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Chapter Text

Sweat clung to the Sole Survivor’s Vault suit, her breaths shaky in the humid air past the Boston Commons. Hours of non-stop travel, despite her companion’s insistence. Hours of nerve endings tingling, wide brown eyes never able to stop replaying what was said. 

Nora and Nick Valentine had a mission, and she had no intentions of pausing for anything .

Blood stained along the royal blue of her Vault suit, the cobbled leather pieces replacing what was usually her mask. That suit of power armor found atop the Museum of Freedom, binding her away from facing her reality. Away from the grief that riddled her bones. Even through the overlap of maternal rage felt when her laser musket struck through Kellogg’s heart.

Valentine’s eyes were careful on Nora, the pair staring up at the bright neon lights of Goodneighbor’s entrance. Shadows along the large fortified wall made the signs a bit brighter, even in the afternoon daylight. It was the only place in the Commonwealth he knew where to find the resources they needed. When Kellogg’s eyes fixed on the two, a death rattle echoed along the office room when Nora ran towards the terminal. The grizzled old mercenary’s secrets dying alongside him… So much as they assumed. 

“Stick close to me, alright? Ain’t really the best side of town, here. Ain’t anything like Diamond City…” Nick murmured. For better or for worse , he meant to add, but the thought stayed back in his mind. He could’ve only hoped it was a quick trip, at least towards the Memory Den. The Sole Survivor hadn’t stopped shaking since they’d left Fort Hagen, the blood at least wiped from her hands and her face along the walk across the Commonwealth. Though, it felt like she never stopped. Brushing off any requests, he asked if she needed to sit, or eat, anything . Nora had come to ignore all the recent postpartum pains through the depression. A loud, neverending ringing in her ears. 

She had to find Shaun . 

Nora’s eyes kept up as she examined what used to be Scolley Square. Never a place she’d necessarily chosen to be at, aside from the Slocum’s Joe that sat nearby the Old State House. Her and Nate always preferred catching local games in Fenway Park, especially when the options of comfortable seats cushioned the later half of her pregnancy. Now, just as it all was, the world was in ruin. Shadowing over her shoulders, wearing her losses like a cloak. All stitched and fashioned from nuclear debris. 

“Hold up there! First time in Goodneighbor, Vaultie… Gal like you is gonna need some insurance… “A taller man stood in their way, ignoring the Detective as his lighter clicked against the end of a cigarette. Nora didn’t catch a proper glimpse of his face, not when her nose crinkled slightly at the colorful smells of the city. The lingering smoke of fired ammunition, spills of chems, and those unable to handle their liquor in mass quantities. Stomach churning to the unmasked nose. “ Hey , I’m talking to you!” 

The man barked a bit louder, his threat falling to the continuous ringing in her ears. The dull aching in her chest that she learned was only soothed by wet cloths or the miniscule doses of Med-X to prevent mastitis. Whatever else was said, she couldn’t tell. Not the adamant threat towards her and Valentine, not till flashes of red, white, and blue came into her upper view. 

“Nick Valentine pays a rare visit to town, and you start harassin’ his friend here? You know better than to pull that extortion crap… First time someone steps through here, they’re a guest. Ain’t seein’ you holding the authority, Finn. Good to see you again, Nicky.”

“ Hancock .”

The next voice was different . Dragging low and rough along the weathered brick under their feet. A back and forth that hadn’t yet grasped Nora’s attention. 

“She ain’t one of us, and Valentine up and left after Malone!”

“No love for your Mayor, Finn? Let ‘em go .”

“You’re goin’ soft, Hancock. And one of these days, soon , there’ll be a new Mayor, if you don’t keep lettin’ these newcomers step on our throats.”

Nick’s attention was relaxed, put elsewhere. He scanned the general area, paying mind to the drifters and residents alike who leaned in to see the spectacle. He was far from threatened when the Mayor stepped in, eventually laying eyes on a drifter he’d never seen.
Thin yellow irises made eye contact with the woman on the wall. A stare lingering and piercing through the tinted lenses of her biker goggles, trying to get a gauge on who she might’ve been. She certainly didn’t look like a Goodneighbor resident, not with that silver Pip-Boy that lowered down in the afternoon sun. Her face and head were covered, wrapped in a black scarf to conceal the sensitivity of her identity. A stark contrast to the armor she wore, her midriff exposed and leaned into the steel wall. Perhaps another, more well versed Vault Dweller, but that seemed unlikely. The Mercenary’s posture simply made her harder to read, but her arm lowered a bit when they locked eyes.

Her Pip-Boy fell to her side as well, the screen still open on the since dialed down SIlver Shroud radio. Nick’s attention ripped from the pink screen towards the Ghoul Mayor in front of them. The sound of steel piercing flesh echoed through the quiet entrance of the city. Some exchanged remarks about Finn’s unpleasantries, others swooning over the twist of Hancock’s knife in his hand. The stench of blood overshadowing it all, Nora let out a small gasp.

The Sole Survivor stared back. The man who the voice belonged to, who Nick had addressed as ‘Hancock’, drew his blade from the man’s gut. Irises a stark white against only pupils meeting her own in tandem with his speech.

“Now, why’d you have to go and say that, huh? Breaking an old Ghoul’s heart over here… You alright, sister?”

Had it not been for the blood on his hands, Hancock would’ve offered a hand to shake. Opting instead to wring the red off of well sharpened steel, finally facing the pair to get a better look. Suppose he should’ve expected Nora’s reaction, the way her eyes stayed wide as saucers when Finn had hit the ground with a heavy thud. She didn’t say anything for a moment, not through the throws of anxiety that held her tight around the throat. The thickness of terror, fight or flight suddenly sticking her heels in place and her hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“You… You’re face …” Nora managed to choke out, studying the man dressed in the stolen valor of Revolutionary history. Uneven blonde hair framed his lack of skin, handsome features still shining through a devilish smirk despite being mottled by radiation. White irises stood stark against blown out pupils, scanning the Vault Dweller up and down. 

“Like it, huh? I’m a Ghoul, ya see? Lot of rad-freaks ‘round here, so ya might wanna keep those questions on the low burner… Ain’t seen you in a while, Nick, few little birds told me you went missing?” Hancock’s expression stayed kinder towards Nora than it did momentarily, the tip of his hat moving alongside his shift towards Valentine. 

The Detective gave an apologetic look, the briefest of glances moving back towards the woman who stood along the wall. Her posture moved upwards when the stabbing took place, obviously her eyes never left the scene. Even when the others had cleared out…

“Hell of a long story, Hancock… We’re headed off to see Amari. Depending on what we find, we’ll catch up .” 

Once again Nora had drowned out the conversation, hardly able to pick her feet back up to move further into the city when Nick patted her shoulder. She was hardly relieved to see the Mayor leave, her unease and lack of questions answers falling flat when she passed by it. 

Plastered along the outside alleyway of the Old State House. A Silver Shroud poster leaving the bitter taste of nostalgia on her tongue. 

The Mercenary’s gaze fixed back to the radio, the Mayor and his Bodyguard disappearing into the depths of the Old State House once more as she listened into the Silver Shroud’s radio station. Nearly almost a week of moving about Goodneighbor, operating in the shadows on behalf of the name of justice… No one knew who she was, and they certainly didn’t know who the man behind the Silver Shroud costume was.

Fingerless gloved hands moved the volume dial back to where it was, grateful her distance was kept from those within earshot. Some aforementioned drifters moved in and out of Daisy’s establishment, some cleaning the innerworks of their weaponry right then and there. Still, her eyes kept to the screen, flicking through the status page of the pale rosy pink screen.
“Another headline!” Kent Connolly’s voice followed an interruption of static, filling the space where a pre-war advertisement had been recorded among what was left of the show. “Mayor Hancock seeks a special meeting with our hero, the Silver Shroud! Whatever it’s about, Shroud, we’re with you.” 

–

“I could’ve handled Finn, you know… If you were so concerned about what this ‘Silver Shroud is doing all the time. You always step in before I can have any fun.” 

Fahrenheit’s lighter burned bright against the end of her own cigarette, the flame kept open for a moment longer than usual. Steel eyes closing for a moment as she breathed in centuries old smoke, before her brow raised towards the Mayor.
A ruined hand moved to cut down the volume on the radio, several days spent on the Silver Shroud’s radio keeping him wrapped in intrigue over the mysterious comic book character. The one who’d been keeping Goodneighbor’s gutters running clear for the time being, gunning down the odd chem-pusher and mercenary. Something about it always brought him to chuckle when he thought about it, someone running about in a costume, poking around every alley with a machine gun. Nearly five years of it, and Kent finally found someone to take up his crazy little plan. 

“Ain’t like it was personal, no need to torture the guy… People are gettin’ worried I can’t get my hands dirty, is all. Just gotta remind everyone who’s in charge.” 

Footsteps creaked along the main floor of the Old State House, catching glimpses of the conversation above. Leather gloved hands gripping tightly to the railing of the spiral stairs, sharp eyes peering below and above dark sunglasses. The message through the radio was ominous enough, spoken with an edge of hesitation since the Mayor’s request to meet. 

The Silver Shroud could hear water running, as ruined hands rinsed the blood from himself and the frill of his dressing gown. 

A leering, steely gaze met the Shroud, Fahrenheit brushing shoulders as she made her way down the stairs. Leaving the Shroud to their own devices, perhaps for good reason. 

“So, guess what someone tells me. Some costumed freak is operating in Goodneighbor, kicker is… It ain’t even me! How should I feel about this?” 

Hancock spun on his heels, the water squeezed from his sleeve as he shed the velvet frock he wore. Aged Victorian linens rolled up to his elbows, leaving only the layer of blue and gold embroidery. He faced the Silver Shroud now, his eyes meeting shaded ones, an obvious curiosity gnawing behind that smirk. 

For nearly weeks it had been going on, and hardly any time to ask for an audience. 

The Silver Shroud paused. Unsure what they were expecting from the Mayor’s introduction. Was it hardly even an introduction? They both knew one another on the very basic of levels…

“I haven’t crossed a line, have I?” They said plainly, taking the opportunity to move out of the open doorway as Hancock motioned them to sit. Both crashing in adjacent sofas from one another. Blue eyes narrowed behind their shades, catching the gleam of gold and multicolored jewelry on his hands, and around his neck.

“Dunno,” Hancock said, that damnable smirk not leaving as he leaned forward. “Why don’t we do a little recap? You took out a few Raiders, a few lower than life scumbags, like Delancy. I can respect that, you’re runnin’ pretty clean so far… It’s only one detail. You’ve got eyes on ya now.” 

The Silver Shroud’s head tilted, almost catching his gaze from above the rim of their glasses. 

“You’ve been pokin’ around, catching the attention of a certain up and coming Raider gang. Guy who runs it, Sinjin, he’s gunning straight for a Silver Shroud… But hey, you start shoving that machine gun at his people, it helps me out. Keeps scum like him outta my friendly, neighborly community.” 

Hancock sat back a bit, eyes never leaving them. Thoughts running a mile a minute, a hand reaching for the tin of Mentats off the table. White irises flicked towards them, as if to offer the open tin, but their expressionlessness he took as a no. 

“And why should I take care of your dirty laundry, Mayor Hancock . I tend to hire out, unless there are favors exchanged,” they said lowly. 

He almost let out a laugh. Knowing it was nearly impossible for them to hide their accent, whether it was put on on purpose, he couldn’t tell. That sultry, almost pre-war Hollywood tone… Obvious they were well versed enough in Old Word media. 

“Well, see it like this. Nobody here knows who the fuck you are… Not even me. And if someone doesn’t take care of ‘em, you’ll be the ex-Silver Shroud . That being said, let’s say I owe ya.” 

A moment of silence hung, rigid and empty. Filled only with the shuffle of feet and creak of floorboards below where drifters had made their temporary homes. 

“ But… If you hire out, I gotta know who you are. I gotta know who my caps are goin’ to. You understand…” 

Hancock’s arm moved to the back of the sofa, Mentats kept to one cheek to dissolve through the conversation. Though, it was stimulating enough, having an audience with such a mysterious newcomer. Especially one who upheld mercenary standards next to a paragon of comic book justice. 

The Shroud was quick. Perhaps too quick. Moving the glasses off their eyes, replacing something deep in their trench coat pocket with the shades. An arm outstretched towards him, handing him a simple laminated identification card. 

Rose Alice Burke, Capital Wasteland Mercenary, Residence — Tenpenny Tower, Age 32.

The noir threads of the comic character were shed, all folded neatly into a pile next to her on the seat. All stripping off but the scarf that covered her face, letting it sit around her neck. Dark hair unpinned from where she had it in her hat, clean waves sitting just so to frame her face. Piercing eyes never left the hand he held her ID, not even as he studied her face upright. He found himself drawn to that large scar, painted over with rouge, defined in the light that seeped in from behind her. 

A ruined hand outstretched to return her card, her name feeling odd on his tongue. 

“ Rose Burke , huh? Guess I owe it to you as well. John Hancock ,” he said, his voice a bit lower in octave. “You’re an awfully long way from home, then, doll… Ain’t often folks stop by here if they ain’t running from something.”

Their eyes met one another’s, lingering for a time as her ID pocketed back in its place, sending a dull shiver down his spine. Extended eye contact was a rare thing, from most citizens shaking through heavy withdrawals, to even his own Bodyguard being unable to look at him straight. The Mercenary did. Her shoulders tensed at his latter comment, a hand keeping her posture fixed on the cushion. 

Rose didn’t elaborate, she simply stared. Her fingers tracing along the many cracks in red leather, feeling the collapsed stuffing just within. 

“Well, maybe I came here for another reason… Meet someone, settle down.”

A chuckle left his lips at her sarcasm, “gal like you wouldn’t have a problem with that in a place like Diamond City… Here , though? ‘Less that’s what brought you here, you just got a type for handsome Ghouls?”

Hancock’s smirk never faltered, the studying of her clothes, her posture, the way the light behind her casted shadows along her face. That wicked scar running just below her eye down towards her chin… All the beauty of a pin-up model a young John McDonough used to admire, all the edge of the Wasteland settling in her eyes. The fray along cropped burgundy fabric, the wear and tear of patchwork leather she adorned herself in. Hardly a stranger to the Wastes, he’d assume, but that Pip-Boy on her arm made him curious…

“If you want the truth, the Capital is barren. Those Brotherhood of Steel bastards scrapped an entire city just to make it out… The rest of the land is practically inhospitable. There’s nothing left, not for me , not that there ever was in the first place.”
Rose’s eyes flicked down in that moment, the mask she wore slipping only slightly in the moment. Solemness tinged her voice in a way the Mayor knew well… 

Desperation was hidden well enough, the assumptions made she was one of many who were displaced after the Brotherhood’s iron fist pillaged what was left. Before he could ask, before the chalky berry flavor could fade from his tongue, she spoke again.

