Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They keep taking it in turns to creep up to the roof to check on the weather, waiting for a break in the fog so that Patrick and Macready can see well enough to take out the Gunners.

Andy has just put his foot on the wobbly first step of the fire escape when he hears the Vertibird approaching and he ducks back through the window, peering up at the gray sky.

“What's up?” Patrick asks as Andy holds out a hand, palm out.

“The Brotherhood,” Macready grumbles, “Can you tell them to keep it down?” He's lying on his back, propped up by the flat surface of an overturned desk, hands linked over his stomach and hat pulled low over his face. Andy had thought he was asleep - maybe he had been.

“You wanna show us where that vent is?” Deacon asks him.

“Ugh,” Macready complains childishly, tipping his hat back so he can look at them with one bleary, cracked open eye, “I was trying to sleep.”

Andy has the sudden, startling realization that he's probably not much older than Jake.

“If you and Patrick time it right,” Deacon wheedles, “You could probably crash that Vertibird on top of the Gunners… Doesn't that sound like fun?”

Macready opens his other eye, “Tell me more,” he says, now interested.

“If they're here for the Gunners,” Deacon points out, “Then they'll probably drop off some ground troops and then take off again to provide aerial support. Catch it at the right time and you could bring it down while it's flying overhead. I mean, a couple of talented snipers like you two? Child's play, surely?”

This is such a blatant appeal to both Patrick and Macready's pride in their skills that Andy sniggers to himself.

“Well…” Macready says, sitting up, “I mean, you're not wrong…”

“Come on then,” Andy says, “Let's get back up there and see what they're doing at least.”

“I'll bring the shower curtain,” Patrick offers, obviously also keen on Deacon's idea.

The Vertibird is already circling the Gunner base, just visible through the hazy fog. It looks like a giant Bloatfly hovering above the small building. From his vantage point on the roof, Andy can just about make out the red flashes of laser fire from lower down.

Macready pulls a pair of binoculars off his belt and sights down them, kneeling precariously close to the edge of the building as Patrick drops down onto his stomach, pulling one knee up and out to steady himself ready for firing.

“It's right above them,” Macready says, “Whenever you're ready would be good!”

“Wait,” Patrick says quietly, his sniper’s subvocalization almost inaudible over the loud engine sound of the flying machine.

Andy has known Patrick for long enough now to trust that he knows what he's doing with this kind of thing, but Deacon hisses, “What's he waiting for?!” right into Andy's ear.

Andy shrugs, “If Patrick says wait, we wait,” he explains.

There are more red flashes and the Vertibird completes another circuit of the base. Someone inside it is dedicated to spraying the entire area with minigun fire in a way that means even Andy is a little worried about them hitting their own squad.

Patrick cocks his rifle and readjusts his eye at his scope. “Wait…” he says again.

Someone in the base screams loud enough for it to even be faintly heard by Andy.

Patrick fires twice in an almost impossibly short span of time, following his target with a miniscule twitch of his barrel.

“Got it!” Macready cheers, “Nice one!”

As Andy watches, dark smoke starts pouring from the tail of the Vertibird and it spirals down, tipped onto its side until the rotor blades make contact with the flat roof of the Gunner's building and it explodes in one huge, orange fireball.

Patrick shakes himself and pulls his face away from his scope. He has the small, pleased smile that Andy knows is Patrick’s way of congratulating himself on a job that probably only a tiny handful of people in the Wasteland could possibly have pulled off. Andy is, he realizes, sharing this roof with two of them.

Macready helps pull Patrick to his feet, slapping him on the back companionably, “What the heck were you waiting for?!” he asks, grinning.

Patrick shrugs, “Just thought it would be more efficient to wait until all the Brotherhood soldiers were inside the building before I dropped a Vertibird on it,” he explains bashfully, a hint of pink spreading across the bridge of his nose, “Less to clean up, you know?”

Deacon laughs, “Very tidy!” he assures him and then claps his hands together, “Okay then, boys, off to the Castle? Let's see what sort of trouble your Mister Trohman has got himself into…”

Patrick is keeping him company when he gets the transmission from Hawkins.

They've been playing a game of ‘Would You Rather?’, and Pete isn't surprised to find that Patrick is really good at it, coming up with all kinds of grossly creative situations.

“Fuck a Feral or watch Bloatfly larvae hatch from your arm?” Patrick asks, spinning himself around in Pete's chair.

Pete pulls an impressed, disgusted face, “How would I be able to fuck a Feral Ghoul?” he asks, “Is it, like, tied up?”

Patrick cackles, “Yeah, okay. It's tied up. No teeth either, but you have to fuck it until you come.”

Pete narrows his eyes, “How many larvae?”

“Loads,” Patrick replies, grinning, “Loads and loads.”

“Bleargh,” Pete says, miming vomiting, “They're both gross, but probably the larvae.”

Patrick laughs again and pushes himself back around in the opposite direction, “Your turn,” he says as soon as he's facing Pete again.

Pete has no idea where his runner is at the moment - the Plaza has been getting quieter and quieter for the last few days and even Commander Wes has stopped visiting the radio room quite so often as he had been. It's been, not relaxing - not even close - but spending time with Patrick is always good. He's just about to say something about having to swim across the polluted river or… when the radio crackles into life and Hawkins starts a panicky broadcast.

Now he comes to think of it, the radio has been much quieter than usual as well…

“...the fucking Brotherhood!” Hawkins is screaming in plain English, shocking him, “They're here! Shit! We're under attack! One-Hotel, One-Hotel, please respond!”

