. In embracing the anger that followed him, and using it for good.
And that wasn't something Lucy had taught him. It was something Daye had.
Hancock was right. He would be fine. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he would be. Someday.
MacCready sighed deep and long, bone-weary and defeated. He gave Dogmeat another pat before settling down into the pillows, fiddling with his pen absentmindedly.
By heck, he'd have one long story to tell Duncan. Should probably leave out the murder and face-eating parts, though. He smiled.
Ha. What was it he had said about being bored?
A/N: So, how was that? You guys like my version of MacCready? More of a darker, somber guy than the one in the game, though he still clicks fantastically with my bat-shit crazy player character that I based Daye off of. I mean, he does kill people for a living. Still more moral and reserved that him, but also maybe more... allowing? Hope so. He's going to play a pretty big part later on, of course.
I always got the feeling that both Hancock and Mac were kinda surrounded by this hint of... sadness, almost. Hancock's sadness comes from his regret, and MacCready's from his fear of failure. Of course, Daye has a bit of regret and failure, so he gets along quite swimmingly with these two.
And I think Cait has some sadness about her as well. Maybe a sadness that comes from being so alone.
Anyways thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.
Oh also I will slowly get around to replying to reviews from the past year or so. Hang tight.
Peace out motherfuckers.
