CHAPTER 22
Touch
Grey woke to something hot and silky sliding across her face.
She cupped Dogmeat's muzzle, shooting him a look as he attempted to snake his tongue through her fingers. Her eyes strained in the hazy near dark of below deck, but she could still make out the dog's glistening snout. That and his putrid kennel breath was a dead giveaway.
A crate smashed behind her.
Grey bolted upward. Pain immediately shot from behind her eyes. She cursed, pressing her fingers against her temples.
"Good, you're up."
Grey winced, trying to remember the last time she felt this hungover. She drew a blank.
Proctor Teagan stood over her. A crate of empties was littered by his feet.
"Here," he said, tossing something shiny at her.
She studied the flask. Cheap vodka wafted from within. If she wasn't so miserable she would have laughed.
She knocked back a shot. It burned all the way down.
Teagan chuckled. "You Vault dwellers are always such lightweights. Danvers was so green I bet 40 caps he wouldn't make it to the latrine in time."
Grey returned the flask, Teagan also taking a sip. She couldn't help but wonder how many of those he actually needed to get through his day.
Grey was unsurprised really that Danvers had slunk off to the toilets. After finding her in the workshop last night, he'd led her to some makeshift rec area below deck. They'd made relatively quick work of the rye. Their flirtatious teasing had quickly devolved into drunken playfighting before they'd found a crate of unopened beers. Danvers had passed out first, mid-sentence, while telling her some nonsense story about a physician who was also an engineer who became an escape artist stroke anarchist. At least that's what she'd gathered between his elongated pauses and slurred speech. Even now she wasn't sure what the purpose of the story had been.
Grey also hadn't realized Danvers was from a Vault. But that was likely Teagan's intent. The Proctor operated subtly, but he was still operating. She decided to file that information away for later.
"Speaking of caps," Teagan continued, "You and Danvers owe me for the beers. If you'd bothered to read the notice," he said, hiking a thumb at the idle terminal, "you'd know they were for sharing."
Grey kept her smartass "But we did share" comment to herself.
"How much?" she asked.
"200 caps."
"You're joking."
His expression said otherwise.
"Might I suggest a new wholesaler, Proctor? I've had better swill for less in Goodneighbor."
"Well, maybe we can work out another type of deal then."
Grey fought off a smirk. Of course he wanted to make a deal. The beer was likely nothing more than a ruse, but from what little she understood of the Brotherhood's hierarchy, she did know Knight was pretty low on the totem pole, so she wasn't going to call him on it. After all, Grey's former occupation was essentially letting arrogant men falsely think they were smooth operators; why abandon that modus operandi now?
"I'm listening."
"Smart girl. See, I'm looking for—"
Fifteen minutes later, Grey staggered to the head. She was struggling to tell if it was the hangover or sleeping on supply crates all night that had fucked her ability to walk a straight line.
She mulled over Teagan's proposition as she walked into the showers. His request had been mostly reasonable. She'd just have to figure out the best target and approach. Hancock perhaps? She continued her deliberations as she stripped and showered, Dogmeat prancing through the runoff and occasionally barking at a particularly large bubble.
There was no sign of Danvers in the head, despite Teagan's allusions. That didn't mean much though. Teagan may have spotted Danvers hours ago. Not that Grey needed Danvers for anything. Not yet at least.
At 10:45 AM, the Prydwen was bustling with activity along the main deck. Grey flirted with the idea of grabbing a meal in the mess but decided against it. She doubted grilled mole rat was an effective hangover remedy. She could barely stomach it while sober. She instead decided to make a detour past medbay, some part of her hoping Brandis was lucid enough for a quick chat. She'd barely locked eyes on the man before a Scribe gave her side-eye and pulled a surgical curtain around his gurney.
So much for that plan.
Not that Grey expected to get much out of Brandis with the condition he'd been in. She could be patient, to a point. Her underlying worry was that Brandis's mental state would not sufficiently improve. Three years he was cut off from civilization, from his brethren—that had to do something to a man. Grey'd seen how just three months of deployment damaged some minds. She'd read stories of soldiers lost in the Alaskan wilds for weeks, isolated and fighting to survive. The prognosis, even after months of therapy, was often grim. That and was psychology still a known practice? Most shrinks she'd ever had the displeasure of meeting were soft, waify academics. She couldn't see them surviving a nuclear holocaust, no matter how adept they were at understanding the human psyche. As loath as Grey was to admit it, survival took more than just brains, it also required brawn.
"Is he house trained?"
Grey looked at the passing Knight, laser weapon held at his side as if he were on patrol. For all she knew, he was.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your mutt," he said, motioning at Dogmeat. "He house trained?"
"I… think so?" She honestly didn't know, which, the more she thought on it, seemed ridiculous. In her defence, she could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually slept in a proper dwelling over the past two months. That and she hadn't exactly been too concerned with the dog's bathroom habits as long as he didn't piss on her leg.
