3. The Clean Slate

MacCready grimaced as he leaned against the wall of a ruined concrete building, easing his boot off carefully. Another blister. Great. Just what he’d been hoping for. He’d have thought that after spending most of his life on his feet, they’d have become resistant to blisters by now, but he’d had no such luck.

He shook his boot out angrily, watching a small cascade of sand and grit fall out onto the floor. Mac swore he’d checked his boots before starting out this morning, but the beaten-up leather shoes were a magnet for dirt and small stones.

“And of course, now my sock has a hole,” he muttered. “Perfect.” It was his last pair. He’d only been wearing them for a week. The mercenary sighed, easing himself onto the floor. He pulled his knife from his pack, as well as a length of relatively clean fabric and a half-full bottle of vodka. Carefully, he peeled off the worn sock, recoiling at the sight of his swollen foot. The blister, as he’d feared, was a big one. He’d have to lance it if he had any hope of reaching the Castle today.

Preston’s note had caught him in the middle of a job down near Natick, which he’d wrapped up as quickly as he could. Still, it was a hell of a walk, in the best of conditions. And after three days in his sniper nest, just waiting for a raider boss to show so he could put them down, Mac’s legs weren’t quite up to the hike.

He pulled the note from his duster pocket, re-reading it again. It was crazy that Preston expected him to come, wasn’t it? After all, Myra and MacCready were no longer working together. That meant he wasn’t the Colonel’s to command any more. So why had Preston sent for him? And, perhaps more curious, why had MacCready decided to come?

The mercenary took a swig from the vodka before pouring some of the alcohol over his knife. He hated this part. Mac gritted his teeth before slicing the blister open, gasping in pain as cloudy fluid drained from the injury. It hadn’t gotten too bad, thankfully. It was only slightly infected. Most of the fluid was colorless, and it didn’t smell nearly as bad as he’d expected. All the same, he needed to disinfect the area. MacCready poured more vodka into the wound, cursing under his breath as the alcohol burned his wounded flesh. He let the injury air out for a moment before wrapping his whole foot in fabric. It wasn’t pretty, but he’d be able to walk, so it’d have to do.

Maybe once he arrived at the Castle, he could receive proper medical care. The Minutemen had recently acquired a doctor, hadn’t they? What was his name? MacCready seemed to remember that it was something strange, like Gnashes.

Mac eased his boot back on before standing up, careful not to put too much weight on his foot right away. Just because he could walk on it didn’t mean that the trip was going to be pleasant. The Mercenary winced as he took a few tentative steps. Not bad. Not good, either. He limped out of the building, heading towards the rising sun. If he paced himself, he’d probably reach the old fort by noon.

::::

When MacCready arrived at the Castle, the first thing he noticed was the smell. He scrunched up his nose as he glanced about the courtyard. One or two mirelurks smelled bad enough. But a small army of the crustacean bastards? The place reeked of old fish, rotten seaweed, and brine, as though the sea itself had vomited upon the stronghold. MacCready’s eyes were drawn to the largest carcass, a mirelurk queen twice the size of a bus, its mangled body burned and contorted, legs reaching for the sky.

“Hold it,” growled a voice from behind him. He heard the telltale click of a pistol being cocked as the speaker approached. “What’s your business here?”

“My name’s MacCready,” he replied curtly, putting his hands up. “Preston’s expecting me. I came to help.”

The person behind him chuckled. “You’re running a bit late, aren’t ya? Turn around.”

MacCready complied, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of his interrogator. She was a small woman, a little shorter than he was, her right arm bandaged tightly. The woman returned her pistol to its holster, her grey eyes apologetic.  “Yeah, you look like the guy the Colonel told us to look out for,” she continued. “Sorry for pulling a gun on you. We’re a little understaffed at the moment. The General and Garvey left yesterday, and we have no idea when they’ll be back.”

“They left?” MacCready asked, confused. “Why? Did something happen?”

The woman sighed. “The General’s pet Paladin got himself torn up during the fight. They went to go find a doctor. Zev did his best, but the damn kid ain’t no substitute for a doctor.”

“Danse is injured?” MacCready asked, his eyes wide. “How? Wasn’t he in his armor?”

“Yeah, but he got mauled pretty bad. I’ve never seen anything like it. That armor did almost nothing against the queen. The General’s just lucky Danse got the worst of it.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“My arm got torn up a bit, but it’s mending. Jake’s got a broken leg and some cuts, but he’ll be ok. Dogmeat took a hell of a thrashing, but he’ll live too. Honestly, we did ok, considering there were just the six of us. The General kicked some pretty serious ass, I have to admit.”