Pete urges Patrick out of the way and throws himself down onto the chair, grabbing at the microphone, “Six-Three-Charlie-Papa?” Pete asks, “One-Hotel…” but before he can say any more, from the other side of the open mic, there's a loud rat-a-tat of a quickly firing minigun. Hawkins screams, once, piercing and awful and then falls silent.

Pete looks up at Patrick, standing beside the desk and chewing on his thumbnail. “Fuck,” is all Pete can find to say.

Patrick stares back at him, “You gotta tell Wes!” he says quickly, flapping a frantic hand in Pete's direction, “Go! I'll listen out for anything else.”

Pete throws himself through the radio room door and sprints down the deserted corridors to Commander Wes’ office, bursting in to interrupt a tense looking meeting between him, Ashworth and Cruz.

“The Brotherhood have just taken out the Southside Checkpoint!” he gasps breathlessly, “Hawkins just came on air, but I think she's dead!”

“What the hell!?” Commander Wes shouts.

“Did you just leave the radio unattended?” Ashworth asks.

“Where the fuck is Private Morris?” Cruz demands.

Pete stares at him, “Who's Private Morris?” he asks, puzzled, and then, “And no, Patrick’s listening to the radio…”

Cruz replies, “Your fucking runner!”

Ashworth says, “Who the fuck is Patrick?”

Commander Wes yells, “Get back to work, Wentz!”

So Pete gets back to work.

Patrick is still riding the high of his shot taking down the Vertibird as they walk east, and for a moment he thinks the sound he can hear is just replaying in his memory but then Mac grabs onto his hat and says, “What the… crikey… is that now?!”

Deacon sniggers, presumably at Mac's word choice, but now his attention has been drawn to it, he hears the slow thump of more rotors.

“Fucking hell, not another one!” Patrick complains, looking up.

“That doesn't sound like it's in the air,” Andy says, “It sounds too slow.”

Deacon darts forward and scrambles up a pile of rubble, staying low and peering over the top of it. Patrick follows him.

In front of them, landed in an overgrown parking lot, is yet another Vertibird. Patrick glares at it and wishes he knew how many of them there are so that he can keep track of the amount he still needs to explode. A handful of soldiers are crowded around the open side door, leaning in and listening to what the pilot is saying.

“...and I'm telling you their tracer just went offline!” he says, “Listen!” The pilot presses a button somewhere in the cockpit that makes a high-pitched but flat continuous tone. Judging by his voice, it's not the sound it's supposed to be making.

“Maybe it's just malfunctioning,” one of the other soldiers says hopefully.

“Malfunctioning?” the pilot repeats flatly, “Yeah, right.”

“You don't think we've lost another ‘Bird, do you?” another soldier asks anxiously.

The pilot switches off the annoying noise and says, “If you can think of another reason why that team has just apparently vanished, I'd like to hear it, Private Stansfield.”

The Private swallows loudly enough for it to be picked up on his interior microphone, “Shit,” he mutters, “We can't afford to lose any more - not with that raid on the Gunner Headquarters planned!”

Patrick glances over at Deacon in an attempt to confirm that he's heard that correctly, but he's focused entirely on the Brotherhood soldiers, eyebrows raised so high in shock that they're visible over the frames of his sunglasses.

“How many of them can there possibly be left?” the first soldier scoffs, “We've been taking out their camps all week! Maxon says there's only that TV station and that encampment further south under that overpass left - There's probably only a handful of them in that place… Whoever their Commander is, I guess, as well as that one prick who's always on the fucking radio…”

For the second time in as many hours, Patrick uses Macready's clever exploit to blow up a Brotherhood Vertibird and its entire crew.

“I'm not going to apologize,” Patrick grumbles as Andy stands at the top of the rubble pile, surveying the remains of the second Vertibird with his hands on his hips and a disapproving look on his face.

Andy gives him another look that very clearly says, ‘I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed’, almost better than his mother ever could. Patrick shuffles his feet awkwardly in the face of it.

“You didn't hear what they were saying about Pete,” he offers weakly.

Andy sighs, “Were they saying something that could have been more useful than, ‘The Brotherhood are planning on attacking the Plaza at some point’?” he asks pointedly.

Deacon ambles over to them at that moment, leaving Macready to kick hopefully at the bits of wreckage for anything identifiable, “Just a thought guys, not my place to tell you your business, etcetera, etcetera, but maybe we should get to the Castle as soon as we can and ask them to announce the incoming raid? I mean, if your boytoy is the only one with his ear to the ground, as it were, he'll probably appreciate the warning, you know?”

Patrick can feel the blood drain from his face at that, and whatever he must look like makes Andy tug him in for yet another fierce hug. “Come on,” he says into Patrick’s ear, “Let's go. He'll have plenty of warning, don't worry.”

“Yo!” Deacon yells at Macready, “You ready?”

Mac kicks a final piece of twisted metal and pulls a face, “Yeah,” he replies, “Yeah, let's go.”

The days Joe has to spend waiting after George shows him Andy's message feel like some of the longest in his life.

Ferguson, now newly promoted to Captain, tries to keep him busy, because apparently lurking around the guard post on top of the walls and watching for any sign of movement is freaking out the new recruits. He does this by setting a bubbly Corporal on him who makes it her life's ambition to get Joe to join in whatever post-shift organised fun the Minutemen can think up. Joe is rapidly running out of ways to explain that he's really, really not interested in the stickball tournament. If Andy arrives in the middle of an innings, he'll never hear the end of it.