Rose’s throat cleared, her head lifting slightly in an air of secure confidence, hardly a crack among her disposition, “now we aren’t strangers… You can finally give more than a few details on this job of yours. This Sinjin character, I’ll need more details than the fact I’m helping you in the long run…”

“Uh, right ,” Hancock muttered, shifting in place on the adjacent sofa, “he’s taken two-bit Raider outfits, made ‘em scary . Small fish now, but in a few years, ain’t really something the Commonwealth needs, dig? Got sources out near Bunker Hill who’ve given some leads, Smiling Kate and Northy… Smiley’s gathering a lil’ posse to take you, or the Shroud , out. And Northy? He’s runnin’ scared, hired up some more of his own goons around Prospect. We pile enough body bags, we’ll find the big guy. Feel me?”

The Mercenary nodded, keeping the Mayor’s gaze, her legs uncrossing as her eyes flicked to the Pip-Boy on her arm. Dials turned to mark the locations along the map, a marker placed just past Bunker Hill. Hancock stood slow, his coat sliding back around his shoulders, eyeing her still.

“Well, you get ready, and I’ll meet ya by the gate, sister. Just gotta have a little chat with my community, let ‘em know I’m hitting the road.”

“ What ?” Sharp eyes snapped back up to the Ghoulish Mayor, standing up alongside him, “you’re paying me for this job, and you want to come alongside? Couldn’t you have taken care of your own dirty work, Hancock ?” The way his name rolled off her tongue, anger hardly shrouded in the disarray of her routine, it was enough to bring those impure thoughts to rear in his head. Rose found it hard to adjust, her companions always dropped into her lap when she least expected. She came for freedom , not to be interrogated or followed by the town’s own.

Hancock’s grin almost mocked her in the moment, a ruined hand careful to not brush the sunken deteriorating cartilage, whatever was left of his nose. A small moment of silence felt like ages for the two, both unsure if the heat between them was just the radiation from under his frock coat. He kept quiet, only reaching in front of her to hand back the costume she was worn in. “Ain’t wrong for me to leave from time to time. Keeps me honest… What ? Ain’t ready to take a handsome Ghoul out for a little lay of the land, Burke?” 

Red lips parted to protest, her teeth gritting in place of words, her fingers hooking around her scarf to raise over her nose. It did well enough to hide the flush of her face, her brows furrowing slightly to combat the feeling.

“I work alone, Mayor Hancock …”

“And I wasn’t askin’, Rose Burke .” 

There came that rise of heat again, this time mingling with the scent of pre-war perfume that lingered on the Mercenary’s neck. A threat, maybe, but he didn’t seem the type… His interaction with the poor Vault Dweller that was near tears by the stunt in the courtyard, the retract of a bloodied hand. A good word spoken towards the two when they passed deeper into the city. Actions were almost always louder than words, her father taught her that well… Though, she couldn’t shake the worry in Kent’s voice through that playback. Rose swallowed hard as she watched Hancock brush past her, her arm touching the open fray of crimson velvet as he did. A settled dryness in her throat at the smell of Jet that lingered on his person. Gunpowder and artificial cherry mingling against her senses, even through the scarf she wore.

She started her way back down the spiral of stairs, the costume clutched tight in her hands, away from prying eyes. For the first time in nearly a decade she found herself drawn in, drawn to want to overhear the speech he planned. Hearing the loud clicking of the door when her hand found the knob a floor below him.

What was she thinking, she thought, a frown forming deep under her scarf, it was a risk being out here to begin with.

Reinforced boots picked up a pace over towards the Memory Den, forcing herself to not look back as his voice traveled along, calling up the drifters and lingering residents below. She had to get herself together, to grab the remainder of her supplies that Kent had kept safe for her. There was no chance she’d risk leaving her things in the Hotel Rexford, if she wasn’t staying the night.

“Looking for Kent, sweetheart? He’s downstairs helping Amari…” Irma’s voice was next to hit Rose’s ears, the tension in her shoulders releasing with a sudden sigh. A breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding as she made her way across the block.

“Just grabbing my things…” Rose muttered quietly, making the proprietor return a frown. Nothing else was said, her presence moving in and out faster than Irma could question about her meeting with the Mayor. Leaving her to wonder what came of the encounter, if Kent’s fears had any real weight to them. 

Instead, the door shut tight behind her. 

–

Chapter Text

“Ready to hit the road, Killer?”

The Mercenary’s sniper rifle moved to her back, catching the curious eye of the Ghoul Mayor who pushed off the side of the gate’s entrance. 

Stares peering into and over her back, those same drifters trying to gauge who the woman might’ve been. She had managed to keep her head down, her face hidden. Recognized and greeted more frequently as the costumed crusader she had since stuffed into her bag. 

So many eyes only reminded her of the past, of those few times heels hit those patterned carpets. Her arm locked around that of the casino’s own…

“Can you even leave Goodneighbor? I thought you were Mayor…” Rose’s tone carried a certain sarcasm, one to deflect her inner turmoil. Only, it made his already existing smirk widen. The nickname he gave her was not lost in the question, only shrugged off as if it were simply a title. Perhaps it was, directly and indirectly.

“Fahrenheit’s got me covered for a few days, besides, ain’t like the mayor ain’t still the mayor. ‘In-residence’ or not… Basically runs itself most days anyway, ain’t like I’m a tyrant lookin’ over everyone’s shoulders like in Diamond City.” He motioned her to walk first through the door of the gate, the steel shutting tight behind them as the prying gazes finally tapered off. It was hard hiding the disdain, mention of his brother always put a bad taste in his mouth… “Just had to take a walk, get some fresh air. Why? Ya almost make it sound like ya don’t want me here.”

Hancock wanted to reach out, a friendly pat on the shoulder as his usual go-to quickly redirected as a shove in his pocket. The shotgun he carried on his shoulder put strain on the worn velvet of his coat, their eyes fixated between the road and one another in different intervals. Her shifting, the way her biker goggles lined back up over her eyes, hiding the makeup he was now close enough to study. He couldn’t see her smirk reforming, but he could almost hear it in her voice.

“Right, and end up being the next spectacle of the town to be thrown over the wall?” Tinted lenses glanced back at him for a moment, for once having wiped that look off his face, her fingers locking around the belt that carried her holster. Fingerless gloves finding their way to settle between her pistol’s grip and the exposed skin of her side. “I’m not a stranger to having people along, I just… Don’t usually get chaperoned at my jobs.” 

The Ghoulish Mayor’s expression fell, fading into a neutral look as he brought his eyes away from her. The climb over rubble and ruin of a city destroyed by nuclear fire, offering a hand to help her along the uncertain terrain. There came understanding with mistrust, though the secure grip her hand had on his, he was unsure that was really the case…
“If you think that, maybe I ain’t doing my job right,” he muttered, the tone of his voice matching the rubble under their feet, “like to think I ain’t a tyrant people have to fear…” 

“Then forgive me for assuming,” Rose said quickly, the pair locked hands till they made it over the pile up of concrete debris and what was left of vehicles and rust. What would’ve been a certain tumble down, and a concussion later, the two saved each other from that outcome.
The warmth of his palm against her own, the way their fingers locked, she pulled away slowly when they made it to solid ground. “Can’t say I’ve even been to Diamond City yet… Those walls, it makes it look like a fucking prison…”

That caught his attention again, a dry, humorless chuckle leaving his lips as his hand moved back into his pocket. Twirling about the old tin in his hand to replace the coolness of the leather that bound soft skin. Even the brush of her fingers against his own making destroyed nerve ending ache so dully. A brow raised involuntarily, almost surprised. She hadn’t even been to Diamond City, even though she almost looked like she’d been spit out by a Vault.

“Can’t say you ain’t right about that… McDonough’s a real stickler about freedom of speech, guy’s too much of a coward, I guess.”

He found himself walking in tandem with her, their paces kept quick, but not overbearing. The occasional flicker of bright pink light among the shadows of dipping afternoon sun catching his gaze. So many questions swam between his ears, but none of them were able to come to fruition. Rose gave a small nod when his brother was brought up, another bout of silence leaving him with his thoughts and the eerie distant noises of the outdoors. Only so much as a hand raising to be sure they were quiet between one of the alleyways. A shortcut squeezing them out of sight of Raiders who lurked among their own walled off settlement.

Rose was vigilant, following close beside her companion as they shuffled the wall, one hand on the grip of her pistol, the other hovering along his back. Wasteland camouflage did little when the man in front of her stuck out against the backdrop, but he seemed to know the area better than her Pip-Boy could ever show.

Raiders, she wasn’t afraid of, it was the external factors that ate their way through her consciousness. Nearly less than a week had passed since she had traversed through Bunker Hill on her own, stepping off port from the Capital into the Commonwealth was nearly night and day. She hardly missed it for a moment, had the fear not been all consuming. At least being the Silver Shroud covered the past that she fought to escape, and the reinvigoration to leave things where they lie. Locked away behind the door of a hotel suite, held all by the key that tucked under the burgundy wool she wore.

A veer right, the pair came back to one another’s sides. The pace slowed down as they reached sight of the monument that marked their waypoint.

“Heard Bunker Hill pays off Raiders to leave ‘em alone… Hell, if Goodneighbor did that, where would we get our target practice?” John mumbled, mostly to himself, but he was glad someone was listening. After most instances when Fahrenheit simply learned to ignore him, or when the deafening silence followed the death of his last traveling companion… The townsfolk never counted, either. Most were willing enough to hang on every word, but usually only for the wrong reasons. Everyone always needed something, and he wasn’t one to deny it, but it was never quite as intimate as he would’ve wanted. It was the soft chuckle of the Mercenary that ripped his thoughts back down out of the clouds. Back into the present where he wasn’t alone. 

“I’d imagine they drive hard bargains,” Rose added, beginning her stride past the gates, headed off towards where a small group rallied. She assumed as much, the ‘Smiling Kate’ character Hancock had mentioned before their leaving. A high-pitched, grating laughter from the woman who gathered her people in front of the old intersection.

Smiling Kate’s men were caught in the moment, rallying and cheering in her promises to take down the Silver Shroud, her carved smile stretched before she turned to face the two that approached. 

“Well, well, well… If it isn’t the girl behind the costume, and the Ghoul who hired her out. Mrs. Shroud and Mister Mayor… You’ve been very naughty, Mrs. Shroud, and here we planned to track you to Goodneighbor ourselves. Seems we’ll have twice the bounty when – “

The crack of a shotgun blast was fast, almost faster than the Mercenary could keep up with when her pistol raised once more. Shots fired faster than pipe pistols and rifles could keep up with to aim towards the pair. 

Trained eyes and quick hands working quickly to pick off the reminders of Raiders. The posse went down easy enough, the drop of a calling card over Smiling Kate’s body being the first of two. 

The trek northwest was the hardest part, the easiest was keeping a trained scope over the people Northy hired. Picking Triggermen off one by one by one, eventually moving Northy out of hiding. 

Scrambling to his feet, all he could do was cower behind an old dresser, in hopes the Silver Shroud wouldn’t find him. Assuming it was the Silver Shroud… It certainly had to be. The jittery shakes from Jet overuse, and the certainty of talk about a comic book vigilante come to life. It didn’t help the remaining Raider’s fear. 

Rose moved over the rooftop slowly, her goggles moved up to her head as the evening melted into night. It was the light that gave him away, an oil lamp lit just when he assumed himself safe. When Northy was unable to see a paradigm of justice on the approach, figuring whoever it was, they scavenged and took off. 

Breath gathered as she crouched behind one of the ruined walls, her rifle set just inside the opening of centuries old wood. A single, well placed bullet running far from the silencer. 

A heavy spray clouding the light of the lantern as the final target went down in a mist of red. 

The Mayor was silently impressed. Waiting there with her, not wanting to interrupt her silent and strategic plans. 

Whatever he expected from the large rifle on her back, whether or not she could use it, she certainly surpassed his original thought. Seeing only glimpses from the close quarters and tight formation at point blank. 

Appearances were deceiving, he thought, but it only brought up more questions. Intrigue piling up in his mind as they scouted the area once more, eventually pulling back towards an area they’d just passed. 

Prospect was hardly an area most liked to bunker down in, even if it was just for a night. Open areas from once walkable town squares, buildings boarded or sunken in on themselves usually not offering much shelter from passersby. Raider traffic, usually, picking the area clean after two odd centuries. 

They settled on something further out, a patch of wooded area that seemed to have some traffic. A path formed through the dragging footsteps of those who’d set camp before them. Off of the main highways, and relatively secluded, giving a decent view on both sides to watch one another’s back. 

That much was relieving, to both of them. No longer looking over their own shoulders and straight ahead. As much as he prided on having Fahrenheit as a Bodyguard, John knew he’d never ask her to move outside of the city. 

Rose hadn’t had anyone but herself in the past few years. Her climb up Black Mountain and retreat with a new friend wasn’t one that lasted. Not when the Tenpenny Company Mercenaries were the ones to join her in and out of the Mojave. How ironic it was, now… 

Thoughts, doubts, ran through as the two set camp. Relieved to finally stop in the eeriness of the outdoors, frigid October air finally staking claim along the Mercenary when she settled in.

The Mayor followed suit, their gear all piled along one side, atop her messenger bag. A respectable enough distance, despite the way he studied her still. That gleaming pistol finding its way off her hip and into her lap…

“Where the Hell’d you learn to shoot like that?” 

Hancock finally broke the silence, the first thing to spill from his mind that wasn’t shrouded in impurity. Nothing befitting to be said when he caught a better glimpse of the details on her pistol… Ornate engravings, vines and the vague shapes of flowers and leaves. Faded colors painted into Mother Mary’s image on the grip, a strangely nostalgic sight to see in the Mercenary’s hand. 

Her eyes were quick to meet his, the magazine releasing as she went to address his question. One that seemed bittersweet to answer. 

“Where? Or who?” Rose tried to keep her tone level, memories of earlier childhood drowned out by training. By practice. By survival. “My father taught me as soon as I could hold a gun… Pistols, assault rifles, shotguns, worked my way up the list, shot just in the courtyard of the Tower. When I turned eighteen, I got my first sniper rifle.”

“Ain’t any wonder why you make it look so easy, then…” John’s tone changed with that, a bit lighter than the way he addressed her before. The laidback tone fading into something more rounded, more vulnerable. Perhaps it was seeing the Madonna etched into ivory that made his mind stutter. “Figured you’d be picking your teeth outta the gutter eventually, with all that Silver Shroud business. Kent’s been askin’ for years for someone to do it. Everyone was just too busy trying to hold their own as it is.”

“I had Hubris in mind when I first came through Bunker Hill,” Rose explained. Her hands moving along where the cold bit at her skin, arms folded around her midriff. “The couple that raised me, they had a radio show back in the Capital, in Galaxy News… I was lucky enough to sit in on the recordings, or Three Dog would let me take whatever merchandise wasn’t crumbling to dust. Always admired the Shroud. But that’s silly, isn’t it?” 

