Chapter Text
MacCready is in trouble.
It's not exactly a new experience for him, but this is bad even by his standards. He counts the bullets on his gun belt again - still nineteen. That, plus the three left in the clip, brings him to a grand total of twenty-two. Other than those bullets, his rifle, and the clothes on his back, he's flat broke.
He's seriously debating trading his few remaining bullets for a little food. He hasn't eaten for three days and if he doesn't get something soon, the bullets won't do him any good anyway. He'll be too weak to shoot straight. His other usual alternative when he gets hungry is to lift whatever shiny trinket might be lying around, but if he gets caught stealing in Goodneighbor again, Hancock is going to kick him out of town.
He doesn't have any particular fondness for Goodneighbor, but since Winlock and Barnes tracked him down, staying in town is his ticket to staying alive.
Someone at the Third Rail bar is eating radstag steak; he can smell it from the back room. His stomach clenches and then rolls over uneasily, caught somewhere between hunger and nausea. His hands are shaking and he's got a pounding headache; cold sweat pops up on the back of his neck. MacCready grits his teeth and goes through his pockets again. Maybe he missed something.
A soft footstep catches his attention and he jerks his head up warily. If it's Winlock and Barnes again, he might be screwed. He's in no shape to take them in a fight; he's just lucky they didn't call his bluff about taking it outside the last time they were here.
It's not them, though - a woman stands in the doorway to the back room. She looks, if possible, worse than he feels. Painfully thin, ashen faced and swaying like a drunk. There's fresh blood spattered on her armor; maybe hers, maybe not. She's staring at him with a peculiar fixed expression, made more intense by the gauntness of her face and the dark hollows beneath her eyes.
He pegs her immediately as just another Goodneighbor junkie, strung out on chems and looking for the next fix. She's got that telltale glaze to her eyes, and he can see her trembling from here. "Look, lady," he says, impatient. "If you're preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy. I don't have any handouts."
She says nothing, just stares at him. He doesn't think she's blinked since she entered the room and it's starting to creep him out. She's drifting closer, legs wobbling beneath her like she's going to hit the floor any second. He wrinkles his nose - she's got a weird sickly-sweet smell around her that he associates with disease.
MacCready narrows his eyes when he spots the gleam of well-oiled gunmetal at her hip. A highly modified 10mm, with a smooth grip and a long suppressor. She's got full clips of several ammo types neatly tucked into belts that cross her chest and he can see the stock of a shotgun poking over her shoulder. Her armor is sleek leather, well fitted and dark, whisper quiet as she moves. She's carrying what looks to be a well-laden pack, although he's not sure how she's managing the weight since she can barely stay upright. She's clearly not all there, but maybe she's got caps to spare after all.
He puts on a slightly friendlier expression. "If you need a hired gun, though... then maybe we can talk."
She nods. "Yes," she says. "I want to hire you. Let me see your hands."
He stares at her. "What?"
"Your hands." She holds out her own, curling her fingers up in an impatient gesture. "Let me see. So I know if you can do the job."
MacCready shakes his head. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Please," she says. "I have caps. I can pay you." The way she speaks is strange, clipped off sentences like every word is costing her too much effort. Her expression is almost pleading. "Just. Your hands. Let me see. It won't take long."
"I don't take orders unless I'm getting paid," he says. "Up front."
She digs into her pocket blindly, never taking her eyes off him. He can hear the familar click of caps. She dumps a handful on the table without bothering to count them. He schools his expression - there's enough to feed him for a week, if he's careful, but he doesn't want to look too eager. He stuffs them in his jacket before she can change her mind.
She holds her hands out again, expectant.
He hesitates. "I'm really not getting why this is necessary."
"It is. I paid you. Should I take the money back?"
He scowls. "Fine," he mutters, then reaches out, watching her closely for any sudden moves. She leans in and clutches his hands, wrapping her fingers around his palms and holding on tight. She makes a low, choked sound and sways, then topples sideways in a controlled fall, landing on the couch in a heap and dragging him with her. They wind up side by side, awkwardly twisted toward each other, joined hands on the cushion between them.
She's breathing hard, and she curls foward on the couch, dipping until he can feel the tickle of her breath across his knuckles.
"No biting," he says, because he has now upgraded his assessment of her from junkie to total nutcase.
She huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh. "No biting," she agrees. She seems content to sit there, hunched over, relaxing by slow degrees. He can see the tension run out of her back, her shoulders curving into a gentle slope and her body sinking limply into the battered couch. She rests her cheek on their laced fingers and rubs against them like a cat.
"Okay," he says after a minute. "So, I'm going to need those back eventually."
She hums a little but otherwise ignores him.