Mayor Hancock has got the right fucking idea, he thinks, splitting his time between organising a drinking competition in the bar and wading back out to the water pump to fiddle with it meaningfully, well out of reach of even the most dedicated person who might want him to take part in a talent show or something.

At the moment Corporal Bennett is trying to track him down again. Joe isn't sure why, but he's been hearing the words ‘show choir’ being muttered in bleak tones around the Castle for a while, so he's so desperate to avoid that particular fate that he shoves open a closed door to what he assumes is a store cupboard and closes it behind him quickly, pressing his ear against the wood.

Someone coughs politely behind him and Joe freezes.

“Can I help you, Mister Trohman?” Preston asks.

Joe turns very slowly. Garvey is sitting behind a large desk and between him and Joe are two chairs full of two important looking Minutemen, both of whom are twisted to face him. The blonde lady looks amused, but the bearded dude has an expression on his face that Joe can only describe as detonation imminent.

“Um,” Joe supplies helpfully.

“Still no sign of Mister Hurley then?” Garvey asks in a surprisingly genial tone of voice.

Joe silently shakes his head.

“Well, as awful as I feel to drag you away from trying out for Corporal Bennett’s amateur dramatics society, maybe we could pick your brain regarding these Brotherhood tactics? We're not entirely sure what they're planning with these troop movement reports…”

“Major Garvey! I must protest!” the bearded Minuteman blusters, “You can't possibly allow this civilian access to confidential intelligence…”

Preston folds his arms neatly on his desk, leaning slightly forwards, “On the contrary, Captain McDonald, Mister Trohman here is our foremost specialist in the Brotherhood of Steel. We'd be stupid to ignore his expertise.”

Captain McDonald huffs, but the blonde winks at him conspiratorially, so Joe takes the win.

He drags over a chair from beside the door and sits down at the desk, preening with pride, “Yes, yes, of course. Major Garvey, what can I help you with?”

Joe ends up, as he has the last few nights, drinking with Hancock up on the top of the battlements. They stare off across the city, passing Hancock’s flask back and forth. Joe is forced to admit that even with the floodlit blimp hovering menacingly off to their right and the occasional rattle of gunfire, the Commonwealth is quite lovely in the dim light of the falling sunset.

“I hope everyone is alright,” he says, taking another swallow of Hancock’s mystery liquor.

“I'm sure they are, my man,” Hancock says encouragingly, holding out his hand for the bottle, “I can't wait to properly meet your dude. Gotta make sure he's good enough for my favorite random settler, you know?”

Joe smiles, “I think that's the other way around,” he admits, “He's way too good for me, and I know it. I'm just the lucky asshole he somehow picked, I guess. Hopefully he won't notice for a while yet.”

Hancock laughs croakily but doesn't reply, so Joe continues, his conversation with Major Garvey fresh in his mind, “He's… I'm… Right, okay, so. My, uh, disguise? Well, I used to actually be a member of the Brotherhood. Years ago and down in DC, yeah?”

Hancock pulls a face that would, on anyone else, be eyebrow-raising surprise. “Alright,” he says, “Bit of a curve ball there, gotta admit.”

“They were all assholes,” Joe says, taking back the bottle, “Like, actual, genuinely shitty assholes. I left as soon as I realized that, but a lot of that shit sticks, yeah?”

“Okay…” Hancock says slowly, “Alright…”

“The very first person I met after I left was a lady called Sally. She was a Ghoul.” Joe says, swinging his dangling heels into the thick walls of the Castle, “And it's safe to say I would be a decorative skeleton in the DC metro tunnels right now without her help. We travelled together for a while and she was one of the best people I've ever met. No amount of shitty Brotherhood anti-Ghoul propaganda could possibly have survived an encounter with her… but there was other shit that lasted a little longer.”

Hancock hums understandingly, “I might be able to see where you're heading,” he says.

Joe nods, “So, the Brotherhood aren't like the Minutemen in lots of ways, but one of them is that they don't tend to recruit from outside their ranks. Brotherhood members are, like, expected to… make their own replacements, shall we say? Anyway, suffice to say that I was about twenty when I finally realised that… romance?… doesn't just happen between a dude and a lady.

“There was a settlement that the Brotherhood couldn't help but fuck around with and the gun store there was owned by these two guys. I, uh, thought they were brothers for a truly embarrassingly long time.”

Hancock laughs again, slapping his thigh, “Oh, dude,” he says, “My man…”

Joe shrugs, “Obviously they weren't, and all I heard from my so-called friends was how weird and unnatural it was. I kinda thought that for a while too… So, I got out, went north, found settlements and settlers and for the longest time I met women who were down for a couple of nights of no-strings-attached fun - which was fine. It was great. I mean, I like women just fine, I guess - yay, boobs, you know? - and then I rolled up to this farm and met this dude and his girlfriend who were… Well, let's just say that the thing that didn't happen with Farenheit in Goodneighbor happened on that farm, yeah? It was, um, pretty cosmically eye-opening, if I'm honest.

“So then it wasn't just ladies, but also the occasional interested gentleman, and then I walked into this bar with Patrick and he jabs an elbow into my side and points out this excruciatingly hot redhead with a shotgun, and now it's a couple of months later and I'm here and fighting against the fucking Brotherhood with some of the best people I've ever met and I can't imagine myself with anyone else. Anywhere else. When you know, you know, I guess.”