John’s head tilted, a ruined hand shaking through blonde hair as he settled on her words. She shared that tone, despite her unwillingness to open up before. 

Just the presence, the company she lacked for nearly another decade lingered. All her friends left behind in the hot desert sands, all those who were bound by contractual force left in the steel walls of her city. 

It hadn’t dawned until now just how alone she was… 

Kent was a good friend, within an arm's reach. He saw her more as a hero, the Silver Shroud come to life, rather than the woman who wore the clothes. Irma and Amari were much too busy to listen, though both seemed equally respectful. Daisy would’ve lent an ear, tried to, even. Until another customer burst in the open door, desperate for whatever supplies they lacked. 

“Nothing silly about it,” John murmured, shimmying out of the scarlet coat. The inner linings of silk and the outer layers of ripped velvet settling over her back, shielding her from the fall air. “I know you didn’t want me coming with ya, but… I ain’t the ponderous type, feel me? Instinct tells me something, and I listen. It told me, you might just the kind of trouble I’ve been waiting for…”

She almost startled, being wrapped in Revolutionary frock. A deep breath taken in almost instinctively, the sharpness of gunpowder and tobacco, sliced in half by that artificial cherry. Jet, cherry flavored Jet lingered on his collar. Warmth kept inside from the steady pump of radioactivity through his blood. She felt it from the moment they came close, when their hands locked tight along uneven ground. 

“You’d want to leave Goodneighbor, though? For this?” The Mercenary’s tone was far from judgmental, more so in disbelief he’d leave such a strong community. People who respected him, who he seemed to care for all the same. 

Rose hadn’t realized how close to two had gotten, the cold snuffed out between their proximity and the campfire. Bright orange casting deep shadows on one another, adding depth to the scars that sunk into their features. 

“I dunno…” John mumbled, another glance spared to the pistol in her lap, “maybe fate, or just goddamn coincidence, I guess.” 

He tried his damndest to scrape for new conversation, to pull the tide away from the softness of their words. Victory red lips didn’t turn downward that time, instead, she smiled before turning back to the gun. 

Another stretch of silence, more peaceful than the last, before another burning question took over. Spoken before anything else died back in his throat, one that nagged at him since he first saw it. 

“You didn’t strike me as the religious type… But ain’t a lot of people who go around wearing Mother Mary.” 

“It wasn’t mine,” Rose said quickly, “it is now. I can’t seem to get rid of it…”

The Ghoul Mayor blinked, going to speak again, to ask her to elaborate. Instead, being met with a quiet goodnight, a thankfulness for lending his coat for the night. Her form never inches away from his, though. She didn’t scurry to the opposite side of the roaring campfire, she stayed put. 

—

The next day, they set out early. Stories exchanged between their lives, time from her work in the Capital. Entanglements with the Brotherhood and old friends that have since long disappeared. His were more solemn, the Massacre of Goodneighbor, mentions of finding a young Fahrenheit who Detective Valentine had brought back to Diamond City one afternoon. 

Rose was still tightlipped about the Mojave, always met with a gentle shake of the head and a smile when John asked. A cheeky comment following it up before he recounted a story of his own. His youth was spent, when not full of gaps from chem-use, wandering and working. Partying when Goodneighbor’s soirées were few and far between, underground by the sounds of it. 

The previous Mayor’s death was one John took pride in, to an extent. Trying to dial back any doubts or emotions that came alongside it, careful to avoid being too attached to the Mercenary that walked beside him. 

His words about standing by, about running. When his elder brother purged families of Ghouls from their own city… When he couldn’t do anything but run. 

It spoke to her. Another wave of pain wracking her chest when she thought back on it. All of the times she’d turned her head, to avoid the — 

“I know you were playing tough before, Killer, but… I know you’re running. And I ain’t gotta ask you what it is, maybe it ain’t my business. But, if you stay, you’ll have a helluva community behind you. Whether they think you’re the Shroud or not.”

Hancock’s words made her expression change, her head turning to look away into the distance. Passing it off as seeing movement, or anything to keep his eyes off her face. Though, she had seen it travel, his gaze. 

This was different, this caught her by the throat. Threatening to consume her mind, to get truths to spill, but she couldn’t. 

What would he think, she thought, after everything that has or hasn’t even happened yet.

“Thanks, Hancock,” was all Rose could manage to say without her voice breaking and her eyes filling with tears that had since blinked away. All of those people she left behind in the Capital, her friends left in New Vegas. Here she was, running from it all, restarting again, and this time… 

This time things felt different. Felt warmer, despite the cool fall air, and lighter. 

Rose looked down at her hand, fingerless gloves brushing again with the Mayor’s. Her contract was likely forfeit now, it had to be. After vices in Vegas had swept her up with the promise of caps she’d never see. The blinding light of a concussion that soaked in bright red and the smell of vodka. Things she couldn’t ever explain, even if she tried. 

Their palms pressed together again, fingers lacing with a tinge of hesitation from the Ghoul’s hand. As if to ask if it was what she really wanted. 

What if it was?

That thought kept eating away. The cliches of settling down, having a quaint life, marrying. All of those pre-war values that others around her had drilled into their heads. Their prejudice programmed alongside it all, no thanks to her father. Her name signed under a dotted line, signing away all the thought towards it. Wanting what she couldn’t have, simply because she couldn’t. 

Those thoughts were kept to herself, rolling around for the few stretches that they were silent. The rest of the several hours walk filled with the exchanges. Recounting and relating, how eerie and similar their situations were around the same times. Only, John was let go. When addiction sank its teeth and Fahrenheit’s care took precedence. His family let him go, let him live however recklessly till they assumed him dead. Not transformed. 

Rose was being dragged back. Back and forth, with no place out West for her to stay, nowhere felt like home. Not the restored walls of the hotel she grew up in, when her life was spent defending its honor and its people. Not the casinos she’d jump to, piling up with friends to get a decent night's sleep. Hoping her father didn’t notice her gone was more than half the battle. She would have only dreamt it was as easy as being let go. 

Until then, she’d keep her head down. Pulling Hancock’s coat around her as she laid down into her makeshift pillow. 

— 

The walk back was uneventful, a brief pause in Bunker Hill leading to several hours spent speaking with locals. With John pressing the bartender for a bottle of anything strong, footing the bill towards Rose with a wink. When they paused to have lunch, the bottle got stuffed into her bag alongside the rest of her belongings. 

The energy felt different upon their return to the Old State House, lighter on their feet when spiral stairs no longer felt like such an endless drag. Suppose it was the company, finding relatability in one another, in a way. 

Hancock knew well enough now the woman wasn’t from a Vault, instead a self-described preservation of pre-war society. Rebuilt from scratch from the skeleton of an old hotel. 

Explained her habits, he thought, the way she set her belongings down to one side of the sofa. Pulling the bottle to sit on the den’s coffee table before moving towards the kitchenette. Hardly a clean glass, or really any amount of dishes, in sight. Settling instead of sharing the bottle with the man who so requested it. 

The pair settled in next to one another, even closer than the previous night in a subsconscious manner. Hands catching one another as the bottle passed back and forth, red lipstick accumulating around the neck. 

“Expected the Silver Shroud would just… Take their caps and head back to Kent,” John said, pale eyes moving to the stain of red around the bottle. A sharp smirk pulled when he looked back at her. 

It wasn’t only his self deprecating thought process, it tended to be reality. Many would take what they were given or give what they were owed without more than a word. No one stuck around, not when they had the luxury of niceties and understanding. 

“Well,” she replied, her sips becoming a bit smaller against the centuries old wine. Sugars and flavor were since zapped, leaving only failing preservatives and fermented fruits. “I wasn’t going to just invite myself to stay. Though, I suppose I should let Kent know we made it back…”

The Mercenary had no intent on moving from here she sat, her Pip-Boy clad wrist lifting to flick through the radio stations. The volume was still quiet as the pink radio waves played, Kent’s voice going on through an intermission about the Silver Shroud’s work. Claiming the Shroud was a lone man, taking out Raider gangs. 

It brought a small smile to her face, shaking her head as she caught the Mayor staring down at her. 

Hancock tried not to bring attention to himself, not to be too attached or too forthcoming. After all, the first step was already taken, with the way she sat so close. Never a recoil when their hands met, or even the slightest of change when she looked up at him. 

Her attention turned back when he dug out the cartridge in his pocket, her posture shifting entirely before the Jet in his hand came upwards. 

The plastic was cool from the silk lined pocket, gripping tightly in his hand as their eyes met again. Closer now, closer than before… Much closer. If his nose hadn’t been collapsed in and left ragged, he assumed they’d be inches away. 

“Hancock,” she spoke softly, “can I?” 

At the slightest of nods, her hands gently moved his hat beside them on the sofa’s cushion. Her fingers lingering in golden hair as her leg straddled over his lap. 

She sat firm over him, the knotted flag around his waist conflicting what she felt underneath. Her focus wasn’t on tautness behind denim, but on his features. Her thumb ran gently, tracing the raw dip along his cheek, the healed scarring around his lips, the raggedness of cartilage where his nose once was. Red lips parted slightly as his hands moved, one finally grasping at the open skin of her side, the other lifting the Jet in his hand. 

Taking hits for courage, he thought to himself, eye contact avoided when her fingers moved off his face. Unlacing the leather vest with the intention to throw it aside once they’d reached the bedroom… The two hardly even noticed they still sat atop one another in the den. 

His eye contact moved back, not breaking as he took a solid hit. That cherry scent that fell along his coat now sharp in the air, almost vaguely medicinal. 

Hancock’s hand tightened around her side, the soft flesh that teased him. A view most pleasant among the backdrop of the Wasteland they traversed hours before. 

Smoke held a moment longer than usual, assuming to delay their inevitable kiss, in fear she may back out. 

Rose didn’t pull away, her hands gripping along the back of the leather sofa. Occasionally moving upwards to move dark hair back behind her shoulders. With his exhale came the swift touch of the strap on her Pip-Boy, letting it sit alongside her belongings to not dig into his shoulder. 

Distance closed not long after, subtle stings of radiation and the lingering familiarity of chems and wine. Neither had nearly enough to be under influence, only a sip each before the bottle was moved to the creaky floor. 

The sweetness of victory red lips came to be more addicting than the drop of the plastic in his hand. Gripping tight to her sides, nearly bruising, in attempts to not drop her. To not let her fade away into another hallucination or flashback from over indulgence. 

The addiction came to be a shared race, matching the fever pitch with one another as the kiss deepened. Sweeter and sweeter the more he explored her… 

Gentle jolts of radiation sending hot flashes through her nerves, threatening to pull her into a cold sweat without a necessary Rad-X. 

Both were so starved of affection, parting never moving too far without their heads touching to close the distance. Heavy gasps of air filling the unspoken silence of desperation, pale eyes moving towards the coffee table once more. 

With a small motion, his head moved, as if to offer to relocate somewhere more or less private. Knowing well enough stockpiles of under utilized Radaway were tucked behind a dresser drawer and not out in the den. 

Her thumb moved up to catch the bleeding lipstick off her chin, then off his own. A firm nod and a whisper of affirmation as a reply, lifted up around him as she clung tighter. 

The Mayor carried the Mercenary out, neither acknowledging the attention of the Neighborhood Watch. 

—

Chapter Text

The break in between wooden planks acted as the culprit, the sun shining above the worn headboard that made him stir. Hancock found himself leaning closer to the wall, the light breeze from the desk fan acting to keep him cool from the dormant radiation. As well as… 

His throat tightened, his limbs feeling heavier as he no longer sprawled across his side of the mattress. 

Dark hair splayed across the pillows, clean and soft. Curves emphasized through the billowing of the sheet, soft skin peaking through the break above the fabric. 

John thought she’d be gone by now. Though he’d dreamt it, perhaps, or that she’d have run off with more than her belongings. Instead, she laid there… The steady rise and fall of her chest, the sheet that clutched in her hand nearly failing to cover her bare chest. 

Rose’s arm stayed out, the bag of Radaway still hanging just beside the nightstand. The tubes still running from the bag to her veins to scrub the radiation from the night before. 

Shit, and there was a lot of it, Hancock thought to himself. 

He glanced down at himself. Still wearing all but his vest and coat, the two were hung across the back of the chair he frequented. The Old World flag unknotted and slung across the end of the bed’s frame. The two were a mess. Under and over dressed. 

John’s hand moved to pinch what was left of the bridge of his nose. Cartilage indenting as time went on, a stark reminder he was in tatters compared to the woman next to him. 

He expected her to leave. To never see her again. To have scared her off from the night before, as most were. There wasn’t any thought, any preparation in her staying. Not when he did that song and dance so many times, usually ending with the opposite side of the bed frigid and chems missing off his dresser. 

“Mmm…” 

That soft sigh made his chest jolt, his pulse kickstarted like a hit of Ultra Jet, just at the sound of her sigh. A quiet and sleepy mumble, unintelligible and light. 

John’s eyes were wide. Trying to sink back into the pillows, to avoid being caught without the suaveness of persona to hide behind. Especially after the night before.

Moments that made him glad he was sober, even through the burn of self consciousness. Not a question asked when he kept her eyes on his own. Contented noises amidst the click of the Geiger on her wrist. 

Only, he hadn’t prepared for her to stay. Fully expecting her to run off before the sun rose, or perhaps she did? She was just too sore, too tired? 

He swallowed hard. Unable to make the usual roll off the side of the mattress with Rose’s form blocking exit. Instead, he laid there on an incline, studying the room’s disarray. Mostly, all her clothes strewn about the Old State House’s bedroom. A black bra draped along the end table next to his chair, dark leather pieces laid to rest over the back of the sofa. Burgundy wool, frayed and all, draped over the display case. 

Was this real? It wasn’t another trip, was it?

Rose’s hand moved, almost startling the Mayor as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. Readjusting the slack on the surgical tubing of the Radaway. She laid on her back, just for a moment, then carefully on her side. Mindful enough of the IV she was connected to, the stand rolling against Victorian floorboards. 

She didn’t say anything, not yet. She only smiled… Amusement rising slightly in what he assumed was the look on his face. Distractions set in when the sheet over her began to shift in all other directions. 

“Good morning…” she finally said, attempting to suppress a chuckle at the look he gave her. Like a Radstag caught in a spotlight. 

Hancock had to clear his throat, caught off guard for a moment by her voice. Her smile. The way the daylight escaped the boarded windows, almost giving her a halo along dark hair. 

“Mornin’, Sunshine,” he finally managed, “surprised to see you here. Figured Miss Silver Shroud had… Dunno, more important places to be.” 

The Mercenary shook her head slightly, her hand propping herself up against the pillows. “We just got back in after nearly two days… I think this is where I want to be right now… Unless that’s your way of saying to leave?” 