"Well, it looks like he needs to go, and I sure as hell won't be cleaning up after him."
Grey glanced at Dogmeat. He was pacing, circling a small space, tail wagging. Was that the universal sign a dog needed to pee? Nate's gremlin of a dog would usually bark and paw at the side door. Not that there was a door Dogmeat could paw at on the Prydwen to indicate nature was calling.
"Knight?"
"Yeah, I'll take care of it." Somehow.
Grey had forgotten that the only way on and off the airship was by Vertibird. A convenient detail to have forgotten. If she hadn't had a headache before getting on the transport, she sure as hell would have afterward with how tight she'd clenched her jaw.
The Vertibird had barely touched ground before Dogmeat leapt off and tore down the terminal steps.
Grey stood on the launch platform for several minutes, thinking it would just be a quick roundtrip. But as the minutes ticked by and more and more soldiers gave her curious looks, she realized Dogmeat wasn't returning anytime soon. She also realized she looked like a fool, standing idly in a staging area and acting like she was a tourist at the Vatican. Not that anyone there likely knew what the Vatican was.
Grey walked down into the airport, passively listening to fragments of scuttlebutt and Knights moaning about revised patrol schedules. A suit of T-60 bearing Paladin paint appeared to be walking a squad through an infiltration op. One of the Knights looked a little too hungry for action, lips curling into a pleasurable smile every time his grip tightened on his rifle.
Grey made a mental note to steer clear.
A sizeable man in a green flight suit approached her as she wandered outside the terminal. His suit left little to Grey's imagination, the fabric taut across his muscled arms and chest. He bore a similar stance to Lancer-Captain Kells, shoulders pushed back and posture near impeccable. His face wasn't half as impressive as his physique, any attractiveness overshadowed by a flat nose and dull eyes. His forehead was a mess of old scars, pink keloids pushing back into his hairline and the faint outline of surgical staples kissing his patchy eyebrows.
"Report, Knight."
Grey briefly glanced to either side, checking if there was some other person he was addressing.
"I said report, Knight."
She nearly asked on what before catching herself. She settled with, "Nothing to report, sir."
Clearly that was the wrong stock phrase as his brow furrowed, scars twisting.
"Serial number?"
She gave him a blank look.
"Your serial number, Knight. What is it?"
"I don't have one."
Wrong response again apparently. Annoyance bleed through his features, dull eyes darkening.
"Don't think I won't write you up for insubordination."
She swallowed, hangover licking at her temples. It made thinking a bitch. Also made concealing her emotions an actual task.
"My apologies, sir," she said evenly, straightening her posture. "I'm newly assigned to the Prydwen and—"
He cut across her. "Did I ask for excuses, Knight?"
Well, shit.
"No, sir."
"Then you'll refrain from making them."
Grey clenched her jaw as he began to flip through pages on a clipboard.
"Name?"
"Grey."
"Commanding officer?"
Fuck.
"Don't make me ask again, Knight."
"Paladin Danse."
His face tensed. "You're the Commonwealth recruit."
"Yes, sir." At least he wasn't calling her the "Vault dweller" like everyone else. Little miracles.
He paused, something new flickering across those eyes. "Apologies, Knight. As you were." He gave a short nod before walking off.
Grey took a moment to collect her very confused self, still not entirely sure what had happened other than something bizarre. Not that the Knight-Captain or Sergeant or whatever he was approaching her was weird—that made sense enough. All bases had a regime and strict scheduling. She'd realized early in her JAG Corps career that there was often this public misconception that base life was all relaxation and roses when in fact it was probably more taxing than active deployment. Every hour of the day was scheduled and accounted for, from repairs to restocking to training. Everyone had a role in the operation and the administration of the base, no matter their rank.
Grey's problem now was that she didn't have a clue what her role was when stationed on the Prydwen. But that still wasn't the bizarre bit. No, the bizarre bit was the officer's reaction after finding out she was Danse's recruit. The bizarre bit was the possibility that the Prydwen's regime—whatever it was—didn't seem to apply to her. And she had no idea why. Well, no, that was a lie. She still had that niggling little voice in the back of her head that told her she was an imposter which Danse knew, but she hoped he at least had enough faith in her to know she was capable of restocking some ammo or cleaning the goddamn latrine.
She paused as she passed the firing range. The smell of ozone was palpable, little bursts of it escaping with each fired round. The scent brought her back to ArkJet all those weeks ago, blue lasers scattering above her head, the Paladin shielding her with his suit. She'd had a headache then too. Not from a hangover granted. It had probably been a combination of dehydration and dread, the dread coming from her all-too-late realization that a leather jacket and Vault jumpsuit weren't going to save her from laser fire. But Danse had.
She must have lingered too long, because a woman thrust her rifle into Grey's arms as she stepped from the shooting lane. "All yours, sugar," she said with a backhanded wave.