Sighing, Hancock says, “Yeah, I guess so…”

They pass the bottle back and forth in silence for a while longer before a movement at the edge of the city makes Joe sit up and take notice. He nudges Hancock, “Over there,” he hisses, “Is that…”

As he squints, four figures emerge from an alleyway and set out across the open ground towards the Castle. One of them has the barrel of a sniper rifle extending at least a foot over his head, and another, dressed in a dark hoodie and achingly familiar, is cradling a sawn-off shotgun in the crook of his arm.

Joe whoops in sheer, unadulterated joy.

The gate to the Castle opens before they even get close enough to announce their presence, and someone barrels through the doors on a collision course for them.

“Andy!” they shriek, “Fuck!”

A handful of seconds later, Andy finds himself flat on his back in the scrubby, sandy grass with Joe plastered to him, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

Andy hauls him impossibly closer, one hand around Joe's waist and the other around his shoulders. He has no idea where his shotgun is, and frankly doesn't care.

“Andy,” Joe gasps between kisses, “Andy, Andy… You're here!”

They've barely been apart a week. It feels like years.

“Joe,” Andy gasps, “Thank fuck you're alright! I heard about the Brotherhood attack from the Railroad. I knew you’d have a plan, but Christ, I was so worried until I heard your message from George!” He moves his hands, planning on pulling Joe's head down for more kisses, but has a weird disconnected feeling as he reaches up, hoping to bury his fingers in Joe's unruly curls and instead finds his hand cupping a prickly, badly shaved scalp.

He drags his mouth away from Joe's, grabbing at his face and holding it steady a few inches away from his own. “Scribe Joseph Trohman,” he says sternly, “What the absolute fuck have you done with your hair?!”

Joe is, at least, guiltily apologetic regarding his makeover, but Andy is just so pleased to see him again that he really can't bring himself to care. It doesn't mean that he won't hold this over him for as long as possible though.

Patrick leaves Andy and Joe to their reunion and hurries into the Castle, making directly for Major Garvey’s office.

He throws open the door, uncaring of what might be behind it, “Garvey!” he yells.

Preston is still behind his big desk and looks up from a stack of paperwork as he enters.

“Oh good, you're back,” he says dryly.

"The Brotherhood are going to attack the Gunners at the Plaza,” Patrick says shortly.

Preston puts his pencil down, “Alright,” he says slowly, “That’s good, isn’t it? That was pretty much the plan all along.”

Patrick rubs at the spot between his eyebrows, “The Brotherhood,” he tries again, “Are planning on attacking the Plaza.”

“Oh,” Preston says, finally picking up Patrick’s hint, “Right.”

“So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to go and ask George if he can put out a warning. Pete needs to know what’s coming.” he continues, making sure not to phrase it as a question.

Preston nods wordlessly. Patrick resists the urge to pat him on the head.

He turns to leave the office, but he’s only halfway to the door when Preston coughs. “If they’re attacking the Plaza,” he says, “Then they must be close to wiping them out.”

Patrick doesn’t turn around, but says, “I guess so. Where’s left?”

“You know where’s left.” Preston says quietly, “I’ve got some plans for that.”

“Mm,” Patrick hums, unwilling to have this particular conversation right now. He’s worrying too much about Pete to add the next step to his plate just now, “You got any plans for the Brotherhood too?”

“Maybe,” Preston says, “Ferguson’s had an idea. Not sure how good it is though.”

Patrick turns his head so that he can see him over his shoulder, “Okay,” he offers, “We can talk about that later.”

“Patrick?” Preston asks, still low and thoughtful, “Where’s your hat?”

He closes his eyes. “I left it at the farm,” he says, “I had something I needed to do that I didn’t want the Minutemen mixed up in, even by association.”

“George says that there were reports of a sniper taking out Gunner bases up north,” Preston says, obviously trying for innocent.

“Well… I’m sure there are lots of people who don’t like them.” Patrick says weakly, “I mean, Macready from Goodneigbor, for a start?”

“Sure,” Preston replies, “Macready. Alright… Just, you know, if you want another one, I could ask the commissary to issue you it. If you like?”

“Thanks,” Patrick says. “Maybe.”

Preston doesn’t reply. Patrick finally pushes his way through his door and back out into the dark expanse of the parade ground.

“Patrick!” George says, holding out a hand for him to shake, “Good to have you back with us! Pete’s alright - I can let you listen in if you like?”

Patrick shakes his head, “Later,” he says - he can’t think of anything he wants to hear more, and if it wasn’t for the base full of Minutemen on guard and settlers hurrying across the middle of the Castle, he’d probably want to curl up right beside the radio and listen to Pete all night, but this is important. “Can I talk to you?”

George nods, and finishes his announcement, flipping the switch that plays a holotape before turning to him, “What’s up?”

“I need you to make another announcement,” Patrick replies, “The Brotherhood are about to launch an attack on the Gunners Plaza. Pete needs to be ready.”

George stares at him a little wide-eyed, “Shit, yes, of course!” he says, “How do you want me to do it? Plain or coded? Hell, do we even have a code for that?”

“We have one for if we needed to abort,” Patrick says, “But we didn’t exactly come up with one for this.”

“That seems a little like an oversight,” George replies mildly, “But, well, if the Brotherhood are listening to me, they’ll know that we know what they’re doing”

“Is that something that matters this close to the end?”

George shrugs, “It’s not my place to tell you your business,” he says, picking up his microphone again, “But if you want my advice, maybe you should run this idea past Joe before we do anything definite.”

They end up in a clever bar space, crowded around a small table with drinks while Patrick is off talking to Major Garvey. Joe shoves Andy down into a patched armchair and basically sits on his lap, slinging an arm around his neck. He’s heavy, but Andy can’t bring himself to really care.