Her brow raised slightly, eyes closing and cutting back to him with a sly, almost teasing look. She could tell, saw flickers of the same vulnerability he had given the nights before. When those stories spilled alongside sharing a bottle of whatever it was they’d found in Bunker Hill. 

“Huh? No, I… Just ain’t used to having anyone up here, not for long. And certainly not a soft-skin…” John’s hand ran back through his hair, moving to pull up his sleeves as they had fallen back around his wrists. “Stay as long as ya like, just… I didn’t expect you to want to.”

Rose paused, following suit in sitting up as the sheets pulled loose around her chest. A placid expression studying his avoidant gaze… Instead, Hancock’s hand caught her arm, studying where the IV sat in her veins. That rusty liquid moving smooth through medical plastic. 

“John,” she began softly, his name so sweet, natural on her lips after the night before. Almost catching him off guard. “I wasn’t planning on getting up and leaving… I mean, not until I get called in through the radio… Even then, I wouldn’t have not told you.”

The wind may as well have been knocked out of him by her saying his name, let alone as her hand moved up to his face. Putting his eyes on her more definitely now. 

John felt his stomach turn in knots at her cool touch. Soft and chilled from the drone of the desk fan that pointed on her, contrasting with the boiling of his blood under coarse skin. 

It certainly wasn’t a dream, nor a Jet flashback. Not anymore… 

Her scent filled failing senses now, that sweetness he’d gathered from a distance. From the shift of her scarf, or the closeness in their time running along the walls of Boston’s old apartment buildings. 

Everything she said, he wanted to take as truth. To bury it atop what thought really ate at his soul. It was all getting too dangerous, for the both of them… 

Don’t get attached; she’ll leave eventually, came that inner voice. The dreadful gnaw that even if things continued. That she’d slip away just like the others from his past. 

Hancock must’ve been staring off. A blank expression causing Rose to pull the slack on the IV and move her arms under his own. The two entangled in an embrace, the world suddenly coming to a slow. 

He was breathing in her hair, now. Long dark hair that held the scent he’d craved, the same that lingered on her pillow. In that scarf she wore. Old World perfume that seemed to be reapplied so religiously, that which lulled him to close his eyes against her shoulder. 

“Hancock?”

She finally broke the silence, his weight sinking in a bit into her own. Her cheeks burned and flushed from the heat between the two of them, her fingers intertwined with the linen of his dressing gown. Her own doubts crept along her skin, dragging like pale glass and stinging twice as badly. The two were barely acquainted, weren’t they? Those glimpses into each other's lives each night by fireside… Yet still, she was willing to give in, not by any persuasion other than days of pent tension. All that flirting, whether she caught onto it immediately or not. 

Shared emotions went unspoken, certainly not out loud. They both knew better, didn’t they?

“I… Christ, Sunshine, I dunno what the fuck I’m doing. I dunno what this is,” John muttered into her hair, flinching as her fingers ran through his own. “Thought I’d take up with you, sharpen the old killer instinct… Guess bein’ up at the top, makes you do shit you never thought you would.”

“Makes you forget who you really are, doesn’t it?” Rose finished the thought before he could stammer along the words. Pulling back ever so slightly, her fingers still caught in messy blonde strands. Her hand moved carefully to his face, touching him… Really touching him. Not in such a way he’d experienced since that dreadful, terrifying high that came with the radiation. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, taking a moment to process her words. The only other person to have ever understood was Fahrenheit, but even then, the siege that led them to where they were. It wasn’t exactly a topic of discussion. Hancock’s expression changed for a moment as he looked at her, forcing back that charismatic smirk that always won over the Third Rail’s patrons. “But then again, I ain’t exactly the one who was locked in a tower…”

Rose’s brow raised at his teasing, unable to stop herself from returning the smile though her head turned away. She hadn’t the heart to say it more complicated than that, that signing her name under that line meant a plethora of things. 

Things she couldn’t have, and things he couldn’t give her. 

Maybe that was why they fit so well. The definitions of post-apocalyptic philosophy, free spirits breaking chains that bound them to pre-war morality. 

Still, her mind wandered, their skin touching with feverish feeling. The radiation coursing along her body kept her warm next to him, the desk fan’s cool moving along her skin. Perhaps once she did want to settle down, but it meant freeing herself first.

“What’s that look for?” He asked softly, a bit of worry seeping through his words. His fingers gently traced along her stomach, subconscious patterns running along the sheet that concealed most of her skin. Bitter doubt reared its head again as she thought, as her teeth bit down hard onto her lip. She wasn’t having second thoughts, was she?

“Oh, I… Sorry, I’m just in my head, is all… Got so used to looking over my shoulder, expecting… Expecting someone to be after me. It’s certainly not a way to live, being paranoid every moment you’re awake.” Rose shook her head slightly, returning his gaze with a small smile. Another look he wasn’t quite used to, the amount of softness behind keen eyes. He wasn’t used to it, being looked at for long periods, even by some fellow Ghouls. “Anyways… I’m sure you’ve got more pressing things to do today, Mister Mayor…”

Her breathy sentence struck a chord along his heart, the playfulness not overshadowed by her lingering unease. Hancock could only shift a bit on his side of the bed, his hands reluctant to move off her middle as she turned, reaching for her Pip-Boy on the nightstand.
The Mercenary moved back, her head settling back on the pillow as she looked over the screen. Statistics drained, the radiation scrubbed from the escapades the night before. When every creak of the bedframe earned another shriek from the Geiger and the cries of his first name rough on her lips.

Hancock attempted to keep concerns to himself, not to seem too desperate in the moment, to scare her off if not by waking up to his face, then his attachment. He shifted downwards, his head settling just below the exposed skin of her breast. The shine of reflective silver on her Pip-boy was enough to earn his eyes to shut, his hands gripping along the sheet at her side. “Depends on what you consider keepin’ busy…” he mumbled lowly, “don’t usually handle much of anything if I’ve got company over.”

She blinked, a finger patiently resting along the turn dial of the radio, its stations no more than static before finding Kent’s sole broadcast. Her eyes moved down, the gentleness of his head pressed along her middle, still separated only by the thin cotton of the sheet. Rose couldn’t quite tell if it was the radiation that crawled under her skin, filtered out through her veins in the most unpleasant of feelings. The distant metallic burn in the back of her throat made it hard to form words for nearly a moment. What was she to say? The last she’d shared a night, it was hardly this, there was nothing at stake. No false impressions, no lies, no shattering glass or attempted gunfire.
Rose had seen him operate, in and out of the city, alone. The split nature between a persona he’d taken over, one that he didn’t need to craft, but one that coexisted with the man underneath. She made an unreadable expression, not that he could see the way she looked at him… Respect, even fondness, meeting her eyes before a neutral look caught up with it. It wasn’t like before. No, it didn’t compare to the way the checker suited highroller showed her off amongst the casino. Meaningless talk spilled out with dribbles of vague and false promises that were all slammed short by the barrel of his gun.
Unlike him, the Ghoulish Mayor had taken action. His running came with reason, came with action. The toils it took to get there, the way he played up certain things to stave off her worry for him.

The Mercenary found it inspiring. Remembering the vague glimpses she got from the remainders of rope that once held Vic’s body up as a reminder to Goodneighbor’s largest influences. A stake in the heart of oppression and control, and one she could’ve only hoped to have achieved.
She almost wished the two had met sooner… That perhaps the city beyond her home’s balcony may still be intact, if it hadn’t already been reduced to molten ash. Perhaps she would have gathered the nerve to send the word out, to stand up alongside the Lone Wanderer to protect the innocents inside. Leaving the Capital Wasteland only saddled her with more unknowns, the guilt of blood on her hands when she turned the blind eye. Not once, but twice.

Rose’s breathing became a bit shaky, disheveled and sore, her stomach turning from medicinal remedy, a lack of a proper meal, and radiation that pooled. Suppose John had the right idea, staying in, but Kent’s broadcasts couldn’t be ignored, from the small range it had. The beginnings of a Silver Shroud recording started as normal, causing the Mayor to groan softly into her side. 

He wouldn’t admit how often he’d listened in, catching every word about the mysterious figure that seemed to care enough to bring some sort of order to the beloved anarchy he’d cultivated. Now, here they lay… 

A jolt of static cut through the usual programming, almost startling the pair. The commotion on the saved recording playing in a wretched loop, the beginning interrupted by the sharp banging and the echoes of gunfire and voices. Hancock sat up quickly, and Rose followed suit, breaths holding as they continued to listen.

“You wanna see your little friend alive, Shroud? Meet me at General Milton Hospital, no bull – “

“Don’t do it, Shroud! It’s a trap!”

Another gunshot rang through when the radio came to a silence, the looped recording becoming too overwhelming for either to sit and listen to. The needle in her arm was the first to go, time spent gathering and pulling on clothes with the help of the Mayor moving behind her. Urgency was in full effect, the location’s name repeated on her lips as she pulled her shirt back on, and the Ghoul his coat.
Before they could finish, Fahrenheit’s boots stomped up the stairs, equally urgent as the sound of struggle a floor below descended down towards the basement. She didn’t have time to knock on the double doors, she simply opened it. Face to face with the pair scrambling.

“We know Kent’s missing, Fahr!” Hancock hissed through gritted teeth, throwing Rose’s messenger back over his shoulder to save the time as she redressed, fumbling with her belts. 

The Bodyguard’s judgemental stare burned brightly towards the woman, the one she’d only seen that once and in costume. She didn’t get a word in to protest when the pair were rushing out the door, the Shroud’s pieces missing and an open coat flowing beside the red one next to her. After nearly a week of watching Hancock flick the radio on, the noise polluting any kind of work she had left to do. Always wondering, always asking to keep her eye out for hints, and now?

Her expression twisted, her hand running along the shaved side of her head, careful to avoid the more sensitive burns on her face. 

Fahrenheit knew she’d have to be the one to deal with it, for now. That voice that called below the stairs, called out for her by name as the Watch kept their guns trained. His hands clutched frantically at rusting bars, attempting to break free. To grab her attention at least.

“Farrah!” 

— 

Bobbi’s extra hands were good enough, discreet, like all Triggermen expecting to be paid well. More so than the volunteers that stood as the Neighborhood Watch. Fahrenheit had them move the bedroom’s doors, taking the wood off the hinges, knowing it was likely Hancock wouldn’t care. Better it be that than the sacrifice of citizen’s right to privacy during their pleas or their highs. 

She pulled a chair into the basement’s newly formed cell, familiar hands still white knuckling at rusted bars. It was hard to stare back, their eyes mirroring one another as the young woman leaned forward. A cigarette held in her tightly grit teeth, smoke exhaling through her nose as she observed. 

The man across from her, had she not stared at him, would’ve made her do a double take. Made her wonder if the Psycho had finally caused her to snap over the edge. 

Blonde curls, stormy eyes identical to her own, the scruff of facial hair. Even down to the pin prick scars in his arms, on his hands, veins blown out as they once were. Identical…

“Farrah,” he muttered, lower now, “c’mon, you… You can’t leave me here.” 

Her brows only knit further, her eyes shutting only briefly to blink away the image of his face. Only to find, it wasn’t a trick of the eye… 

“Don’t,” Fahrenheit’s hand lifted, the wraps covering delicate burns moving a bit with it, catching the man’s eye. “Don’t give me that.”

“What happened to your hands, kid?” He murmured, “lemme have a look. I can’t do shit if you’ve got me locked behind here.” 

The Bodyguard’s chest lurched for a moment, trying to keep her breathing from going shaky and uneven in the face of the enemy. She had to keep reminding herself, over and over… This man isn’t her father. 

“You… You’re the Institute’s handiwork, then? Hancock warned me about people like you. People being snatched up, murdered, and their sick little replacements being thrown out in place. You think I wouldn’t have noticed, McDonough? You aren’t him…”

John’s hands tightened on the rusted bars. Once the drunk tank for the Third Rail’s more rowdy patrons, for those who Ham would toss to Hancock to help nurse their hangovers. Now turned into a makeshift prison cell for the Institute’s own. 

His eyes hardened once again when she rejected, replicating memories holding only what observers once collected. All of it went black at some point, when Watchers found a frantic young Farrah dragging her father into the Old State House. 

“The real John McDonough died almost half a decade ago… It’s how I know you aren’t him, you’re some Institute copy.” 

Fahrenheit’s fingers pinched her cigarette, examining the way her teeth had marked the century old paper. Her head was level, as level as it could be outwardly. The synth, John’s synth, seemed to flip back and forth, a knowing gaze examining her all the same. As if collecting information… The young woman he’d last seen in regurgitated memories wasn’t any longer the frightened teenager. The burns on her face were still in number, the ones on her hands warped her skin under those bandages. 

“And where is the ‘Mayor’ of this town…?” John muttered lowly, “heard Vic was out of the picture…” 

He didn’t say much, what he did say was all reliant on knowing more of the present day. That, or to pull numbers at her walled off heart, to unravel the years she’d spent isolating. Since that dreadful night the pair holed up in the Old State House, out of the way of prying eyes and the patrols of pickpockets.
Steel eyes never left his own, the urge to recount all the unspoken emotions she’d never been able to say. Even now, her mind was always focused on her work. Commanding the Neighborhood Watch, or sitting alone in Magnolia’s company at the Third Rail. It was hard to look Hancock in the eyes after what he did to himself, his self destruction twisting him almost beyond recognition. The man, no, she had to remind herself, the synth in front of her…

“That was years ago…” Fahrenheit finally said, plainly, “an Institute Infiltrator like you should know that. Unless your makers aren’t quite what the world thought they were.”

Her head lifted slightly, bandaged fingers running to scratch at the side of her face, just below the deep burns. From her temple down to her cheek, sensitive scars itching when Vic’s name hit the heavy air between them. The collected satisfaction must’ve not quite reached the Institute’s eye… Or it did. Who in Goodneighbor didn’t see it?
A band of massacring misfits storming the subway station below, all the chem-fiends running behind, gathering bloody below the balcony. All standing, quieting their cheering when John Hancock gave his inaugural address, the crowds erupting in their freedom when Vic hung for months after. 

“Farrah…” he repeated, her first name spoken too softly to ever be the man he pretended to be. “Farrah, look at me, kiddo. I… I blacked out, must’ve hit my head or — or something. And I know your boss won’t want to see me here, but you’ve gotta — “

Fahrenheit was quick to her feet, the chair underneath her dragging loudly when her grip was tight and uncaring. The loud screech made John flinch, a hand attempting to reach further out between rust covered bars. When her back turned, he scowled. A deep frown, brows knitted close as he didn’t even let out a huff. It was the silence that bothered her more. The sharp slamming of the relocated doors, the hinges squealing loud among the emptiness of the basement. 