MacCready looked around the fort again, taking in the carnage. “I’ll say. Well done, uh…”

“Kestrel,” the woman replied, sticking out her left hand.

“Hang on. You’re Kestrel?” he asked, surprised. “You’re the one who’s been leading those raiders?”

She sighed. “We’re not raiders. At least not now. As long as the Colonel honors our agreement, we’re minutemen, just like everyone else.”

MacCready frowned. He had the feeling that there was more to the woman’s story than she was letting on. But right now, that wasn’t important. Making sure the wounded were ok was.

“What happened to that doctor Preston was bragging about?” he asked. “Zev’s not bad with a stimpack, but he shouldn’t be doing anything more than that.”

Kestrel shrugged. “This wasn’t our only mission. Ignatius took a few of my men north to clear out a deathclaw nest that was making some farmers nervous. Guess the Colonel thought deathclaws were more likely to cause injury.”

Mac smiled slightly. “I guess no one else believed that sea monster garbage either, huh?”

“Hell,” Kes replied, gesturing to the gargantuan corpse, “I’ve seen all sorts of crazy shit in my time, but even I wasn’t expecting to run into something like that. I mean, ghouls in space is one thing. Actual giant monsters are another.”

MacCready made a mental note to ask her more about the space ghouls. Unfortunately, now wasn’t really the time. “Can you take me to the clinic?” he asked. “I’m not a doctor either, but I know a bit more than Zev does. I might be able to help.”

Kestrel nodded, leading the mercenary into the keep. The Minutemen had converted one of the cleaner rooms into a small clinic, stacking medical supplies and chems in one corner of the space. Several makeshift cots had been hastily assembled and placed along one wall. Most of them were empty, save the one that housed the unconscious body of Paladin Danse.

Mac almost didn’t recognize the muscular soldier without his power armor. Rather than the grumpy, larger-than-life figure he was used to, this Danse seemed...surprisingly human. He was still quite a tall man, his heels hanging over the edge of the cot. But tucked under gauze and threadbare blankets, he seemed smaller somehow, vulnerable.

Zev hovered over the Paladin’s bedside, his eyes weary. MacCready smiled at the sight. The young man had come a long way from the frightened, battered boy the mercenary had met. He was still a nervous wreck, of course, but it did Mac’s heart good to see him working through that.

“How is he, Zev?” MacCready asked.

Zev gasped in shock as he looked up, his eyes meeting Mac’s. “Whoa! Hey, I didn’t hear you come in!”

“Sorry,” the mercenary replied. “I forget how stealthy I am sometimes.”

“It’s ok. I was obviously not paying attention,” the younger man said sheepishly. “I’m working on it, but…” he trailed off as Danse stirred in his sleep, groaning pitifully as his eyes twitched behind his closed eyelids. Zev frowned, holding a hand to the Paladin’s forehead. “I think his fever’s getting worse.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” MacCready asked.

Zev shook his head. “I’ve patched him up as well as I can. Without an actual doctor, I’m afraid that there’s not much we can do. You’re welcome to check for yourself, though, Mr. MacCready.”

Mac sighed. “Zev. We’ve been over this. I’m only two years older than you. You can call me Mac, or RJ. It’s...kinda creepy that you keep treating me like some kind of geezer.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Zev blushed slightly. “I’m sorry Mr...um, RJ. I mean it as a sign of respect. Since, you’re like, a superior officer and all. Well, I know you don’t have a rank or anything. I just...”

The mercenary rolled his eyes. “Geez, Zev. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. It’s fine. I’m not a Minuteman. I’m just a guy who got paid to be here. We’re equals, ok? So it’s RJ.”

“Wait,” Kestrel asked, her grey eyes wide. “You’re getting paid? Fucking Colonel Garvey ripping me off again… I knew I couldn’t trust that guy.”

MacCready sighed. “It’s a figure of speech, Kestrel. I’m a gun for hire.” He thought for a moment. “I mean, I guess technically I’m doing this one for free too, since I gave Myra my fee back.”

“You what?” Kes replied angrily. “Is everyone in the Commonwealth stupid, or just the people I’ve met? What, she bat her pretty little eyes at you and you just couldn’t say no?”

“No...I...oh, shut up!” Mac replied, blushing. “It’s not like that.”