MacCready looks around the room, glad nobody is there to witness this because seriously, what the hell? He tugs a little, and her grip immediately tightens. Aside from her iron grasp on his hands, she's still and quiet. Her breathing has steadied and the trembling has stopped. He pulls harder, twisting his wrists. "Time's up," he says.
She sighs and straightens, lifting her head. He leans back, startled - she looks markedly different. The grayish pallor is gone from her skin and her gaze is sharp and lucid. She squeezes his hands once more and then lets him go with obvious reluctance. He pulls away fast.
"What was that all about?" he asks. He rubs his hands together, trying to get a little feeling back in his fingers. She's surprisingly strong.
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Call it a job interview." Even her voice is calmer, steadier.
"That was the weirdest job interview ever. Just saying."
The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. "Just wait," she says. "It's going to get weirder."
MacCready doesn't find that reassuring. "Okay," he replies slowly. "Anyway. The price is 250 caps. Again, up front. And there's no room for bargaining."
"The job I have in mind is a little more complicated." She tilts her head to one side and gives him a quick once-over. "You're hungry. Let's talk about it over dinner. I'm buying."
His stomach growls embarrasingly loud and he feels his face heat. "Yeah, okay," he agrees. If nothing else, at least he's getting a free meal - he's hungry enough to put up with a lot of weirdness for that.
She leads him into the main bar area and tells him to get whatever he wants from Charlie. He orders a ridiculous amount of food. She pays without hassling him about it.
He barely pauses to breathe as he wolfs down the first plate - he has to muffle a moan of relief when the food hits his empty stomach. He's been hungry plenty of times in his life, but somehow he always forgets just how miserable it is. She sits across from him, sipping water and listening to Magnolia sing. She gives no indication that she's bothered by the way he shovels the food down.
He's halfway through the second plate before he slows down enough to start wondering how she knew he was hungry. For that matter, he's not sure why she was willing to buy him food when she's clearly not interested in eating anything herself. He gives her a sidelong glance; she looks steady and calm - the strung out chem-head from twenty minutes ago has disappeared. Everything about her has been confusing so far and that doesn't seem likely to change anytime soon. He doesn't like it; it makes him feel off-balance. Plus, that whole thing with the hands was just strange. He's not real eager to work for crazy, but it's not like he's got a lot of options.
MacCready leans back, opening his beer and taking a long swallow. She takes this as a cue that it's time to talk business.
"So," she says. "What does 250 caps buy me, exactly?"
He gives her a cocky grin. "The best sniper in the Commonwealth."
"Really?" she asks. "If that's true, then I'm interested."
"Oh, it's true." He picks a little at the mirelurk cake on his plate, then looks up at her. "What about you? How do I know I won't end up with a bullet in my back?"
"If I decide to shoot you," she says, "it won't be in the back."
"Oh," he says after a moment. "Great."
"So, the sniper thing, we'll call that job one," she says briskly. She rummages in her pack and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pencil. She writes it down: Job 1 - Sniper - 250 caps. She turns the paper so he can see and gives him a questioning look. "Okay?"
"Fine," he says, "but we don't need a contract. You point and I shoot, pretty simple arrangement."
She smiles. "Like I said, it gets weirder."
"Weirder than that thing with the hands? Because seriously boss, wow."
"Boss," she echoes. "I like that. Anyway, yes. I know that was weird, believe me. I'm very aware. And thank you for going along with it. I think it's pretty obvious how much it helped me."
Which is true - she looks a hell of a lot better now. She even smells better. What he can't figure out is why holding his hands for a few minutes would somehow fix whatever was wrong with her. MacCready shakes his head. "Yeah, I don't get that."
"I know." She sighs and scrubs a hand through her hair. "It's complicated, and frankly, I'm not planning on explaining it. You're going to have to take a lot on faith here."
"Faith," he scoffs. "Right."
"As long as you get paid, do you really need to know the reasons?"
He thinks about that for a minute and shrugs. "Guess not. So what's job two, then?"
"Lessons," she replies. "Specifically, sniper lessons. I'm good with short range weapons, and I'm handy with a knife, but my long distance needs work. As long as you're traveling with me, I will want regular training."
"Fine," he says, a little relieved. That's an easy one; he likes showing off his skill, and working with someone who wants to learn can be a lot of fun. "And is this a paying job too?"
She chuckles. "It's all paying work, don't worry. For this one, I'll keep you supplied with food, stimpaks, and ammo - plus you get a cut of any valuable salvage or caps we find."
"How much of a cut?"
"Half," she says. "But I get first pick of unique weapons and armor."
MacCready raises his eyebrows. A half-share is far more generous than he expected. "What's the catch?"