Everything else was tuned out. The snap of her fingers being the only sound echoing through her mind as the Triggermen stood on either side of double doors. The sharp creaking of floorboards was enough, a waiting game played for the Mayor and the Shroud to return. 

—

The two held the radio host on their shoulders, balancing the extra weight between the two of them as they continued on. The stimpacks given seemed to do their job, the numbness settling in earning less and less complaints as the pair shuffled along. 

Kent was mostly quiet, aside from the occasional noise of discomfort from the bullet hole that worked its way to recover. Still sore where tissues melted back together. Hancock and Rose hardly spared one another a glance, the sole focus on return to Goodneighbor in one piece at the forefront. 

Ruined hands were careful on their coats. Careful to not dig into the seams of the red frock, nor to wrinkle the Shroud’s noir trench coat. The occasional glance given to the half masked woman. 

Kent’s lips tugged into a dry frown, now able to balance on his own as they neared the city gates. He’d managed to keep most comments to himself, bothered at the lack of gear. The Shroud lacking their hat, glasses, the scarf was all they had to pull the facade of their identity. Though, he didn’t quite recognize how the Mayor looked equally disheveled. Most saw it as standard, and the two so rarely interacted. 

Rose was too exhausted to notice the Radio Host staring at her, her body still aching when the morning’s Radaway had worn down. When there came no time for another Rad-X, to stave off the burn. She just kept pressing on, ignoring Hancock’s gentle questions on how she was doing. Dark stringy hair fell in her face, the scarf masking the pale and sickly look in her skin. 

Adrenaline made it easy enough for the pair to take down Sinjin, a well trained scope and the silence of breath sending a bullet through the Raider’s head. The others scattered when the Mayor’s shotgun spray caught them attempting to flee. 

Kent was too grateful to be alive after it all, a ramble of regret and gratitude blending together when he hugged the woman’s neck. The limp back towards town serving him somewhat better when they reached the top floor. 

“I - I was wondering where you were… When you didn’t c - come by, I was getting worried something might’ve happened,” Kent began, a quiet voice that seemed wary of Hancock listening in. “I’m glad you’re alright, Shroud.”

Shaky fingers brushed her hair back out of her face, the trench coat unbuttoning to let feverish skin breathe finally. 

Rose let out a hoarse chuckle, almost in disbelief that he was so outwardly concerned for her. How many people had actually valued her? Not as an asset, but as a person. She could name a few on her hands, but they seemed long gone and lost in swirls of desert sand. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, Kent… I should’ve been paying attention, it’s my fault,” she murmured. Excuses and explanations would have filled the room, all avoidant of the truth had she let them leave her lips. Only, Hancock’s voice brought a sudden halt to her thoughts. 

“Kent, my man, you’ve just gotta be careful next time. Maybe give the costume crusading some time to cool off. But hey, Goodneighbor’s all the more safe thanks to you two. That’s something to be proud of, ain’t it?” That sharp smirk widened a bit towards the Shroud, more so than it did to the man they’d saved. “I’ll bet Irma’s been worried sick, though…” 

Trembling mottled hands wrung, fingers running over the back of his hands in a repetitive motion. Attempting to ground himself in reality as avoidant eyes kept glued to the floor. 

“Yeah,” Kent began, “thanks… Both of you. M - Maybe I’ll see you later, Shroud?”

Rose only nodded. Hancock moving backwards towards the sink, hands settling on each side to keep himself upright. 

Neither had done that steady of a rush, near constant sprinting or jogging, the keen sweeps of the hospital's inner workings as they had begun their hunt for Sinjin. Though, with descending footsteps, came a lack of extra presence. 

“Guess my instincts were right… Taking up with you,” Hancock murmured, “finally ain’t the only muscle, that’s for damn sure.” 

He turned only for a moment, the click of a first aid box following the rattle inside a plastic bottle. The Rad-X tossed her way, just barely caught by a slowed reaction time. “You look like you use this, though…”

“Thanks… I — “ before the thought could leave Rose’s mind, the brushing up of confirmation. To know she was allowed to stay. To ask if she could lock herself in the bathroom for long enough to rinse the grime off her skin. 

“Hancock.”

Fahrenheit’s voice cut through the loosening tension, muscle leaning rough against the wooden frame of the door. She largely ignored the woman next to him, the seriousness in her expression being enough to call the Mayor away. 

“Just… Gimme a moment, Sunshine,” Hancock murmured to Rose, “make yourself at home, alright? Do what ya gotta.” He earned himself another quiet nod. The Mercenary was too run down from the journey in all its rush, and the rough and slow hold the radiation and bruising had on her. 

He didn’t give a scathing tone to his Bodyguard, he only followed suit when she began the walk down towards the basement. Each step felt longer than the last as they made it down. Hancock’s frown deepened, hoping it was something more important than someone stuck in the drunk tank. Something worth pulling him away from the woman that moved upstairs to run a bath. 

Hancock’s brow bone moved upwards at the sight of his bedroom doors covering the small cell. Just enough space in the closet alcove for Fahrenheit’s chair, for someone to keep a solid watch on the synth. She was the first to slip through the door, the hired muscle outside the doors only standing still. 

The Mayor followed suit, pale eyes setting on the intended replacement behind the cell’s bars. A near perfect doppelgänger staring him back. Like the mirror image he’d once sought to run away from all those years ago. Only, a bit younger. The needle pricks on his skin and blown out veins looked so recent…

Had it not been a near perfect copy of himself, Hancock wouldn’t have been any the wiser to the Institute’s hand in it. 

That was what scared him the most. The inability to distinguish was frightening, and staring back at the coward he left behind when the serum took its hold put a damper on his mood… 

“Holy shit…” Hancock murmured, every syllable dragged out in his horror, “where’d you find him?” 

“Coming into town,” Fahrenheit said bitterly, “I had a few folks recognize him, and called him out nearly immediately. So I had the Watch drag him down here when you and your new squeeze left in such a hurry.”

“Christ, Fahrenheit…” Hancock’s hand settled along his forehead, not daring to take his eyes off the synth in front of him. It was almost too much, almost enough to send him in a spiral of disbelief. Goodneighbor prided itself on a lack of fear, its citizens in agreement at their leader’s command to stay vigilant of exactly this. Only… The synth in front of them wasn’t simply snatched up and replaced. “And it ain’t talking, huh?”

“You weren’t exactly here to help me decide what to do with it,” the Bodyguard scoffed. “All it ever talks about is… From before Vic.”

A small nod of acknowledgment followed. Hancock’s gaze moving off of his intended replacement, and to the newly placed doors. 

“Make sure it doesn’t try breakin’ out. We’ll deal with it later… We’ll make it talk.” 

—

Chapter Text

Hot water was a welcome change against raw skin and aching muscles, until the tap went cold. The bar of soap she’d brought along with her from home held up on the small table next to the clawfoot tub. Sounds from the basement below were largely drowned out by the run of the water, and the drain when she stepped out. 

October air outside only made the Old State House more cold. The draftiness only increased by the eerie howls of wind swirling outside. When the door opened, she shuddered, arms crossing as steam was let out behind her. 

Her attire was hardly fitting for the weather. An old nightgown she’d worn forever and a lifetime, burgundy lace flowing down into smooth silk. The creaking of floorboards came as the den’s lights stayed on, her belongings now gathered on the sofa… 

The pacing against rickety old floors, hardly muffled by the thin rug underneath. A scowl she hadn’t quite seen on the Mayor before. Whatever it was, she didn’t have the intent to ask. The two were barely acquainted, newly friends, perhaps? Whatever they were, it put the both of them on edge, for wildly different reasons. 

Rose was silent, her head veering into the bedroom, then back to the den. She frowned, suspicions increased all the more when she had been in earlier. Gathering her things from the bedroom to find it without doors. 

She didn’t dare ask, not about whatever mayoral duty he had to handle, nor about the striking sudden lack of privacy. She only shuffled in, light footsteps and an even quieter presence taking Hancock off guard. 

“ Christ ,” he murmured, “there you are… Listen, I don’t wanna sound like an ass…” 

There it was , she thought. Suppose it was the easier way out, better to keep the impending target off his back from such an illicit affair… 

Rose looked at him expectantly, catching his gaze wandering from her face down to the boning that held lace in place. Then back to her face with a nervous laugh. 

“Somethin’ came up, doll…” Hancock began again, trying to keep his thoughts organized. “It’s contained , but it’s important. Mayoral shit that I really didn’t want you in the crossfire for.”

“And you want me to go back to the Memory Den, is that it?” Rose’s rhetorical question made him huff softly, but she was quick to follow it up. “I understand… Whatever it is, it must be very important.” Blue eyes flicked towards the lack of double doors, the long hallway staring down the balcony’s entrance. 

“ Rose , I ain’t skipping out on ya, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. Ain’t like that. Just… Maybe it would be better if you checked on Kent, Irma and Amari ain’t the best at getting through to him. Me’n Fahrenheit will clean this mess up…” 

His hands moved abruptly to her shoulders, the contrast between the two of them making destroyed nerve endings pinch up his arms. A firm grip that meant to tell her he meant it. To meet him back eventually.

“ Look… When all this is settled, I’ll owe you. Alright? A real date, not just costume crusader business.” 

Hesitancy lingered behind her eyes, the smallest affirmation escaping stained lips as she moved back into the den. Disappointment rang as true as ever, doomed to settle back into the oddly slanted sofa Kent kept in his room. The aches in her lower half would have to wait, and once again so would the company. 

The Ghoul Mayor sighed heavily, wanting to add onto it. Wanting to explain, had Fahrenheit’s warnings not gotten to him. With the Institute’s own settled in the basement, putting her on the line would only complicate it. 

He couldn’t even manage words, even so much as a ‘goodnight’ when Rose’s coat pulled on and she made her way down the stairs. 

—

Months were spent, largely consumed by work. The Silver Shroud’s influence swept through the city as Kent’s reports came pouring in. October quickly faded into December before she knew it, nuclear winter staved off by the warmth of the costume. A distant thought in her mind, how much she missed the armor she once wore. When desert sun beat down on Ranger combat armor, her face concealed in mystery and stolen valor. Always making her wish for something like a Boston winter… 

Trips to the Old State House seemed fewer and further between. The Mayor was always engrossed in something, hearing complaints, filing revenue, or was simply keeping to himself in the basement. Discussions with Triggermen she never could hear from the upper floors, leaving nearly disappointed every time. 

She still kept to Kent’s couch, her living space a bit more cramped by the reminders of her newfound occupation. The caps handed over before the one night affair had lasted her long enough… Enough to keep herself fed when Irma wasn’t insisting on bringing extra. 

It was pleasant enough. Standing in on Kent’s recordings when she’d stumble in, smelling of dirty concrete, rain, and gunsmoke. 

Rose’s hand settled under her t-shirt, the red fabric balling up in her fist as she stared at the ceiling. Another early evening, plagued by the aches of overexertion… The company she kept at least seemed brighter. Even Irma had commented a time or two, Kent hardly spent any time in the Memory Pod anymore. 

“I - I was thinking, when you and Mayor Hancock came to save me,” Kent began, facing away as he jotted words down onto a scrap of paper. “We could make the costume even better. Especially now, if it snows… I get w - worried, you know? About you getting too cold out there…”

Rose’s lips twisted into a frown at the mention of the Mayor, even his name felt odd in the air after their time spent. So easily brushed away for the sake of business, of a hunt she had no idea was even happening. 

“I’m not even so sure there’ll be any crime… Not any that can’t be handled in a few minutes, at least. Maybe it’s time we let the Shroud be his own entity for a bit?” 

The Radio Host turned to face her better, hands clutching to the back of the chair as he watched her. He didn’t try to read her often, it would’ve been impossible to. 

“ Um… Yeah, of course, Shroud. Did something happen? You don’t really seem like yourself .” 

“Have I ever been myself is the real question…” Rose sighed, slowly pushing herself up to sit. Old worn jeans had become her new nightwear, for the sake of modesty. The nightgown she favored was once again stuffed to the bottom of her belongings. “Kent, I…” she sighed, a hand running back through dark hair, “I really like being the Shroud, it’s just… When there’s not much else to do it gets to be — “ 

“Kind of aimless?” Kent finished for her, “a - and hey! Maybe it’ll give you some time to be just ‘Rose’ again, while I finish up these upgrades! When I find them, that is. I think Daisy’s getting a new shipment next month. But, I dunno what it’ll have in it. Hoping it’ll have some military hardware, if I could just…”

Rose’s thoughts tuned things out as she sat cross-legged on her makeshift bed. The ramblings going heard, but uncomprehended past that. She felt her chest tighten the more she thought about it, about him . Those speeches she’d heard in passing, when she pressed close to the wall to listen. Or else, knowing his eyes would be right on her. 

Being in costume never helped, it was what drew him to her. The first hole ever to puncture her confidence in ability to blend in. Now, she felt like she stuck out, but only to the Mayor’s eyes. 

“I need some air…” Rose murmured, interrupting Kent’s technicalities about pre-war fabrics and military equipment. 

“Don’t forget your coat, Shroud!” He managed to call, her bag slinging over her chest quicker than it had ever before. Boots were slipped on, the quick trek through the dim theatre turning into facing the creep of night. 

She had done just that. Forgot her coat. The moonlight peeked out on each side of the Old State House’s bell tower, guiding her towards the front door. 

The cold didn’t bother her when the motivation burned brighter, and the familiar smell of cherry Jet seemed even stronger. Flooding her with memories that made the longing ache fall back into her ribs. She knew that feeling, the flutter in her stomach and the heat balling like a knot in her lower half. Usually it was always accompanied by the promise of caps on the other end, and the twisted restriction in her throat. Though, that was far from love . Love wasn’t what earned her the wicked scar on the right side of her face.

His words still lingered in her mind, following her through the past few weeks of solitude. An instinct takes hold, and you listen. 

– 

“We don’t even know if they exist… Besides, how long has that thing been down there?! Before your Silver Shroud came into town.”

Fahrenheit’s boots kicked up on the coffee table, a fresh cigarette in between the pads of her fingers, sharp eyes shifting towards the holotape on the table. It had sat there for who knew how long, the man handing them out had frequented the attic, to rest, but said little else. Neither of the two could really place his face, sunglasses concealing the sparkle in his eye, an otherwise vague look to him.

The man didn’t stand out, but the tapes he left did . 

Hancock had run them through the terminal, the Railroad’s call to those who would listen, who would take up arms just to free those engineered by the Institute’s strings. Something he chose to ignore, largely. No one could really prove the organization’s existence, and its members were much too cloaked in shadow to truly understand their motives. Seems anyone who claimed they’d fight the Institute were all bluffing . Too afraid to become a target when their words were spoken too loudly. When their own family members pulled away, or acted strange . 

“Worth a shot, ain’t it?” Hancock sighed, “the thing’s tried to make an escape already. And, it ain’t talking. Interrogation isn’t working, so what then?” 