Kestrel rolled her eyes. “Right...ok, buddy. If that’s your line, that’s your line. I’m just saying, I know girls like our General. Hell, I was one, back in the day. You give her a few caps, she’ll talk you into buying her a fancy new gun to go with ’em. Next thing you know, you’re lying in the desert with no pants on, radscorpions eyeing your junk.”

“That’s...oddly specific,” MacCready replied.

“What’s a desert?” Zev asked.

Kestrel smirked. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just saying, watch yourself, MacCready. You seem like a decent sort of guy, and I’d hate to see you get burned. That woman’s trouble. I can smell it radiating off of her like cheap perfume from a hooker.”

“Okay…well, thanks, I guess,” Mac replied as the small blonde left the room. “Is she really a minuteman?” he asked Zev. “She seems a little...off.”

“Well, she’s got a uniform, so I guess so,” the young man replied. “The Colonel says we’ve gotta be patient with her. Apparently she’s got some brain issues or something. Kinda like Dov, I think, but a little more...strange, I guess? She told me she got shot in the head a couple times, but that can’t be true, can it? No one survives that.”

“Not without becoming a drooling mess,” MacCready agreed. “Well, I guess we can’t afford to be too picky, these days. Hell, if she can shoot, and isn’t trying to shoot us, she’s fine with me.” He turned back to the Paladin’s cot. “Now, tell me exactly how you’ve been treating Paladin Danse, so I don’t accidentally make things worse.”

Zev nodded, handing MacCready a battered clipboard. “I’ve been writing everything down, just so I don’t forget and accidentally give him too much medication. We don’t have a lot of supplies left, so we’re having to make due. I hope Jake and Kes get the radio working soon, so we can request aid from one of the settlements.”

“That was a good plan, pal,” MacCready said, looking over Zev’s notes. “Listen, you look like crap. Go get some rest. I’ll look after him for a while.”

“Thanks, Mr. --oh! I mean, RJ,” Zev replied, blushing. “Sorry.”

Mac shook his head. “Just get out of here, Zev.”

“Ok! Yeah. Sorry!” the younger man said as he left the room.

MacCready sighed. “What are we gonna do with you, Zev? You’re more hopeless than freaking Squirrel was, and twice as skittish.”

The mercenary took the younger man’s place next to Danse’s bedside, placing a hand gently on the Paladin’s forehead. The man’s skin was moist and hot to the touch, his cheeks flushed even as the rest of his skin seemed uncharacteristically pallid. Zev was right. Danse had one hell of a fever. Mac pulled a can of purified water from his pack, soaking his handkerchief in it before applying the damp cloth to Danse’s forehead. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

Danse muttered unintelligibly, his wavy black hair flopping into his face as he turned his head away from the cool cloth. MacCready snorted slightly as he placed the cloth back on Danse’s head, brushing his hair out of the way once more.

“Let’s see...” the mercenary mused as he checked over the older man’s bandages. Zev had actually done a fairly competent job. At least all the wounded bits were covered without any gaps. That was more than a lot of people seemed to be able to manage.

As Mac continued to look over Danse’s injuries, his bony fingers ghosted over a scar on the Paladin’s upper arm, just above the bandages. It had faded with time, but the telltale jagged mark left by a ripper remained, a memory of a debt still owed. “So it was you the whole time,” MacCready mused. “Who would have thought after all these years that I’d finally have a chance to pay you back?”

His mind returned to the Capital Wasteland, to those confusing, chaotic days when he’d had no place to call home, had wandered the wastes with only his gun to keep him fed. He’d hoped to find Heather, to join her cause, only to find that she’d vanished. Not even the Brotherhood knew where she’d gone. That little brat Arthur had asked him to track her down, had offered to pay him for his trouble. MacCready had agreed to help, but the journey had almost cost him his life. If it hadn’t been for the helmeted Brotherhood soldier who’d protected him...

“We never even found her on that trip, did we? Funny how life works, isn’t it Danse?” MacCready asked softly, sitting next to the Paladin’s bedside. “I’ll bet you don’t even remember.” He sighed. It was just as well. He’d hate to give the Paladin a reason to gloat.

The mercenary settled into a chair by the cot, watching over Danse as the Paladin continued to mutter in his sleep. Whatever the man was dreaming about, it was intense. Fever dreams often were. MacCready checked his bandages every few hours, changing them with fresh cloth and antiseptic when they looked particularly disgusting. Other than that, there wasn’t a whole lot he could really do for the Paladin.

Night fell over the Castle, and still there was no word from Myra or Preston. Danse’s fever refused to break, in spite of Mac and Zev’s best efforts. If anything, it seemed to be getting worse.