Grey gave the laser rifle a sidelong glance, instinct telling her to put the damn thing down before she accidentally shot herself. She toyed with the idea before catching the eye of the range's supervising officer. She could see the query turning to disapproval, and honestly, Grey had had enough of that look for one day.
She ejected the spent cartridge and grabbed a new one from the nearby supply case. The reload was easier without her power armour. Also easier when she wasn't being shot at by Super Mutants.
Grey couldn't exactly pinpoint when she first developed her aversion to laser weapons. It had been at some point during basic combat training. Before that, before she'd—well, before she took on the guise of an all-American JAG hopeful, she'd been a staunch supporter of stricter firearms regulations. Guns were something collected and hoarded by the lesser man, or so she and her snobby Democrat friends thought. Until she'd met her handler, she'd never even touched a gun before. They'd held no allure for her. After all, she hadn't needed a weapon to feel powerful; she'd only needed her mind and her money for that.
To her credit, there hadn't been many mishaps in basic training. She'd learned she had a knack for handguns and short-range shooting. Distance shooting had been a bit more challenging. She also disliked how vulnerable she felt when shooting prone.
Despite what the pre-war recruitment posters boasted, laser weapons were relatively uncommon in the Army, at least in the East Coast battalions. Most of Grey's training had been with ballistic weapons. She vaguely remembered her first time shooting short-range with a batch of newly delivered laser pistols. She hadn't been a fan of the bulky design or how light it felt in her hands. She also disliked her sudden inability to hit the target. Or hit anywhere near it. And there was that incident where the recruit next to her dropped his pistol mid-set, a wild shot grazing her thigh.
Grey inhaled sharply, digging her heels into the earth and positioning the stock against the inside of her shoulder, beneath her collarbone. She clicked off the safety, aligning her shot. Long breath out. Deep breath in. She squeezed the trigger. A burst of ozone lingered.
A scorch mark stained the back wall. The makeshift practice dummy was untouched.
Grey clenched her jaw, firing off three more rounds. Only one struck the target, winging its metal arm.
She frowned. How the sweet fuck had she taken out that missile-toting Mutant at Fort Strong when she couldn't even hit a single static target? She gave her Pip-Boy a glance, wondering how crazy she'd look if she started pleading with it to "do the calculation thing" in the middle of a crowded firing range.
Grey hadn't noticed that the range had fallen silent. Didn't notice that bodies had moved in behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she did see the supervising officer straighten, snapping into a salute. She attempted to turn, but a hand brushed her shoulder, stilling her.
"Hold, Knight," his voice coaxed, a whisper on the back of her neck.
She felt him move behind her, body barely a breath from her own.
He cupped her elbow, raising it ever so slightly, adjusting her aim.
"Your stance," he said. "You need to shift your legs, like this." He tapped the inside of her boot with his own, moving her feet slightly further apart. "And your torso—"
Breath slithered through her teeth as she felt hands brush her hips. His touch was soft, careful. He turned them slightly, forcing her torso to twist. She felt the press of him then, solid muscle and bone aligning against the curve of her spine.
He kept one hand on her hip, the other now pressing against her stomach. He tightened his hold, straightening her stance. Her heart shuddered.
"You're too tense," he said, grip held firm. "Your core needs to be relaxed." He rocked his hips lightly, hers responding in kind, muscles shifting. Heat climbed her neck.
"Don't anticipate the recoil. There won't be any. Now shoot."
She fired, laser scattering against the target's chest.
A short, hot breath teased her neck. A smile perhaps.
His hands quickly fell away, a sudden chill replacing his warmth. His coat brushed her calf as he turned.
She didn't move, even as Maxson returned to his men, resuming their previous inspection.
Her skin quivered as she took in another shaky breath. She spammed the trigger, emptying the cell. Only when the chatter resumed did she discard the rifle, shoving it into the arms of a nearby initiate. Her feet couldn't get her away from that firing range fast enough.
Even as she boarded the Vertibird back to the Prydwen, her skin continued to tingle and her stomach clenched. She pressed her palm against her core as if trying to still the discomfort within but instead found her fingers digging into the cloth.
For the first time, she didn't think about her mother as the Vertibird flew over the airport graveyard. She didn't think of her untimely death. Didn't think of the bodies buried in twisted metal. Didn't think of her father, so determined to hide his grief and run away from the only familiar things Grey and Jasper ever knew.
No. All she could think of was the touch of fingers on her hips. The last time that had happened. Nate's hands in the bathroom that final morning, grazing her exposed skin as she pulled her blouse over her head. His playful laughter, the way his lips would press against the curve of her neck. The way he looked at her later that day, right before they stepped into the cryo pods. The last time his fingers would ever touch her skin. The last time she saw him alive.
And finally that one other intrusive thought.
The realization that all her shots had finally struck centre mass.