“We change the approach,” Fahrenheit shrugged, “whatever it is, I don’t want to be down there with that thing… The faster someone kills it, the faster we can move on.” She paused for a moment, a despondent sigh bringing out a huff of smoke when her cigarette pulled. “When I said you didn’t let me have any fun, about Finn, I didn’t mean this was any solution.”

The Mayor frowned, a wash of silence moving over him. Neither could hear the door open below, with the den’s doors shut so tightly. He was too lost in thought, languidly sunken back into the sofa’s cushion. 

“We’ll figure something out… We always do.”

“If you want to walk that Freedom Trail, by all means… Or, maybe hire that mercenary you’ve been so hung up on. At least if it’s all smoke and air, it’s not like we’ll lose any of our people.” Fahrenheit’s leg moved up to cross, the cigarette pulling back to study it. Her eyes were narrowed, shifting. Not facing back the Mayor’s scowl. “Face it, Hancock, she’s distracting you… She’s just another sacrificial pawn on the board.”

He stayed quiet, pale eyes fixed on the chems littering the coffee table. A ruined hand moved to brush back his hair, bristling when her words left with another sheen of smoke. 

“She ain’t a pawn, Fahr… She’s been mopping up Goodneighbor in that damn costume, cleaner than it’s ever been. Even when we took over…”

“So?” The Bodyguard huffed, “you’re slacking — “

“And I don’t need a speech, Fahrenheit. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

—

The Mercenary lingered near the doorway. Peering up at tightly shut doors that oozed the smell of smoke and Jet. Muffled voices carrying a specific tension she didn’t want to interrupt. 

Her thumb ran under the strap of her bag, eyes fixated still on the upstairs floor before glancing down. Curiosity began to fill the space of time to kill, boots carrying her further down into the undercrofts of the Old State House. The smell began to fade the deeper she went, the smell of old books and an old world’s past, dry rotted wood moaning under the soles of her feet.

A near blinding light was moved in the direction opposite of the stairwell, the double doors she recognized so easily as the bedroom’s coming into view. Snoring was all that could be heard throughout the basement, that and the frustrated tugging at a rusted lock. Rose’s lips tugged in amusement, the two guards posted slumped over their submachine guns as they slept. Neither saw importance in the one man they guarded, their knowledge only given by distant rumors that barked all around the Commonwealth. Few would recognize the prisoner’s face, and none would speak his name aloud. 

Rose kept her balance fixed, her eyes on the floor as if she crossed again through the Minefields, only looking up a time or two to check the sleeping Triggermen. Neither of them stirred when she passed, when she crossed through to run face to face with the man behind bars.

“ Huh …” the man hissed, his hands retracting quickly from the cell’s lock, but a bruised gaze softening a bit at her face. “ Miss Silver Shroud … You here to save me from that Ghoul and his goons…?” 

She almost recoiled at the name, the cadence in his tone making her brow raise. A face she didn’t recognize, and yet…? Chills . Running up and along her arms as the adrenaline faded, leaving her to cope, coatless, when December wind brought a settling to the State House. Rose didn’t speak for a moment, not yet. Examining handsome features through the bruises, the blood that had dried in disheveled blonde hair. Hancock’s handiwork, no doubt.

“ Rescue ?” Rose muttered lowly, her voice soft in fear the Triggermen would stir, that a word issued to the Mayor would be only empty pleas for conversation. “Who do you think I am? I don’t see any ‘Silver Shroud’,” her hands tightened over her arms, something so uncanny about the man that she couldn’t exactly place, “I don’t even know who you are, why should I help you?”

“ Fine, ” John huffed, “you wanna know… The Mayor and his pyromaniac Bodyguard threw me down here, mistook me for someone else. Rottin’ down here for weeks… But you , you ain’t a Triggerman… C’mon, doll, you gotta trust I’m good for it. Most folks in this town would give their shirts off their backs.”

His hands wrapped tight again around the bars, white knuckles betraying a dishonest smile. The way the nickname left his lips, it made her step back a bit. Recoiling at the familiarity. That smirk in the corner of his lips… 

Rose went to turn, to break her eyes away from the unnamed figure. To return back to the original thoughts that had been pushed to the back burner. Until rough hands placed firm on her shoulder. 

Her head veered around in a startle, aiming to push herself away, but Hancock’s hands locked around her. Not enough to hurt, but it didn’t change the jolt of fear that racked her chest. Panting breaths followed a sharp gasp, her heart racing as she looked back at the Mayor. 

“What the Hell did you think you were doing down here?”

She swallowed hard, his tone making her stomach do a conflicted flip. She’d heard that tone once or twice before, at Bunker Hill especially. The kind that felt like sandpaper across the face, the commanding voice that would stick knives in challenger’s guts for less. When an answer stuck in her throat, when she froze in his hands, unable to melt in his touch. 

“Asked you a question, Burke… Answer it.”

Hancock’s gaze moved only briefly between her and the synth, his grip loosening to push her out of the small alcove. The doors shutting and locking loud enough to stir the sleeping Triggermen. It gave her the time to think about an answer, and still, she couldn’t find a way to force the words. 

“ I came to see you…” she whispered quietly, her hands shaking as her fingers clutched around her bag’s strap. “The doors to the den were closed, and you never mentioned not coming down here.” 

When fear melted, her resolve shifted back into gear. Blue eyes staring back at his pale ones, studying the falter in his own features. Anger, then worry, then concern… 

“ Let’s talk upstairs… ” Hancock murmured, “sorry for giving you a scare.”

The Mercenary’s chest settled a bit, unable to shake the uncanny feeling of the man locked up down below. She had no reason to question, and he wasn’t so forthcoming with an answer. 

He was quick to snap the Triggermen awake as they moved out, hands shifting from her shoulders to her back as the climb up the stairs began again. 

The upper floors felt heavier, the smoke and the energy of the previous conversation still held within the walls. Only, the Bodyguard’s presence was nowhere to be seen, now. Prying eyes having retreated in disapproval to finally retire for the night. While the Mayor’s restlessness got the better of him. 

Hancock guided her to sit. Both of them collapsed back into the same sofa they shared months before. Distance nearly closed only by the heat that radiated off his hands. Tired looks exchanged between the other, the line between regret and irritation blurring on the Ghoul’s expression. 

“Said you came to see me… Could’ve just knocked on the door, Sunshine .”

Rose nearly let out a small scoff, a neutral expression softening into something . Something he never could quite read through the layers of practice. Charisma dialed as that of a defense mechanism, likely all that kept her alive through the shuffle of desert sands. 

“I learned very quickly not to speak unless spoken to,” Rose said softly, “never seen, never heard . Unless someone needed me to do something. It seemed important, so I decided to explore… Suppose I learned my lesson not to do that either.”

“Folks just don’t usually come up here so late, certainly didn’t expect it to be you , is all.” Hancock’s eyes were quick to move off her face, to not linger too long in her eyes or on the depth of the scar on her cheek. Before nerves and self consciousness ate away at him again, and his persona got the better of him. 

Fahrenheit’s observations did ring true, didn’t they? He was distracted, but… 

“Said I owed you a proper date, didn’t I?” Those words brought Rose’s attention back, her brow raising slightly in the following break of silence. She returned his smile, something silent and sweet and struck him with a jolt to fried nerves. The bag she carried found its way back over her lap, a content look that was more relieved than anything looking away from him. 

“Let me go get ready, Mayor Hancock…”

—

Perhaps it was the hit he had taken, the relaxation settling in overactive muscle. Now resulting in the twitch of anxious nerves. The dark red lights, the spill of the stage light off of Magnolia as she sang. Lively jazz filled up the space between his ears that Mentats hadn’t reached. 

The Ghoul Mayor tried to relax. Tried to sit back into the sofa, to keep his eyes off her made up face. Pre-War glamour oozed off of her demeanor, as did the sequins on her plunging dress. Painted red lips matching the fabric, complimenting the faded velvet of his frock coat. Nearly as flashy as the Memory Den’s sign, like she stepped out of an old Hollywood film he’d manage to catch salvaged in Diamond City. 

Soft skin was ever so alluring, he knew what she felt like, certainly , but the tight red fabric left him to the imagination. Left the heat under his collar to nearly steam, amplified by half a decade's worth of radiation that pumped through his veins. 

“Never said ya liked jazz before…” Hancock cleared his throat, though that roughness was never really shaken. “Ain’t anyone in Boston that sings like Mags. Except, maybe me , but…” 

Rose’s eyes cut towards him, her lips turned into a smirk that would’ve brought him to a sweat, if he could. 

“ Oh? ” She giggled softly, her hand moving its way to rest over the ripped denim jeans he wore. “We hardly had live music in D.C… But, Vegas . Music was everything in Vegas.” 

A wistfulness laced through her tone, straight from a movie, he thought. Or from one of those comic books he’d snuck about in his youth. The Starlet Sniper…

“Magnolia is incredible, don’t get me wrong, but why haven’t you been up there to sing then, Mayor Hancock?” 

Full title?  

John felt himself tense up under her touch, torn so heavily between persona and reality. He couldn’t even form the words. He didn’t need words to whisk her towards the backrooms, though, did he? Or even the Rexford. Disturbing patrons who paid limbs just for a room. 

“Ah, well… Y’know , can’t always spend my time down here. Always more to do upstairs .”

“ Speaking of , so glad to be myself for the night. Not the Silver Shroud,” she murmured, a playfulness in her breath. “Kent always says it’s something about protecting my secret identity…” 

Rose leaned a bit further into him, her hand gently tracing the rim of her glass. Her smile never left, now uncovered and painted that fresh shade of red he found himself drawn to. 

The Pip-Boy that usually sat on her arm was gone, at least for the time being. Laid up among other belongings that found themselves back on the end of his bed. Hopefully, more permanently. 

Her mention of New Vegas threw him for a loop. For a moment he felt himself slipping, his mind drifting to forget where he was or who else surrounded them. Only her , her and a pipe dream of some pre-war speakeasy they’d never know. He could’ve nearly forgotten his name, and his title, had she not spoken it the way she did before. 

“ Vegas ? Ain’t that…” 

“Thousands of miles from here,” Rose finished, “ yes , it most certainly is.” A light laughter escaped from her throat, her hands shifting as her dominant hand found her glass. The other brought to his thigh, stressed denim squeezing under her fingers. “The mercenaries my father had employed were sent out there for supplies… I hitched a ride alongside thinking I could get away from all that. Away from…”

Away from her father, she meant to say, away from the warped image of a time since lost and back into another. The barbed wire and high walls were no different, preserved in time for those who could afford to sell their souls for it all. Where Talon Company mercenaries left their stations for better pay, there stood iron guards of micromanaged Securitions. All the words she couldn’t say when it came down to it, all the confessions she wasn’t quite ready to spill. To accept herself the guilt in it all. Where faces she knew were at least left without imminent threat, where those in the Capital who had come and gone. Most that were now strangers to the young woman, a decade’s worth of in’s and out’s muffled by the ticking of a dormant atomic bomb. 

Hancock leaned in a bit further, still hanging on her words. Another trickle of information that only pulled him a bit closer, any snarky comment about the two being on a real or ‘old-fashioned’ date fading fast. Her perfume was fresher, in more abundance than it was after the days of travel, almost overwhelming in delicate senses. 

Warm waves of tingles brought throughout from where her hand had squeezed him. Almost impossible to believe such graceful hands frequented that of a sniper rifle. The unplaced smell of her hair washed again when her back moved up off the sofa, crashing straight to his mind like a hit of Daytripper. 

He went to speak, to ask her about it. To wonder aloud how she made it to the Commonwealth after the bounce back and forth between the Capital Wastes and the Mojave. Only, her voice cut through his thoughts before he could ask. The bottle in his hand finished up to counter the sweet smells. 

“Do you know how to dance?” 

Hancock nearly spat the brew to the concrete floors of the train station under his boots. 

Dance ? 

Before he could even muster an answer, a stutter, she was standing, brushing off those dreaded sequins he loathed… Loathed the way they made him feel, the way they hugged her —

A soft touch moved around his hand, tugging gently at his fingers so that he might follow, the other still tight on his Gwinnett Stout. 

Mischief flashed over her features, the glitter in her eye following the startled sound he made as he stood. 

“Just follow my lead…” she murmured, taking the bottle from his hand with ease. Hancock was stiff as her hands moved his own, hands settling on the sore places on her hips. Her own snaked one over his shoulder, the other on his side. 

Rose knew well enough by that look on his face. The unease leaking through the mask of whatever he’d taken before they made it down the subway stairs. Attempts to follow her lead catching up ever slowly, too busy fixated on the contented look on her face. 

Her eyes closed, humming softly as Magnolia’s track picked up. Her favorite so far, one that was usually played in between slower songs. 

Both could feel the stares of drifters, some chuckling at seeing their Mayor brought to the empty floor. Several others commented how they should bring their date up to follow. Some asked who the woman even was, a fact that made her smile widen ever slightly. 

Hancock wanted to hate it, wanted to pull through for the moment. For her . Through the sway of her hips, the glimmer of red in his peripheral vision when their eyes met again. She held herself as if it was second nature, adapting well enough to avoid his more uneasy footing. 

“Tenpenny Tower had a ballroom,” she said quietly, “one of those things my dad always said was too distracting… But I think it’s paying off now, hm?” 

“ Christ…” he murmured under his breath, the only response he could manage. The tightness in his throat, the loosening on his fingers where his handiwork once left deep marks on accident. Careful to not hurt her, not to throw her off her whispered counting. 

Every bit of information on her past, he lapped it up as if it were his last drink of water. Curiosity held him by a tight collar, and she was the one with a grip on the lead. Rose was elusive, almost. Clamming up about her mentioned time in New Vegas, but more forthcoming with her life in the Capital Wasteland. Small details that kept him moving, withdrawal of for a hit of more. 

Rose’s gaze never left him, her head tilting ever so slightly. Studying him… Had his focus not been on keeping upright, pressed against her, he might’ve pulled away. To stop himself from feeling scrutinized from that extended eye contact, from those sapphire eyes that kept moving along his features. 

“ You’re so handsome, John…” Rose finally said, her hand moving from his shoulder to tip his chin towards her. A thumb lingering carefully over the deep scar, his flinch under her touch loosening his grip even more. 

Hancock thought his knees would buckle. Opening his mouth leading to either being sick, or protesting she was obviously blind. That the swill Whitechapel Charlie had given was clearly getting to her. Or maybe those elusive Vegas lights had clouded her vision in years past. 

He could barely muster the thought, even less the words to follow suit. Knots looped and tightened deeply in his stomach, her hand just barely grazing against his cheek before moving back to his shoulder. It was hard to think of anything to say, with the way she looked at him. 