Finally too exhausted to stand, MacCready had gone to bed in the barracks down the hall from the clinic, hoping to catch a few hours of rest. He wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d actually gotten when the entire fort was woken by the Paladin’s screams of agony. MacCready leapt from his bed, running to the infirmary with Zev and Kes hot on his heels.

Danse writhed on the bed, furiously tearing at the bandages that covered his chest. Blood and lymph seeped through the pale cloth, creating an abstract painting of misery across the Paladin’s body.

“We’re going to have to tie him down,” barked MacCready, pulling an assortment of rope from his pack. “Or he’s going to seriously hurt himself.”

Zev and Kestrel did what they could to hold Danse’s arms down, but the soldier was incredibly strong and even more determined. He bellowed incoherently as he fought back against the two minutemen, breaking free from Zev’s grasp with a swing that sent the man flying.

“I hate to do this, Paladin,” warned the battered minuteman, readying a large dose of Med-X and tossing it to Kes, who injected the chem directly into Danse’s right shoulder. The Paladin roared in anguish and continued to fight until the drug slowly overwhelmed his system, his arms falling to his sides. MacCready quickly took advantage of the situation and bound Danse to the bed, hoping the ropes would hold through the night.

“I’ll watch him,” the mercenary said, doing his best to calm his nerves. “You two should try to get Myra on the radio again. She needs to hurry. I think his blood’s poisoned. I’ve seen this before, and we definitely don’t have what we need to fix it.”

::::

“Hey, Mac. Wake up!” called a familiar feminine voice. Hands shook him gently, and he muttered in protest, swatting sleepily at the contact.

“Go away, Lucy…” he murmured groggily. “...not time to wake up yet.”

“Who’s Lucy?” asked the voice. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

MacCready groaned, opening his eyes to slits. He wasn’t in bed, that much was clear. Had he fallen asleep in the clinic? As his vision cleared, he saw Myra leaning over him, fear in her lovely green eyes.

“Myra?” he asked, his mind connecting the dots. “You’re back! Does that mean you found a doctor?”

“It was less found and more coerced,” fumed Carrington quietly as he frowned down at Danse. “Why is the patient restrained, if I may ask?”

“He was thrashing around, reopening his wounds,” MacCready replied. “We had to tie him up so he wouldn’t hurt himself. I’m pretty sure it’s blood poisoning.”

Myra’s eyes widened, brimming with tears. “Oh, Danse…” she murmured.

Carrington sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised, with the shoddy medical care you’ve provided. Next time, stick to shooting people, MacCready. At least that way you’ll kill them quickly.”

MacCready stuck his tongue out at the doctor. “Well, now that you’re here, I’ll let you give it a shot,” he muttered, handing the doctor Danse’s chart. “Here’s what we’ve tried so far. Good luck.”

Carrington rolled his eyes. “Thankfully for your friend here, I don’t rely on luck. Whisper, get him out of here. I don’t need any distractions. This...this could take a while.”

Myra nodded. She reached down and grabbed Danse’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You’d better make it, Danse,” she whispered. “Or so help me, I’ll find a way to bring you back so I can kill you myself.” Hot tears fell from her eyes as she fled the room. MacCready followed after, concerned.

Myra leaned against the wall of the keep, sinking to the floor with a heavy sob. MacCready wrapped an arm around her, tucking her into his side as he sat beside her. It was instinct, a gesture old and familiar to him.

“Hey,” he soothed. “It’ll be ok. Don’t...don’t cry. We’ll do everything we can.”

Myra clung to him, burying her face in his chest. Within moments, his shirt was soaked, but he didn’t care. Her body shuddered with each whimpering sob, her fingers balled in the fabric of his duster. MacCready rubbed her back gently, just as he had done so many times to comfort the people who depended on him.

“It’s all m-my fault!” Myra cried, her voice muffled against his torso. “I sh-shouldn’t have brought him here. I shouldn’t have...I can’t….”

“Hey. Myra, come on,” Mac said, holding her closely. “I’m sure he would have come with you even if you told him not to. Remember how pissed he was when he rescued us?”

She nodded. “Y-yeah,” she managed. “That’s true. But that was m-my fault too.”

The mercenary sighed, continuing to gently rub her back. “Maybe that’s true. Or maybe it was my fault. Either way, it’s the past. We can’t take it back. And no matter what happens now, boss, I’ve got your back. You know that, right?”

Myra pulled away from him slightly, her bloodshot eyes meeting his. “Thanks, Mac. But I’m not your boss any more.”