"Well," she says, drawing out the word. "We're coming to that." She takes her time writing down the terms for job two on the scrap of paper. Then she takes a swallow of her water, avoiding his eyes. He waits, already feeling a curl of disappointment in his belly. This is all sounding too good to be true and he has the sense it's about to fall apart.
Finally, she sighs and sits up straight in her chair, giving him a long, level stare. "The catch is job three. It's contact."
"Contact," he repeats, shaking his head. "What does that mean?"
She slides her hand across the table, holding it out to him, palm up. He leans back and crosses his arms pointedly over his chest. She pulls her hand away, a rueful twist to her mouth. "Yeah," she says. "You know what it means. Like the hands, but more. I'll expect it whenever I ask, and I'll be asking often. That includes when we're sleeping."
And there it is. MacCready pushes his chair back from the table. "Should've known," he mutters. "Look, plenty of people in Goodneighbor are selling what you're buying. I'm not one of them."
"I'm not talking about sex," she says sharply. "Sit down and listen."
He pauses, halfway out of his chair, hesitating. It's the memory of hunger that pulls him back down. That, and his nineteen bullets. He's in no position to be picky. "So what are you talking about?"
"Literally just contact," she says. "Sex is completely off the table. Not happening. What I'm looking for is something else. Call it whatever you want - sharing body heat, touching, cuddling, whatever. Doesn't matter. It's what I need to... to be okay. Clothes stay on, if that makes you feel better."
"I just... I don't get it," he says. "If that's all you're after, you could probably get it for free from half the people in here."
She shakes her head. "Nothing's free. They'd have expectations. There would be strings attached. I don't want that. I'm looking for a clean, simple business arrangement. That's why I want a merc. I get what I need and you get paid and everyone's happy."
He thinks about it, idly pushing the remains of his dinner around on the plate. He's done some things for money that he's not proud of, sure. He's crossed plenty of lines. There have even been lean times where he's thought about selling more than just his skill with a rifle. It's not like she's asking for anything terrible - he used to sleep curled together with the others for warmth and comfort all the time in Little Lamplight. If he's being honest, sometimes he misses it. If all she wants is someone next to her in the bed, and maybe a little hand-holding from time to time, is that so hard?
MacCready looks across the table at her. She looks back, and she must read something in his expression, because a small smile sneaks across her lips. "I did warn you that it was weird," she says.
"Yeah, no kidding," he says. "This better pay really well."
For this, he gets a broad grin. She has shockingly white teeth, straight and clean in a way he's never seen before. "Let's talk price." She taps the contract. "You were willing to get shot at for 250 caps - a little cuddling should be a breeze. How about a hundred?"
He shakes his head. "You said yourself this is something you need. And you know it's not exactly normal. Weird shi... stuff is more expensive. I want one-fifty."
"Deal," she says, so quickly he realizes he could have asked for more. She's already writing it down. She signs the contract with a messy scrawl, unlike the rest of her neat, angular handwriting, and pushes it across the table to him.
He looks down at it. Job 3 - Contact - 150 caps. That brings his grand total up to 400, more caps than he's ever had at once. Plus that half share of the haul on whatever jobs they do; if he plays his cards right, he stands to make a whole lot of money. He signs quick, before he can have any second thoughts.
She beams at him and tucks the contract away in her pack. Then she extends her hand across the table again.
He looks at it for a moment. Somehow it hasn't quite sunk in that she's serious about this. It feels like an elaborate practical joke. He glances around the room, but no one is paying them any attention. And even if they were, so what? He's in a bar, having a beer, about to hold the hand of the pretty woman sitting with him. It's not exactly scandalous. It's only strange for him because he doesn't know her and he's not the type of guy who gets physical with random people in bars. That requires a degree of trust he just doesn't have.
Still, he did agree to this. He doesn't go back on his deals. So MacCready takes her hand, relieved when she doesn't push any further than that. She just gives him a little squeeze and then turns in her chair to watch Magnolia sing.
He's grateful for the chance to process a little. He feels like she blew into his life like a tornado and his head is still spinning. He's still not sure what kind of jobs they'll be doing. Something lucrative, he hopes. He sends caps back to the friends who are taking care of Duncan for him every chance he gets, and lately there haven't been many chances. He's constantly aware of time slipping through his fingers; every day he's struggling to scrape together enough resources to get that cure is another day that Duncan has to fight his illness. Another day closer to losing that fight.
He suppresses a shudder, pushing the thought away. He can't even let himself imagine it. Across the table, his new boss looks at him sharply. "You okay?"
"Fine," he says. "So do you have a name, or what?"
She smiles. "Emma."
~~~