Talk was cheap in the Wasteland. However many had looked at him from the balcony of the Old State House, swooning over the position of power by force. Rarely ever for himself . 

Words spoken from those red lips like Boston’s biggest lie. 

“ You don’t really mean that, Sunshine ,” he rasped, breath nearly catching in his throat when he spoke. For a moment, he’d thought he was drowning, pulling under in the lake of fire, just by the way her touch felt on his skin. Flushes to his face were hardly even noticed through the usual warmth, a silent thankfulness he could more easily play it off. Maybe , maybe not. John wanted to protest, every aching bone in his body pushing to come up for air from it all. The heat of tension filling his lungs in a way it hadn’t in years…

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” Rose murmured, ever the hint of a smirk still lingered on scarlet, “I would’ve said something sooner… Had we ever had the time for moments like this.”

Hancock couldn’t drudge a response, not now, not in an already vulnerable situation. Her hands curling still around his shoulders, his trying not to wander too far where they weren’t welcome. Swallowing his pride was never the work of the Mayor of Goodneighbor, and yet… 

He had been so used to those using him, coming and going as they pleased with their chems in hand. Advice or kind words reaching the extent of those who’d fallen in love with him. He was respected, feared, and yet still so achingly empty without the woman in his arms. 

Weeks away felt like torture, full of processing and mulling. The slight of footsteps in their dance came to a fade when Magnolia’s track faded in the far distance. As did the applause and small cheers in the speakeasy. John almost didn’t hear it, not with the low buzz that dragged between his ears. The vibrations of the chems he’d had not long before still taking root, almost giving him tunnel vision along the way. 

“ Mayor Hancock ,” Rose giggled, “are you still with me?” 

“ Almost ,” he managed to say, a crooked smile returned in response. 

The Mayor tried to ignore the majority of the crowd, the whistling going largely unnoticed when movement caught his hazy peripheral. Two, very well armed, figures making their way out of the Red Room, towards the back. Their arsenals kept sheathed and their heads kept down, unmistakable by the paint sprayed on old military equipment. 

Gunners , he thought, at this hour, in his bar?

Rose tried to look with him, to catch a glimpse of the dual mercenaries that made their way quick up the subway stairs. Both disappeared before she could really study them, the involuntary change in expression giving away a notion of fear. 

Her hands curled around the Mayor’s arm, nails sinking deep into brushed velvet. A question not uttered as the two found themselves moving towards the lit sign. Red neon lights bathing them for the briefest of moments, amplifying the shimmer of sequins and the depth of radiation scars. 

A room that would’ve carried a different tone, had it not been occupied. Frequented, and often empty, by a lone sniper with nowhere else to hide away. The man who slumped back in a Victorian chair, the brim of a military cap concealing most of his face. 

The gun in his lap shifted when footsteps were loud in his ears, meeting pre-war heels and pirate boots with a raise of the eyebrow. 

“Thought you threw the Gunners off your back,” Hancock began, not bothering to address the man by name. The deeper tone he carried to citizens rivaling the softer one he had moments before. The flip of a switch, not so easily disrupted by the sheepish smile of the young man. “Was the whole point of you setting up shop, ain’t it, MacCready?”

MacCready looked up, his sniper rifle moved off his lap and propped against the backing of the chair. He hadn’t noticed the woman next to him, not the wide-eyed look that washed over her. 

“Well, Hancock,” he began, a voice unfamiliar to her, “tell your people to need the extra gun, and to have the caps. Guess I’m in the wrong market… Fancy seeing you down here, and with…” 

Rose only stared for a moment, glancing back at her date before back at the Sniper. Wondering if she were really seeing it right… Had she heard that name — ?

“ MacCready ?” She repeated, earning a small nod in return, “I suppose you wouldn’t recognize me, would you? All of us ‘ mungos ’ look the same?”

The Sniper nearly sputtered, the past decade rushing in all at once behind his eyes. Hardly able to gauge the woman’s features from the makeup and lack of gear. Her name never really reached him, not but the once, when – 

“You two know each other?” Hancock cleared his throat, uncertain what to think exactly of the tone she carried when she spoke. 

It had been over a decade now, hadn’t it? When the barrel of a sniper rifle pointed at the girl’s hidden face, the shrill threat and the swear of a young boy claiming himself the Mayor of the tiny town. Shrouded in caves on her search for Rockopolis, for an old and distant friend, only to be met with the threats that hadn’t seemed to leave her head. It was almost amusing in the moment, had she not been frightened, and simply depressing looking back on it all…

“In a way…” MacCready muttered, “ Burke , right? Yeah, I remember you, your old man too…”

“I believe those first words exactly were ’ another step and I’ll blow your fucking head off’ , right?” Rose teased, not catching exactly the comment spoken under the ex-Gunner’s breath. The passive shake of his head brought her hands to squeeze the Ghoul’s arm a bit tighter. “What are you doing all the way out here anyways?” 

“ Funny story, Burke ,” MacCready mumbled, “could ask you the same exact question.” A shifty gaze moved back down to the tiles of the floor, steel toed boots dug further into the filthy grout. The stares, both familiar and confused bearing down further on his shoulders. “I made it out of Big Town, trying to earn a living… Looks like you finally crawled out of all that luxury to meet everyone else on the ground, huh?” 

Tension buzzed in the air for a moment, the Mercenary’s defensiveness unable to pour out before the Mayor interjected. Leaving her to her thoughts, for the time being. The younger man sitting below them was hardly bothered, more annoyed than anything, at least with her presence. A stark lack of accusations, of information in the short months she’d been out. A quiet on the homefront that only crawled up her spine in the most uneasy tingle. Quiet in the Capital Wasteland wasn’t uncommon, but it could’ve equaled to the harrowing sweep of ash and soot over radiation filled soils.

Hancock’s hand moved to rest over Rose’s, to get her to ease her grip before fingernails dug holes into the velvet of his frock coat. Clearing his throat as the subject spun on its head, the ex-Gunner’s eyes moved back to his superior.
“If you’re lookin’ for work still, I might have a job or two… Depends on if you’re up for some inventory work. Figure you ain’t really in the position to be passing anything up, unless those Gunners – “

“Thanks, but no thanks… Been trying to stand on the independent route since I set up here. Think I’m getting closer, just… Waiting for opportunity, and all. Sorry, Mayor Hancock.”

Ruined hands parted in mock defeat, an even quicker turn heel moving Rose and himself along before she could press for more questions. To ask the state of anything, if the Sniper had heard anything at all out of the town, any reconnaissance on what she’d left behind.
Not that he would know , Rose thought, not that he’d tell her. Leaving only the open wounds of uncertainty, packed full by the metaphorical gauze that Hancock’s presence provided. Leading her back out towards the station’s middle, and now his turn to ask if she was still with him.

The Mercenary hadn’t realized she’d spaced out, her expression staring off and her fingers moving lax along the Mayor’s sleeve.
“Inventory?” She managed to mumble, “you didn’t offer me a job before, Mister Mayor…”

“Heh, and interrupt the Silver Shroud from doin’ his job keepin’ my town clean? Ain’t like it’s anything fancy, Sunshine, just… Depends if you wanna make the trip out to my storeroom, is all.”

The pause in their exit came with the shift of her gaze, arms folding loosely around herself to fiddle with sequins. A nervous habit once formed from sitting back at the roulette tables, listening to the endless drivel. Most who had nothing to say, but tended to do nothing but talk… It was where the man next to her was so different.
She’d made it no secret she needed to get out of the Memory Den to start, out of the warmth of the costume. Anywhere else might’ve been better, but her heart was so set on anywhere cozy in the winter month. Anywhere that might’ve involved the level company of the Ghoul who’s hand rested towards the small of her back when they made their silent exit.

Her side pressed towards him, the transfer of heat from his hand, from under the layers of Revolutionary costuming he’d been so fond of. Even something like a storeroom, looking through and over inventory sounded more interesting than nothing…  Certainly more than lurking along the alleyways and waiting for nothing. Red lips formed back into a smile the more she thought about it, sharp eyes shifting back to him before she spoke.

“I take it, we'll leave mid-afternoon, then?” 

—

Chapter Text

—

Damp fabric rung out along the train tracks, shuddering breaths following bitter mutters. A cold, feverish sweat brought on by the thick smog outside the storeroom’s walls. The openings in the roof from worn lead-lined metal give out casting shadows. 

The crackles of distant green lighting had followed them since the Boston Commons, the trickle of rain only settling into a downpour inside the storeroom. The Mercenary was quick to rush to the train car’s middle, meeting the Mayor as he thumbed through documents. Rough estimated numbers of stock through the winter’s peak, enough to make it through January, February…

Rose unraveled her scarf, sticking it along the top of the one of many filing cabinets. The rest of her layers shedding to try to fight the cold sweats of impending radiation. 

The Rad-X must’ve been wearing off, it would’ve explained why her muscles burned hot and her skin an eerie cold. The walk hadn’t been far, not when they were practically knocking on Diamond City’s door. An hour's jog, laughter attempting to bridge the gaps where she feared the impending radstorm, still able to taste Old World pocket change on her tongue from the air. 

The night was spent less than quietly, though. The booms of thunder rivaling the echoes of voices and effort behind the steel walls. Accompanied by that of the drone of a desk fan pointed up towards her skin from where it sat on a stack of concrete blocks. Brief intermission only given for water, or to uncap the surgical tubing necessary to put the Radaway in her arm.
Ruined hands brought their way to ground her, when fingers dug rough against the flesh of her hips. Nearly enough to leave bruises from unacknowledged strength, and to distract from the burn of the medicine. He’d hold her tighter when they paused, when the Radaway’s side effects brought her to a sputtering cough, figuring it better she spit up acid than blood. 

Communication had little need to choke out words, if either of them could. The simplest of taps against each other’s flesh, changes in breathiness, in desperate whines and pleasured hums. Words exchanged were no louder than whispers, the Mercenary’s idea to take hold of those simple vices she had always pushed aside. 

A rough grip around her jaw, the other hand guiding the Jet to her lips. In the moment, she cared less for the burn, the sigh that turned to a small sputter of coughs. Riding a double dose of a high, as the plastic clattered, that bruising touch returned to steady her. 

‘Getting your money’s worth’, John had always called it. The kind of high that made you forget the break of the dam that flooded the Geiger counter. Forgetting the sharp burns perforating and lingering in contracted muscles. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

Ragged breaths catching up along the Geiger’s screams and cries for mercy. Her Pip-Boy fearing she’d split open, if not become a Ghoul herself… 

The Jet softened the blow, keeping her unaware of the steady pour of blood from her nose. When Hancock’s hands moved quickly to catch it. To avoid the sickly mix of bright red and —

The two switched places, her head pounding as the fever brewed, her eyes shut in the comfort of his touch.

—

A tightened grip on the letter’s envelope, studying the name it was addressed to. Strangely, a lack of sender written in such neat handwriting. Clean lines of ink holding that of a name he once knew. 

The Courier’s Pip-Boy read January, months spent on a trek, hopping between caravans and slashing through Raiders by his lonesome. His eye closed for a moment as he sat outside the city’s gate. Careful to not let his mind wander to those too intertwined with his past. 

Sounds of struggling brought him to turn, catching a limited peripheral of the Radio Host moving materials out of the general store. 

“I told you, Kent, just come back in the morning! You can take more than one trip,” Daisy huffed, an old wash rag brushing off the counter. 

“I - I got it! I just… I need it for the Shroud’s costume!” The old Ghoul stared down at the old brick, the boots coming into view catching him off guard… He was ready to expect the ballistic material to be stolen, carried off right in front of him. Except the man helped hoist what was left.

“I can help,” he murmured, barely even heard among the gust of wind and the distant chatter. The man had already lifted the plating before Kent could protest, catching glimpses of shock turning quickly to relief. 

“Yeah, um… T - Thanks! The Memory Den’s just through this alley, and straight across. Folks don’t usually c - come and help, why’re you here? I - In Goodneighbor, I mean?” 

The Radio Host barely caught a solid look at the man. A typical Wastelander, most likely, a drifter. The heavy bag over his shoulder holding a symbol he couldn’t quite make out when conversation came. A missing eye was hardly anything to focus on, it was the sheer amount of bandages. How crudely they wrapped around the man’s blonde curls. 

“I’m a mailman… Got a letter here for Miss Burke.” The stranger’s voice was odd when the name was spoken, a frown settling stoic over his expression. Words that wouldn’t make their way up his throat before Kent spoke again, and there they came face to face with a bright red door. The skeleton left from Scolley’s theatre, “is she anywhere nearby?” 

“Burke, huh?” Kent paused before he opened the door, “just place it here. I’ll get it in a minute! Umm… Dunno anybody named Burke, but maybe try the mayor’s office. I - I think Hancock knows everyone who’s living here. Hope you find her! Thanks for the help! Mister…?”

“Elias,” the Courier nodded, a simple ‘you’re welcome’ skirting under his breath. He turned, not bothering to continue any conversation, the letter moving back out of his pocket. 

He paused for a moment, looking briefly at the sidewalk split under his feet. Thousands of miles and hours had certainly taken their toll, where the jingle in his pocket had certainly become more light. 

Afternoon faded into evening faster than he would’ve liked, skulking about the Hotel Rexford in hopes he could shake the bottom of his bag for a few extra caps. At least enough to warrant a room for the evening… The Propietoress was less than pleased to see him, what with the entire five caps he had left to his name. That, and NCR bills that were placed uselessly on the counter. Claire only shifted him a look of disdain, and left him without shelter from the drizzle outside. 

Fog had begun to cast over Goodneighbor, string lights and generator powered street lamps cutting through the mists of light rain and concealed moonlight. Breaths that intermingled along like smoke, a hand raising heavy against the Old State House’s door.

Elias stood there. His weight shifted against the sunken concrete of the steps as the shuffle and angry mumble behind the doors came to. He stared down at the letter in his hand, a name he’d not heard from in nearly six years. Hoping the door would open to see a face that had long since faded from memory, only seen in the vague ruin of posters and pin up magazines. Something seen even through the steady Med-X use that soothed the aches that swam in his brain. Or, the lack thereof.

A small breath sucked in, the air damp and crisp in his lungs filtering what was usually hot desert sand. He had half the heart to expect her to open the door, perhaps only a bout of wishful thinking amidst the impending withdrawal. Knowing he’d likely have to take the last of his supply when he found a place to sleep…

The Courier’s knock was hesitant at first, almost careful with the fragile wood of the Old State House’s door. Elias’ hand kept the letter positioned just so, to keep the rain from drizzling over the ink. To not let such specific handwriting bleed black over what he never assumed was a letter of importance. 