“Well, then why the heck am I here?” MacCready replied with a smirk. “I should be out making caps, not babysitting your weepy butt.”

Myra smacked his arm gently, a small smile on her tear-stained face. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it,” he snarked, brushing her short white hair out of her face.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she replied, wiping her eyes. Myra detangled herself from his arms, standing with a shaky sigh. “I guess I should check in on the others, see how they’re holding up.”

MacCready shook his head. “No. You need to rest. I heard about what happened during the fight. You’re injured too. Honestly, I’m amazed Preston even let you go with him.”

“I’m fine,” Myra moaned. “A few more hours on my feet...won’t…” she paled, her legs giving out. MacCready yelped as she collapsed on top of him, out cold.

“For crying out loud!” he fumed, pushing her off him. He stood, lifting her unconscious body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He thought about taking her back to the infirmary, but with Carrington hard at work, he didn’t want to risk it. Instead, he carried Myra to the barracks, depositing her on one of the nicer beds. He pulled a blanket from one of the footlockers, tucking her in carefully. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” he muttered. “There’s no caps in the world worth dealing with you.”

MacCready slipped out of the room quietly, careful not to wake the General. At least she was lying down. That was a start. He wandered the keep for a while, eventually following his rumbling stomach to the kitchen.

Preston stood over the stove, stirring the pungent contents of a large pot. He frowned, adding a little more razorgrain flour to the creamy concoction.

“Mirelurk chowder?” MacCready asked.

Preston’s shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice. “If I can get it to the right consistency, yeah,” he replied, not turning around. “Damn thing’s giving me a lot of trouble.”

“Can I help?” the mercenary asked, joining the Colonel at the stove. He took the spoon from Preston’s hand, their fingers touching slightly. Preston coughed, looking away awkwardly.

“It’s all yours, Mac,” he mumbled.

MacCready frowned, puzzled. What the hell was wrong with Preston? The man seemed nervous. Still, it wasn’t really MacCready’s business, and he wasn’t the type to pry. “Looks like you added too much flour,” he said. “You’ve got to thin it out, or it’s gonna be like fish-flavored concrete. Hand me some brahmin milk, will ya?”

“Sure,” replied Preston, opening the fridge and pulling out an ice cold bottle. He set the container on the table next to the stove. MacCready rolled his eyes, opening the bottle and pouring a good amount of it into the chowder. He stirred it in slowly, keeping an eye on the consistency of the soup.

“What’s in this besides mirelurk?” he asked. “Carrots? Corn?”

“Yeah.” Preston said dismissively. “So, Mac, weird question.”

“Ok?”

“You’re not…” the Colonel stammered, “I mean, it’s ok if you are, but…”

“Just spit it out, Preston,” MacCready sighed.

Preston sighed. “Are you...interested in men? You know, in a romantic way?”

“Um...no…not usually,” MacCready replied, blushing slightly. “Why, you coming on to me, Garvey?”

“No, no!” Preston said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. Just...did you know that the General was trying to set us up?”

MacCready turned to look at the minuteman, his eyes wide in shock. “What? Are you fuc… I mean, are you serious? That’s why she told me to tell you you have a great butt?”

Preston paled. “She...what?”

MacCready nodded smirking. “Oh, yeah. When she sent me to see you. Boy, am I glad I left that part out.”

“I just can’t believe she thought…” Preston replied. “I mean, you’re not a bad-looking guy, just…”

“Ugh. Stop. I get it.” MacCready snorted, trying to hold back his laughter and failing. “Oh, man! So does she know you’re sweet on her, or does she still think…hah! I’m so sorry.”

“Well, at least you’re taking this well,” Preston muttered. “And how did you know how I feel about her?”

The mercenary shrugged. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the Minutemen who doesn’t know about your little crush. Well, anyone except Myra, apparently. You’re not exactly subtle. I mean, you built her a whole art studio. Who does that?”

“She knows now,” Preston said with a heavy sigh. “I told her. Not that it’s any of your business, but she said she’s not interested.”

“I’m sorry, Preston,” MacCready managed, choking back his laughter out of respect for his...friend? Were they friends? “That really sucks.”

“Yeah.” Preston walked back to the pot on the stove, ladling out a portion of pale, pungent chowder. “Here. Try this and tell me if it needs anything.”

MacCready accepted the offered bowl, scooping a large spoonful into his mouth. He grimaced as the hot soup scalded his mouth. “It’s hot!” he hissed.