Two of the other three people around the table politely ignore them. The third leers at them creepily, but it’s Goodneighbor’s Mayor Hancock, so Andy has had practice at ignoring him when he’s being creepy.

Macready pours everyone a drink and Deacon hands them round.

“Well, cheers!” Joe says, raising his glass.

Everyone takes a drink. Joe gives him a sticky kiss to the spot under his ear, which makes Andy shiver. It's still weird to not be able to feel the tackle of Joe's hair against his cheek, but if Joe had thought cutting it was necessary, then it probably was. Hair, Andy thinks, will grow back.

“How the hell did you drag Mayor Hancock down here?” Andy asks quietly, “And why?”

Joe grins, “I was trying to find you,” he explains, “But he found me first. Saved me from a tricky little Supermutant situation, so when he asked to come along I couldn't really say no. He's awesome, I don't know why you didn't introduce us earlier!”

There are many, many reasons why Andy didn't introduce Joe to Mayor Hancock earlier in their relationship, and he gets a sneaking suspicion that he's about to get a speed run through all of them.

“He turned me down when I generously offered my services for a threesome,” Hancock says as Exhibit One.

“I told you, I'm only gonna…” Joe starts to retort, only to be interrupted by Patrick barrelling through the door to the bar and dashing over to their table.

“Did you tell him?” he asks, a little breathless, “Did you tell Joe what we heard?”

Andy blinks at him, and Joe says, “Oh, what's happened now?” thankfully seemingly distracted from further discussion of threesomes.

“The Brotherhood are going to attack the Gunners at the Plaza!” Patrick says, frantically, “Joe, what do we do?”

“Uh, I thought that was the point of all this?” Macready says, leaning forward.

“The Plaza, where Pete currently is!” Patrick screeches, “We have to warn him somehow - he has to get out of there before it's too late!”

Joe clambers out of Andy's lap and puts both hands onto Patrick’s heaving shoulders. “Breathe,” he instructs.

Patrick obeys, shakily at first, but growing steadier. “Should we get George to call an abort?” he asks.

It doesn't happen often, but that question makes Joe chew at his lip uncertainly.

“Joe!” Andy says, startled at his hesitation, “Call the abort!”

“It's not an abort though,” Joe points out, “It's what we want them to do.”

Patrick’s eyes flash with anger, “Not with Pete still in there, we don't,” he growls, “We have to warn him, get him out of there!”

“Joe!” Andy says again.

“If we abort, and Pete runs, the Gunners will know something's up,” Joe whispers, panicky, “If we warn him through the Minutemen radio, the Brotherhood will know that we know… Shit… I don't know what to do!”

Deacon coughs, “What about a warning from the Gunners?” he asks, “What about if another Gunner outpost radios the warning?”

Andy, Joe and Patrick all turn to him.

“I mean,” Deacon continues, “If it comes through coded on a Gunner broadcast then the Brotherhood won't know and Pete will have a plausible source for the information, won't he?”

“That might work,” Joe says thoughtfully.

“Except for the fact that we just crashed a Vertibird directly into the closest Gunner Radioman!” Patrick points out, flapping a hand at Macready.

Mac raises his eyebrows, “That was your shot, dude…” he says unhelpfully.

“If I'm picking up what you boys are putting down,” Hancock says, “Then it doesn't actually need to be from a Gunner base, does it? I mean, as long as it's not sung to the tune of pipe music, then any old radio will do if you can code it properly. You can't identify a specific radio, just the dude on the other end…”

This time everyone turns to Hancock. He grins. “Not just a pretty face,” he says, gesturing at himself, “There's a ham set in the old police station on the other side of the brewery ruins. Not far at all…” He finishes his shot and leans closer to Andy and Joe, linking his fingers together on top of the sticky table, “Now,” he continues, smiling harder, “About that threesome…”

They make George let his apprentice take control of Radio Freedom and Patrick ushers them all into a startled looking Major Garvey’s office. There aren't enough chairs for all of them.

“We're going to tell the Gunners that the Brotherhood are coming,” Patrick says, in a voice that Joe is happy not to have to argue with. “We'll tell them to head north to the base at the road interchange, because I don't think we'll need any more of them down to the south right now.”

Garvey nods obediently.

“I'll write you the codes down,” George says, “Like a script, yeah?”

An hour later and Joe is leading them back out of the Castle and into the ruins of south Boston.

“One of you will have to do it,” Patrick says, “I can't. If I… I can't talk to him like that, okay? I'll mess it up, I know I will. I'll say something wrong. I won't be able to stop myself, I think.”

Joe slings an arm around his shoulders, “I'll do it,” he offers, “That's fine, dude. Not a problem. You want to listen in though?”

Patrick awkwardly rests the side of his head on Joe's shoulder as they walk, Andy is a few steps in front of them, cradling his shotgun and in a perfect position for Joe to watch the tempting and greatly missed curve of his ass under the grubby fabric of his combat pants. He's focusing on it so much that he has to replay his own comments in his head when Patrick sniffs slightly and says, “Yeah. Yeah, that would be good.”

Joe thinks they were due some luck, and it seems like they finally get it when they make it to the police station unbothered by anything and find that the only things that have set up home in the abandoned police station are a handful of Radroaches that are almost insultingly easy to deal with.

The orange ham radio set is on a desk In a barred cage of a room that Patrick’s bobby pins make short work of, and Andy leans up against the door outside the small space, staying on guard.