He startled slightly when the door flung open, not meeting the familiar eyes of the Mercenary, but a disheveled Mayor. Lacking layers, all but a loose fit dressing gown that had since been untucked and drooping off his shoulder. A ruined hand moved to wipe along his chin, a sternness in his eyes that met Elias’ within the instant.
Most didn’t knock on the main door, much less in the throw of midnight. Drifters and residents alike came in and out as they pleased, the middle at top floors occupied by bedrolls and ancient dry rotting mattresses.
Hancock studied him over, coming face to face with drenched bandages wrapped tight around greying blonde hair. His face worn and weathered by the heat and strain of travel, one good eye skating downward to turn the letter accordingly, widening just as quickly.

“I’m… Looking Miss Rose… I have a letter for her,” Elias muttered, his teeth grit when his eye snapped back upwards. Assumptions were best left unthought about as a cautious hand gripped tight to the envelope, snatched up by the Mayor’s hand all the same. “Is she here?”

“She passes through here,” the Ghoul hissed through sharp teeth, a soft click of his jaw following when he spoke, “I’ll make sure it gets to her…” He studied the envelope’s front, the Mojave Express stamp glaring back at him harder than the Courier did. The Mercenary’s name written so delicately along the front, lacking any sort of address, not even a return.
Miss, he thought, a repressed frustration dousing quick in a rare moment of jealousy. The door slammed just as the Courier meant to ask something else, leaving the eerie emptiness to fill the middle and upper floors.

The one night the Neighborhood Watch got to have off, John thought, the one night spent alone. Sullied by the odd feelings Rose often had to shake away, the doors missing from their hinges conflicting with an unspoken need for privacy. To not feel like eyes leered their way over the long corridor in between the open bedroom. One night not entirely plagued by the lasting effects of radiation and the purging of such ailments.
The Mercenary hadn’t bothered to move since he left, her head tilted back into the pillows as her eyes shut. Swaddled tight below the layers of sheets and quilt, not often needed until she laid alone. Late January air still held bitterly over Boston, time flying under their feet alongside their new routine of a day to day.

When her belongings snuck their way alongside mostly untouched dresser drawers, when her Pip-Boy found a more permanent residence beside the desk fan perched on the nightstand. All within arms reach when the IV stand lingered, even when not in use. Silence, unspoken, the smallest inklings bringing forth the broader strokes. Something neither would speak aloud, aside from desperate ‘I love you’s’ under the breathless hold between one another’s mouths. Spoken like prayers alongside clicks of the Geiger.
Something that brought her to a gentle sigh, along the creaking of the floorboards. The small grumble following the answered knock, the roughness along the Mayor’s voice as the letter outstretched towards the woman’s inner space.

“Who was it?” Rose murmured, eyes opening to be face to face with the envelope, suspiciousness honing in when her eyes opened to the harshness of the light.

“Guy was weird…” Hancock mumbled, “the usual Goodneighbor kinda weird. One eye, probably chemmed out of his mind… Said he had mail for a ‘Miss Rose.’ Guess I should’a figured you’d have secret admirers.”
What would’ve been spoken through a tease, an airy laugh passed off so simply by the throws of easy envy. Only, it was devoid of humor this time. Hissed through gritted teeth, through pent frustration that was cut swifter than a blade. Low aches so prominent in the strain of his voice, hoping it wasn’t anything actually important… Anything that could’ve waited to be opened till morning, when her sweetness hadn’t lingered still on what was left of his lips.

A shaky breath escaped her lips, sitting up slow to try to avoid the blissed out, cold induced headache. The eerie feeling gathered in knots in her chest, as if barbed wire had since looped around her ribs, her throat, pulling her into a stiff posture lest it slice through delicate skin. Coincidences seemed quickly overshadowed, though it hadn’t yet left her mind. A soft murmur of how odd it seemed… A one-eyed man delivering letters, unaddressed letters at that, but it was shrugged off in the moment. When her eyes met the ink on the envelope, the all too familiar drag of the pen, the way the ‘R’ looped in her name.
Rose was silent. Her breath nearly at a pause, just as it did when a tinted lens gazed through the scope of her sniper rifle, opening the letter with an uncertain expression.

Hancock’s frustration hadn’t faded quite yet, but envy was so quickly replaced with confusion. That look over her face, the way her scar tugged on her right cheek, her forehead lined as she studied over the very brief contents of the letter. Everything kept simple, as impersonal as a business request, a request to return spoken more as a veiled threat. A stark demand in the way it was worded, the way the lack of emotion seeped through the ink, just as if she could hear it in his voice…

“What’s it say, Sunshine?” John finally broke the silence, filling the gaps where Rose couldn’t make out words. She could only stare, rereading Mister Burke’s demands for her to return to the Capital Wasteland. With whatever vague consequences lingered behind his intention, signed off with something about ‘paving the way’... For her to be a part of his accomplishment, of the Wasteland’s pristine future.

The Mercenary hardly registered that he had spoken at all, till ruined fingers clutched gently at her shoulder, her own hands shaking under the weight of her nerves.
She felt her stomach turn, doing flips as the reality sunk back in. All those times sitting and waiting amongst Megaton’s citizens, the Lone Wanderer’s horror when the Sheriff was shot down in the middle of the Saloon… Nearly ten years of planning. Waiting and watching for a savior to pull her out of the pit of guilt, and yet she only sunk further.

Her eyes were slow to turn back, to meet his own. A strained sound replaced any words, not that she had much else to say in the moment’s notice. She didn’t have to anyways, when trembling hands lowered down to her quilt covered lap, her head pressing light into Hancock’s shoulder. That turning in her stomach never stopped, the unknowns of it all were a product of unanswered questions. Everything she wanted to know, anything that might have helped stop it, even… Nothing. Mister Burke insisted she’d throw a wrench into it all, all that planning and need for outstretched reach. Needs never satisfied, even in such a landscape as the Capital Wasteland.

John went quiet, his hands settled awkwardly along the exposed skin of her back, his expression changing subconsciously at how rough his palms were against her. Whoever the letter was from, he knew it wasn’t good. The tension built up in her shoulders and her spine said as much, tightness only growing when she slumped against his body.
Still, he didn’t interrupt her train of thought. Letting doubts get the better of him, letting thoughts wander to who exactly the man at the door was. Better yet, who the letter was from…

She thought she was close to vomiting. From the steam hammer in her chest, the tension in her spine was only vaguely eased by mottled hands. Radiation levels still lingered from frequency, a lack of Radaway for the time being so long as her insides didn’t feel close to melting. Comments thrown on occasion about not letting both of them lose their minds… By radiation, or by the scrubbing of it. 

Rose had never been quite this vulnerable. Never once had he seen her eyes tinge with tears, nor had he seen them fall. She only wore that unseen look of pure horror when her forehead wasn’t pressed into his dressing gown. Words were fleeting in the moment, from the both of them. Broken only in shaky gasps that tried swallowing down the impeding floodgates of tears. Tears that never came. 

“He found me… H - He found me.”

The Ghoul paused, straightening up a bit when Rose’s head left his shoulder. Instead, her hands locked in a vice grip around the ruffles of his dressing gown. Hancock couldn’t hide that scowl, a deepest sense of envy at the assumption of it all. The sinking feeling that it really was just a matter of time… 

“Who? That courier?” 

He didn’t realize his jaw was clenched so tightly, the briefest glance to the formal handwriting… It hardly seemed likely the one-eyed man had done it. Too uniform, at least not with the withdrawal he seemed to be going through. Then again, stranger things had happened…

“I can get the neighborhood to keep an eye out and —” 

“No, not him…” Rose muttered, loud enough to cut his rasped threats short enough. Assumptions of identity on that front kept brief, quelled only by the pure unease. “The letter… It’s from my father.” 

Those words even leaving her lips made her stomach turn backwards. The mix of anxiety holding her throat hostage, tight and sharp against her airways like barbed wire. Unable to be helped by the Radaway in her arm. Bitter metallic pinching her senses, the tingles along her nerves, all making for a sick and miserable concoction. 

Rose couldn’t look back at John. Not now. Not even to see his expression soften from something dangerous to concern. 

“It’s a summons back to Tenpenny Tower. In the Capital…” she continued, trying to swallow through the thickness of her nerves. The impending threat of vomiting creeping every closer, just to expel the sick feeling from whence the letter followed. 

Hancock was still. Catching just how pale she looked under the lamp’s warm light. An unusual and ghastly white across her skin that he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with… 

His arms fell at his sides when she pulled away. Overstimulated from the fever building behind her brow, the letter dropped into her lap as her fingers fiddled with the IV in her arm. 

The rusty fluid that went into her arm was capped off, a less than steady hand trying to pull the needle from her vein. Her skin had been irritated already, the frequency of anti-radiation drugs and radiation itself taking its toll. 

The Mercenary couldn’t quite tell if the Mayor hadn’t spoken, or if she simply didn’t hear it. If her nerves were so shot, all consumed by the concoction of awful feelings deep in her stomach. 

“Woah, hey… Quit. Lemme get it for ya.” 

She blinked. Then her eyes shut for a moment, honing long into the pattering of rain along Victorian shingles. Echoing howls through the Old State House’s bell tower replacing part of the dull humming in the back of her skull. 

Firm, yet tender, rough hands worked to wind leftover gauze around a makeshift bandage. A small piece of cotton torn from a rationed first aid kit Fahrenheit used. 

It was nearly second nature now, jokes not leaving his lips about being close enough to a Wasteland doctor with the way he’d wrap Fahrenheit’s burns every other morning. Instead, a more stern tone took over, the letter that sat in her lap taking precedence over it all. Cryptic words along the lined paper equally replacing the previous emotion. 

“You don’t have to go, y’know,” he finally said, adjusting the cuffed linen sleeves, bringing them back up around his elbows. “What’s the rush on your old man’s part?” 

“I don’t know,” Rose said quickly, quicker than she meant, but the lie seemed to slip out faster than the truth could. 

She wasn’t sure what consequences weighed along the scales if she admitted it. If it was even the truth… There was no proving it was still there, the call back to the Capital could’ve very well been unrelated, couldn’t it? 

Her teeth caught her stained bottom lip, a finger running under the tight gauze around her arm where the needle once was. Guilt swept her up just as quickly as the lie did, her cheeks burning hot in shame. Though it was easily mistaken for the flushing of radiation. 

John’s stare didn’t help. The neutrality strikes harder than any scrutiny, or blame. Only the soft edges of concern among changed features. 

How odd it felt, being framed in the light of trust. To have her word taken as it was, not as if it were to be peeled and picked at. 

Her gaze never left the letter. Trembling hands folding it up despite her nerves being shot. Stained parchment folding seal side down, tucked under her Pip-Boy’s clasp on the bedside table. 

“Feels like ya just got here,” he mumbled under his breath, “you… Ain’t really thinking about leaving, are ya? Least not alone…”

She sighed softly, nearly mistaken for a humorless laugh as her hands crossed over her face. Exasperation, exhaustion, reflections of her past seeming to follow amidst the present’s trepidation. What would he think of her, then? If he knew the truth, she thought, if he knew what she ran from. 

“No… I… I don’t want to at all. Bringing you with me will only put you at risk. I couldn’t.”

The pair settled back into the mattress, arms wrapped tight around her torso as his head buried into her hair. 

Storms brought along the smell of wet dry rotted wood, boarded window panes letting her catch glimpses of streetlights along the mist. The occasional flicker of light bulbs when the wind picked up among the alleys. Heat gathering between their bodies as they pressed close to one another, mottled hands settling ever gently along the silk of her nightgown.  

“I can handle myself, doll…” he mumbled, the since forgotten frustration returning in floods when their waists met. “You said the Capital’s empty anyway.”

“Mostly empty…” Rose murmured, her hands wrapping loose around the Mayor’s wrists. “It’s such a long trip, it’s not exactly as easy as getting up and leaving. Might not even be worth it, especially not if it is the way I left it.” 

Hancock nodded at that, sharp toothed kisses settling along her shoulder as they settled in. Conversation fading out in the bliss of the storm outside, the warmth of radioactivity and the quilts stacked over her. Late January air howling through the State House’s lower floors, all tuned out by drowsiness. 

—

The Hotel Rexford found little sympathy for those caught in the storm. Most took refuge in the Old State House, when others wouldn’t allow drifters into stores without the assumption of stealing. The Memory Den’s signs only made the Courier uneasy, the overstretch of neon red lights cutting through heavy rain. 

Elias huffed, the old blood stains and submachine gun bullet holes left along the brick siding of the alleyway. A frown engrained deep as one good eye strained. 

Dust storms were easier in comparison, however many times he and Arcade were armored to the teeth, wading through the shifting desert sands. Now, he found it a struggle to stand tall in the East coast winter rain. 

He hadn’t thought to look for the rumored Third Rail folks were talking about in the Rexford lobby. The staff that mopped tirelessly at the dirtied floors. Crooning over when they’d next be up to their ears in stiff drinks, to hear the singer’s voice to make it all worth it. 

The Courier’s hand moved back up to his face, a palm settling along the soaked bandages. Unable to scratch without a familiar voice in his head fussing all the same… Maybe if he had asked a bit further… 

Perhaps she was in that very building, he thought, maybe the odd-suited man at the Mojave Express didn’t even know if she was dead or alive.

His back pressed against the brick, as sunken into the corner as he could. Greying golden hair sitting uncomfortable under those damnable bandages, curls that stuck tight along his neck in the most awful itch. 

It was the lack of caps that sunk him so far down, perhaps he’d be able to get a room at the Rexford if ED-E’s maintenance was not held at the forefront of his mind. The abundance of NCR money still sunk in the bottom of Courier Six’s pack, all but useless… Daisy had already told him as much. She couldn’t make a trade for a currency that didn’t exist so far East. 

Med-X was just as low… He could feel it in his veins. Itching along his nervous system, his eye sockets heavy and dark as variables added up. Twin stimpacks were all that were left, among the amount of letters, scraps of metal, a damaged Pip-Boy bathing the short alley in a golden yellow. 

Most considered Goodneighbor’s nightlife to be one in abundance, the ease of minor jobs, perhaps lacking in morals, were never scarce. At least until icy rain pushed folks back indoors. Where the thudding of overly inebriated people landed in splashing puddles. The Ghoulish bouncer rasping something about whatever effect the troublemaker had. 

Elias sighed. Attempting to keep limbs moving for the sake of not freezing, even under outer layers of leather and cotton underneath, he was nearly freezing. 

Just as his back left the wall, a foot placed in front, the steel door made a loud noise. One enough to make him jump, though not quite quick enough to shoot on impulse. He stared back at a pair of coagulated scleras. A woman eyeing him up and down, staring hard at the odd look in his eye… 

“Hey, you. Folks ain’t usually out this late…” Bobbi No-Nose peered through the visor of the door, her hand resting on the main locks. “Guessing a guy like you is hurting for a job? And maybe someone like me is looking for a set of hands… Fifty caps to start.”

Elias paused. The words blended in at first, till the wind let up and the rain didn’t pelt him quite so heavily. 

“I’m in.”

—