“Are you five?” Preston replied with a look of disdain. “Blow on it first, you idiot.”

“No time. Too hungry.” MacCready shoveled more of the chowder into his mouth greedily. It wasn’t particularly well-seasoned, but it was filling, and right now that was his main concern. He polished off the bowl, setting it on the table.

Preston stared at him. “So...was it good?”

“Needs salt,” Mac replied. “And maybe some fresh herbs, but we’re not gonna get those until we get a garden going. Other than that, well...it’s mirelurk.”

“Not a fan?” the Colonel asked.

“So not a fan,” MacCready replied. “I hate their beady little eyes and their…” He wiggled his fingers. “Their creepy legs. They’re like bugs, but even more gross.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” Preston mused, “but we’re all gonna be eating mirelurk until the radio’s fixed. No one knows it’s safe to send provisioners here. Besides, it’d be a waste not to eat all that meat.”

MacCready groaned. “This is revenge, isn’t it? For the mole rats.”

Preston chuckled. “The thought had occurred to me. But it’s also about setting an example. We shouldn’t waste food like that when there are people starving in the Commonwealth who would literally kill for what we have.”

“Then invite them over,” MacCready muttered. “Leave me out of it.”

“Your loss,” the Colonel replied. “Why don’t you get started on that garden of yours, then?”

“Maybe I will,” the mercenary shot back. “Then you’ll see.”

::::

Days flew by as life in the Castle fell into a sort of routine. Mornings were spent clearing debris and salting down what was left of the mirelurk horde to preserve what wouldn’t fit in the one working fridge. MacCready spent his afternoons in his garden, a small patch of land Zev helped him clear just beyond the Castle walls. It would take a while before they were able to plant anything, but at least the soil was tilled and fertilized, ready for spring planting.

When he wasn’t in the garden, Mac was checking up on Myra and Danse. After she’d passed out, the General was kept off duty, in spite of her protests. She spent most of her time in the clinic while her wounds healed, watching over the still-slumbering Paladin. Danse’s fever had broken, but Carrington had instructed that he be kept sedated until his injuries healed, for his own comfort. The acid burns that covered his torso were still raw, and were probably extraordinarily painful.

It was one such visit that brought Mac to the clinic on this particular day, carrying an old cafeteria tray loaded with food. MacCready wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the tone of Myra’s voice caught his attention, and he found himself hanging on her every word as he waited in the doorway.

Myra sat in a worn chair beside the Paladin’s bed, clasping one of his large, strong hands in hers. Her hands were dwarfed by his, small and pale like those of a child. Her bright emerald eyes searched his slumbering face, her voice trembling as she spoke to him. “Danse,” she said softly, reverently, “Please, I need you to be ok. You can’t leave me alone like this. You promised you’d fight by my side until we found Shaun. How am I supposed to do any of this without you?”

MacCready approached slowly. Myra’s attention completely focused on his face as she gently brushed his dark hair off his forehead with one hand. The gesture was unexpectedly tender and familiar, and MacCready could feel guilt rising in his gut for spying on such a private moment. He cleared his throat so as not to startle her. Myra pulled her hand back to her side, turning to look at him with a guilty expression in her eyes.

“Hey, Mac. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I...I wanted to check on you, boss, see how you were holding up. Have you eaten anything today?”

She shook her head, eyeing the tray as MacCready placed it on the table next to her. “I don’t think so. But that’s ok. I can eat later.”

“Myra. You’ve been in here for hours again. Preston told me he tried to get you to rest, and you yelled at him. Can you at least eat something so you don’t pass out?”

“I…” she started, her voice shaking as she met his gaze. “What if he doesn’t get better, Mac? Dr. Carrington said that all we can do now is keep him comfortable, but what if it’s not enough?”

“Hey,” he soothed, snagging a blanket from the foot of the single bed Danse occupied and spreading it over Myra, “He’s going to be fine. You know the guy better than I do, and even I know how stubborn he is. Do you really think he’s going to give up on you now?”

She gave him a sad smile. “You’re right, Mac. But willpower might not be enough this time. Carrington said that the shock to his system from all the pain might be too much for his body to handle. Back before the War, we had facilities that could handle this, put him in a medically-induced coma until they were able to fix the damage. But now…Is drugging him to hell really...” Myra shuddered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on the Paladin’s face again.

MacCready watched her for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. He wasn’t particularly good with words, not when it really mattered. He’d always been the punch first and use diplomacy second kind of guy. But he knew that lost look on Myra’s face all too well, and he’d give anything to spare her the worry and pain that he knew rested in her heart.