Joe fumbles the folded sheaf of papers out of his jacket pocket and sits onto the uncomfortable stool in front of the radio. Patrick half sits, half leans against the desk beside him, biting nervously at his thumb knuckle.

“He'll be fine,” Joe tries soothingly. Patrick doesn't reply. He barely looks up.

“Okay then,” Joe says to himself, “Here goes nothing.”

“Um,” someone says on the radio, making both Pete and Patrick look up from the checkers game Pete has constructed out of cardboard and spare buttons. Patrick is annoyingly good at it. He's starting to suspect that Patrick knows what moves Pete is planning ahead of time.

“One-Hotel, uh, Six-Three-Charlie-Papa?” the person on the radio says. They sound nervous and horribly familiar.

Pete stares at Patrick, “That's the Southside,” he whispers, “I thought they were all dead!”

Patrick scoffs at him, “That's Joe, dumbass,” he points out.

“Joe?” Pete asks, confused.

Patrick stares at him. If he wore glasses, Pete thinks he'd be looking at him over the tops of the frame.

“Joe!” Patrick repeats, frustrated, “Joe Trohman! Jesus fucking Christ, just reply!”

Pete feels like someone has just hit him in the head with a rock. Joe. Fuck, how had he forgotten Joe? And Andy, and the farm… oh God… He's been here too long.

He makes a desperate dive for the radio mic, “Six-Three-Charlie-Papa,” he all-but shouts, “One-Hotel.”

“Shhh…” Patrick hisses with a glance back at the radio room door.

There's a desperate, gasping inhale from the other end of the radio, and Pete's knees give out on him, leaving him slumped over his desk. Other Radiomen will be listening, he thinks, he can't go off script for this.

“Five-Bravo-Three-Bravo,” Joe says slowly, nervously, as though he's worried he'll make a mistake, “Oscar-Nine-Sierra. Five-Bravo-Three-Bravo, One-Hotel…”

George must have coached him with this information, Pete realizes as the trickle of fear sweat starts at his hairline, they couldn't put this out over Radio Freedom uncoded…

The news makes him cold with dread. The Brotherhood are coming.

Chapter Text

It’s late, so they decide to spend the night in the abandoned police station. After they have some dinner, Patrick props himself up in the corner of the little room with the gently humming radio while Joe and Andy head off to find a spot with a hopefully unbroken door to have what Patrick assumes will be life-altering, mushy, loving reunion sex. He can’t bring himself to feel cross, but he can admit to feeling incredibly jealous. He can’t wait for his own round of life-altering, mushy, loving reunion sex. It will be beautiful. It will last for days. They will need to take Buffout to keep up their endurance for long enough to get it out of their systems.

As it is, he shamefully listens to Pete’s occasional broadcasts and touches himself.

Jesus, he hasn’t jerked off in weeks - no time, no privacy, no desire - He’s spent his days busy and alone in the middle of crowded dormitories or stuck in deserted gas stations with Macready, but now? Finally by himself and with Pete’s dear, wonderful voice in his ear he feels mad with it.

The proof that Pete is alive and seemingly alright despite everything he heard from Jake is really helping. He pops open the top buttons of his pants, licks his palm and shoves his hand into his underwear, gripping himself tightly, making his eyes practically roll back in his head as Pete slowly mumbles the Gunner code over the airwaves.

If he concentrates, he can pretend that Pete is talking to him, watching him, encouraging him. He stifles his gasp as he drags his fingers back up the shaft of his dick, and then as Pete keeps talking he can’t help but shove his pants further down his legs so that he can get his other hand on the inside of his own thighs. The bruises Pete had given him back in the bath have long gone, faded away as he spent his time helping to patch up the Castle, but now he pinches at the spot where they had been from memory alone. He’s run out of hands, so Patrick can’t help the sound that comes out of his mouth at the sensation and he has just enough brainpower to be thankful that Joe and Andy will be too busy to care - or probably to even notice.

“Pete,” he whispers, “Pete…” Christ, but he wishes that it was Pete’s hands on him right now - his fingers, his mouth, his cock… Fuck, Pete’s gorgeous cock. Patrick screws his eyes shut picturing the first time he’d seen Pete naked, hard and mouthwatering.

Patrick has never really had a type - not in the same way that other people seem to - Mark telling his squadmates about his preference for tall blondes with small tits, Lisa drooling over stocky dudes with big muscles - and how every time anyone had bothered to ask him about what he liked, all Patrick had been able to do was stammer and flap a hand and say, “Just, you know, like… People?”

Maybe the reason he’s never been able to pick between men and women, skinny and muscular, tall and short, blondes and brunettes, is because he’d never met anyone like Pete before - the exact combination of traits that make him up and make him perfect for Patrick - like, who could have expected Pete? Jesus, Patrick himself hadn't even known.

He strokes himself harder, dragging his fingertips over the spot he just pinched red and pretends that it’s Pete’s mouth he can feel.

Over the radio, Pete finishes a block of code with “Nine-Zulu-Nine-Zulu…” and sighs, long and low and beautiful. Patrick wants him so much. He wants him there beside him, smiling his big, stunning sunshine grin, flirting and teasing with him, his unique bullet-casing eyes watching Patrick’s hands move hungrily. Patrick’s breath hitches, stuck precisely between coming and bursting into frustrated, lonely sobs.

“Patrick…” Pete says quietly, just before the radio clicks into silence for the night.

The sound of his name once more from Pete’s mouth, no matter how far away he is, tips him over the edge. Both edges. Simultaneously.