“Try to eat, ok?” he managed after a long moment, tucking the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Preston made his mirelurk chowder again, so you should really give it a try while it’s still warm. Stuff’s like glue when it gets cold. And, hey, I might not be the best company, but I’ll be around if you need me. Just ask.”

Myra nodded slightly, and he left the room, looking back at her still form as she continued staring at Danse’s body, willing him to recover.

As MacCready walked back to the kitchen, Preston caught his attention, the minuteman’s deep, dark eyes searching his for news.

“Is Myra holding up ok? Did you manage to get her to eat?”

MacCready shook his head. “It’s really hard to say, Preston. I mean, I’ve never seen her like this before.”

“Me neither. I just wish there was more we could do.”

::::

Almost a week after the liberation of the Castle, Danse finally stirred. MacCready was on observation duty when it happened, chatting with Kestrel about her space ghouls.

“So you really helped them get those old rockets going?” he asked in amazement. “And they worked?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Honestly, I didn’t do much. It was mostly Chris, that guy who thought he was a ghoul.”

“So is everyone from out west crazy, or just the ones I’ve heard about?” MacCready teased.

“Hey! I’m not crazy,” Kes shot back. “I’m just slightly brain-damaged.”

“Right. Because you got shot in the head. Twice.”

“I can’t believe you don’t believe me!” she hissed. “I’ve shown you the scars!”

“Hey, I’m not the one who helped ghouls go to space,” Mac replied. “I’m just saying, that doesn’t seem like something a sane person does.”

“Aff...irmative,” moaned Danse from behind them.

MacCready rushed to the Paladin’s side. “Holy crap, I think he’s coming to!”

The Paladin stared up at him, his dark eyes confused. “You...Is Myra…”

“She’s fine, Danse,” MacCready said, nodding to Kes to go find the General. “We sent her to go get some sleep. She’s barely left your side this whole time.”

The Paladin smiled groggily. “Outstanding...I’m relieved that she’s...all right. Let’s go see her.” He tried to sit up, groaning in discomfort as his body sluggishly responded.

MacCready gently pushed him back down on the bed. “Easy, Danse. You’re on a pretty crazy amount of chems right now. I wouldn’t recommend trying to stand up. From what I hear, it was hard enough to keep all your guts in when they brought you in here. Who knows what could happen if you get up now?”

“But...I feel fine,” the Paladin slurred, still trying to stand. “I need to see Myra...make sure she’s safe.”

“I promise she’s safe. She’s probably already on her way here to see you.”

Danse grinned, smacking MacCready lightly on the cheek. “Thank you...little weasel man. You’re my best friend.”

MacCready grimaced. “Whoa. Ok, Danse. Easy. It’s just the drugs talking.”

Myra tore into the room, her eyes frantic. “Danse?” she cried.

“Myra!” he replied, beaming at her. “Brandis was right you...do look like an angel. So...pretty…”

She blushed, taking his hand in hers. “Damn, sir. How many drugs did Carrington give you?”

Danse thought for a moment. “Feels like...all of them?”

Myra turned to MacCready. “How long has he been awake?”

“Just a couple minutes. We got you as soon as he came to. Carrington said the drugs should wear off soon, now that he’s been on a lower dosage the past couple days.”

Myra cocked an eyebrow at him. “This is a lower dosage? Damn.”

“Stop...stop talking about me like I’m not here,” muttered Danse. “I’m...I’m right here.”

Myra snorted, patting his hand. “Sorry, Danse. It’s good to see you awake, that’s all. I’ve been worried sick. You almost died. Like, a bunch of times.”

“Well, I’m not dead,” the Paladin replied. “I don’t think, at least.” He frowned up at MacCready. “Am I dead?”

“Yup,” Mac replied with a slight chuckle. “You’re dead all right. I’m actually the devil, here for your soul!”

“No!” Danse replied, clutching at Myra’s hand. “Don’t let him take me, Myra!”

Myra glared at Mac. “Are you happy now? It’s not fair to take advantage of the poor man when he’s high as balls.”

“But when else will I get the opportunity?” Mac asked, smirking.

“Go!” Myra commanded with a chuckle. “Find Carrington or something. He’ll probably want to know that Danse is awake.”

MacCready sighed. “Fine. But I’m not gonna pretend to be happy about it.” He left the room, frowning slightly as a nagging sensation in his gut urged him to stay, to not leave Myra and Danse on their own.

It took MacCready the better part of an hour to track down Carrington. When he finally found him, the misanthropic doctor was sitting alone in the kitchen, frowning down at his dinner. MacCready pulled up a chair across from him, flopping into it with a sigh.

“I presume you’re bothering me for a good reason?” muttered Carrington.

“Danse is awake,” the mercenary replied. “Thought you might like to know.”

Carrington nodded. “I was hoping he’d come around soon. Good. That means I won’t have to stay in this nasty old building any longer.”

“Hey, I’ve seen where you live. This place is way better! It’s even above-ground. I’m sure once we get the rest of it cleaned up, it’ll even be nice.”

The doctor sighed. “I highly doubt it. And even if that’s the case, it’s still not a very good location. Too far from everything.”

MacCready grinned. “There really is no pleasing you, is there, doctor?”

“I suppose I just have high standards,” the older man replied, dropping his spoon into the viscous soup with a frown. “Well, let’s get this check-up over with, so I can get back to my own problems. I’ve already been gone too long.”

The nagging feeling reasserted itself, and Mac did his best to ignore it. “Sounds good. I’m sure Deacon misses you.”

“I have no doubt,” Carrington replied, standing up from the table. Together, they walked back down the hall of the keep, towards the clinic. They could hear shouting well before they reached the door, and MacCready grimaced.

“What do you mean it’s been scrapped?” Danse growled.

“I meant what I said, Danse,” Myra replied. “We were able to salvage the fusion core, but your armor’s gone, I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to explain to Maxson what happened, or should I?” he asked angrily. “It’s bad enough that we abandoned our posts without telling anyone where we were going. But to lose a suit of power armor…we should consider ourselves incredibly fortunate if all he does is lecture us.”

MacCready sighed as he walked into the room. Myra stood by Danse’s bed, her arms crossed. The Paladin was sitting upright, his dark brown eyes filled with nervous energy. “Hey,” the mercenary said, drawing their attention, “You both need to calm down before you hurt yourselves.”

“Shut up, MacCready,” they said in unison.

“No. Heck no. You two need to listen to me this time. Myra, I know you’re angry at Danse for caring so much about his stupid armor when he almost died. That’s fine, but you’re not going to help him by just yelling at him, ok?”

Myra rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut.

“Danse,” Mac continued, “there’s got to be something we can do about your armor. It can’t be the only set of T-60 armor we have access to, right? Myra, isn’t there that set you’ve got sitting in your house in Sanctuary?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but it’s all beaten up, and missing a helmet.”

“Great! Danse doesn’t wear his anyway. No one will notice. We can ask Sturges to fix it up for us.”

“That…might work, actually,” Myra replied. “What do you think, Danse?”

“Very well,” the Paladin sighed. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that we disobeyed orders.”

“I’ll worry about that, Danse,” Myra said. She turned back to MacCready. “Mac, if I can get a vertibird here, can you get Danse up to Sanctuary? I’ll radio Kestrel’s friend Ignatius to meet us there.”

MacCready nodded. “No problem. I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall out of the stupid thing.”

Myra grinned. “That’d be a sight. Thanks.”

Danse frowned. “You’re not going back to the Prydwen alone, are you?”

She nodded. “I’ll go deal with Maxson, explain that I didn’t give you a choice. That’s pretty much the truth anyway. I’ll join you in Sanctuary when I’m done. There’s...there’s some things I need to take care of, there, and it’s a safe place for you to heal up. When you’re better and we’ve fixed up that armor, we’ll report back in together, I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that, Larimer” the Paladin retorted. “I’m your commanding officer. It’s my responsibility.”

Myra frowned, grabbing his hand. “Damn it, Danse! You saved my life, and almost lost yours in the process. I fucking owe you, ok? Just this once, will you let me take care of you?”

He stared at her in shock. “I…” Danse sighed. “Very well. But only this one time, since we’re technically in your jurisdiction...General.”

“And don’t forget it,” she replied, squeezing his hand. The two of them locked eyes, gazing warmly at each other as though frozen in place.

MacCready glanced over at Carrington, but the doctor didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy repacking his supplies for the long walk back to the church. The mercenary cleared his throat, startling Myra and Danse. The pair quickly moved away from each other, red-faced.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” MacCready said. “Let’s get you up, and dressed, Danse. Myra, I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”

“Ok. I'll go see if I can contact the Prydwen,” she replied, rushing from the room towards the courtyard.

MacCready frowned, once more choking back the nagging feeling in his gut. Everything was going to be fine. So why was he so worried?