He comes all over his own hand and stomach just as the first tears start to slip down his cheeks. It’s the most confusing, most long-awaited and least satisfying orgasm of Patrick’s life. He has just enough wits about him to use the hand that had been stroking his own thighs to cover his eyes rather than the other one that he wipes uncaringly on the floor beside him, but that’s about it.

Patrick cries himself to sleep, curled into the corner of the old police cell, feeling dirty and awful, the radio humming next to him. Not long now, he tries to tell himself, not long now.

For the second time in as many days, Pete finds himself interrupting a meeting between Commander Wes and some other Gunner officers.

“Wentz!” Wes bellows at him as he shoves his way through the door alongside Patrick, “Get the hell out of here!”

“The Brotherhood!” Pete gasps, “The Brotherhood are on their way here. They’re planning on attacking the Plaza.”

“Commander,” Cruz says, “Wentz is obviously fucking insane. Surely it’s time to replace him? We can’t possibly leave such an important job to a nutcase - we should be able to rely on our intel.”

“What fucking intel?” Ashworth asks, “We’ve hardly got any bases left to provide intel. Where are you getting this from, Wentz? That traitor Clint? We can’t trust anything he says.”

“The Southside,” Pete says, shaking his head, “I got a broadcast from the Southside.”

Wes glares at him, “You said the Southside was gone,” he says suspiciously.

“It wasn’t Hawkins,” Pete mumbles, “But they said they’d overheard a Brotherhood squad talking about an attack on the Plaza.”

Patrick leans closer to his ear, “Tell him it was from a Gunner deserter…” he whispers.

Pete swallows, “I… I don’t know who it was, but they knew our codes so they were a Gunner, I think they were a deserter wanting to warn us, maybe?”

“A fucking deserter?” Cruz roars, “We can’t trust the word of a fucking deserter!”

“It’s not exactly a surprise though, is it?” Ashworth points out, “I mean, it’s only a matter of time before the Brotherhood turn their attention to us, isn’t it?”

Wes rubs both hands over his stupid haircut and sighs, “Fuck,” he says eventually, “You’re right. Whatever the fuck Wentz has heard, from whoever the hell said it - shit, even if he’s gotten it from his imaginary fucking friend - you’re right. The Brotherhood will be here sooner rather than later, of course they will. Wentz - what else did they say?”

“Tell him,” Patrick hisses, “Tell him!”

“They said to go north,” Pete mumbles, “That going west was too dangerous - too many Brotherhood and Minuteman squads in the area.”

“North!?” Cruz scoffs, “We don’t have any bases left to the north!”

“There’s Mass Pike,” Ashworth points out, “The base is still there even if the squad isn’t. The Brotherhood haven’t been taking over the bases they wipe out. We have to assume that it’s empty.”

“The Brotherhood have already taken it once,” Cruz replies angrily, “It’s not secure.”

“Nowhere is fucking secure!” Wes barks out, “With those fucking Vertibirds they can attack anywhere.”

“If they’ve already taken it once, then surely they won’t think to bother with it again, at least for a while,” Ashworth says, “It’s our best bet. We can regroup there.”

Wes raps his knuckles on his crowded desk, “Shit, alright… Cruz, double the watch on the roof - I want to know the very second they spot even a fucking hint of one of those Vertibirds heading this way. Ashworth, you’re on supplies. Get us together some go bags and put them in the room right next to the back way out. Make sure you bring the stuff from the vault… Go!... Not you, Wentz. You stay.”

Ashworth and Cruz scramble out of the office and Wes stands up behind his desk, leaning over it towards Pete. Pete freezes, feeling like a prey animal and wishing that he could be able to feel Patrick’s warm, comforting hand at his back, but it’s probably a good thing that he doesn’t touch him - there’s no sense in giving Wes more ammunition to throw at them.

“If you breathe a single word of this to anyone who wasn’t in this fucking room just now,” Wes growls, “I will kill you. It will be slow, and painful, and you will spend the rest of your miserable life wishing that I had cut out your tongue weeks ago. Do you understand me, Radioman Wentz?”

Pete nods. “Yes Sir,” he whispers.

Wes narrows his eyes, studying him for a moment. “Make sure you have a go bag,” he instructs eventually, “Get together some kit to fix the radio at Mass Pike if we need to. You’ll be coming with us when it’s time to leave.”

“Yes Sir,” Pete says again.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Wes says, “Get back to the radio. Wait for the go signal and meet us at the back door when it happens.”

“Yes Sir,” Pete swallows, and then he and Patrick get the fuck out of the office.

“Take the screwdrivers,” Patrick says, peering into the lockers by their sleeping bag, “You’ll need them to fix any damage.”

Pete rolls his eyes, “No shit,” he says, shoving his spare pair of socks into the bag he’d found in a store room, “Of course I’m gonna take the screwdrivers. The roll of soldering wire too - I’m not stupid.”

Patrick laughs, “Just checking,” he grins. Pete wishes he could kiss him, but it’s far too dangerous to do something like that here in the middle of the Plaza.

“Is there anything you want me to bring?” Pete asks, rifling through the desk drawer. He tips out the contents and tugs out the secret plastic bag containing his notes, shoving it deep into one of the bag’s side pockets, “Have you got a change of clothes?”

“Pete,” Patrick says, sounding serious.

It makes Pete stop and turn to look at him, “Yeah?”

“Pete…” Patrick repeats, stepping closer.

“Patrick?”

Patrick sighs deeply, shaking his head, “I won’t need a change of clothes,” he says eventually, “You know I won’t.”

“Yeah?” Pete asks, smiling at him, “Okay, travelling light - I can get behind that.”

Patrick sighs again. He sounds sad. “Yeah, Pete. That’s it. Let's travel light.”

The radio chatter that night is even more quiet than before. One by one, like stars burning out, Gunner bases are disappearing. Radiomen that Pete has been talking to for weeks, months - years in some cases - have fallen silent. The Gunners are losing, Pete thinks. It won’t be long now. Wes is preparing to abandon the Plaza and once he does - once Pete is finally out of here - Patrick says they’ll be able to find a way to escape.

He takes the final report from Radioman Olsen and completes the final sign-off for the night, wondering vaguely how many more times he’ll have to do it. He sighs, hunching over his microphone and looking up at Patrick, leaning against the wall by his desk. He has his hands tucked behind him and he’s looking up at the ceiling away from him. He’s lovely. Pete can’t wait to marry him.

“Patrick…” Pete whispers, reaching over to finally switch off his microphone, “Patrick, let’s get some sleep?”

Patrick closes his eyes. “Alright Pete,” he says, “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Okay,” Pete says quietly, slipping off the chair to sit on his sleeping bag. He lies down on his side, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. His back and neck feel tight, sending bolts of pain up to his temples. He closes his eyes and says, “Not long now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Patrick’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way away, “Yeah, not long now…”

Joe wakes up with his face smushed into the back of Andy’s neck, spooning him aggressively in their pile of flattened cardboard boxes behind a tipped over desk. They’re covered in Andy’s blanket, and completely naked. He grins into the smooth, tattooed skin of Andy’s upper back and drifts his right hand lower down his stomach.

Andy makes a questioning, sleepy noise and says, “Oh, you’re awake then?”

“Mmm…” Joe rumbles as he finds what he’d been looking for, “I am now.”

“If you’re awake, Patrick probably is too,” Andy points out, gratifyingly breathless, “He’ll be wanting to leave.”

“He knows better than to disturb us,” Joe says, kissing at whatever pieces of Andy he can reach.

“Yeah,” Andy tries, “Yeah, but…”

“I missed you,” Joe tries, “You wouldn’t believe how much I missed you.”

“I… I, um, think you mentioned that, yes.” Andy gasps, turning in Joe’s arms to kiss him properly, “I missed you too, in case that wasn’t obvious last night.”

“Oh, you were incredibly obvious about that, yes,” Joe says as he makes his way down Andy’s front, “Let me be just as obvious…”

Patrick is pacing the entryway when they finally emerge. Andy’s hair is impressively messy, and for the first time Joe is thankful that he shaved his own head, since evidence of what they had been up to would be incredibly easy to read from it.

Patrick stares at them as they push through the double doors, “There you are!” he snaps, “I was just about to leave without you!”

“Sorry,” Andy says sheepishly, “I tried to get him to leave earlier, I really did.”

“Oh yeah, blame me, why don’t you?” Joe grumbles, “You weren’t part of that at all…”

Patrick scowls at the pair of them, “Let’s go,” he instructs, “We should get back to the Castle so we can keep an eye on that Brotherhood blimp.” With that, he stomps out of the police station, the door banging closed behind him.

Joe looks at Andy guiltily, “Whoops,” he says.

Andy rolls his eyes, “Told you,” he replies, grabbing at Joe's hand, “Come on, we shouldn’t let him get too far ahead without us.”

Patrick heads straight up to the top of the Castle defenses as soon as they return, taking up a spot in a guard post, folding his arms over the top of the wall and staring over the water at the blimp. Joe follows him up, leaving Andy to chat to George and Deacon.

“He got the message,” Joe says eventually, “He knows they’re coming.”

“Uh-huh,” Patrick says.

“He’ll get out,” Joe tries, “He’s a survivor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’ll be here before you know it,” Joe adds, trying to work out if Patrick is in the right mood for a friendly, supportive shoulder pat.

“Mm-hm,” Patrick agrees, “Sure.”

That’s… that’s probably a ‘No’ on the shoulder pat, Joe thinks. “Are you going to stay up here?” he asks quietly.

“Mmm,” Patrick agrees again.

Joe knows when he’s beaten, “Okay dude,” he says, “I’ll make sure someone sends you up some food later. And we’ll let you know if there’s any news from the radio, alright?”

Patrick doesn’t reply immediately, so Joe turns to head down the makeshift staircase to the parade ground. He’s just reached the top when Patrick says, “Joe?”

He stops, one hand resting on the railing, “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Patrick continues quietly, “For everything. I couldn’t do any of this without you,” he sniffs slightly, “Fuck, I’d be dead without you. So… You know. Thanks.”

“You’re my best friend, Patrick,” Joe points out honestly, “So’s Pete. It’s an honor. This is my fight too, so no thanks necessary, alright?”

Patrick nods.

“Just, like, keep this conversation in mind when you’re picking a best man, yeah?” Joe’s mouth can’t help but add. Well, he thinks, it’s not like Patrick doesn’t know about his ability to thoroughly ruin a heartfelt conversation.

“Ha,” Patrick says, “Pete and I were just gonna flip a cap to pick. Whoever won was gonna get Andy.”

“Dick,” Joe says, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah…” Patrick replies, “Go on and carry on with your reunion. I’ll be alright.”

Someone down on the parade ground yells their way through a gun drill. Joe waits for them to finish and pats the railing. “Not long now,” he tells Patrick, aiming for comforting, “Not long now…”

“How is he?” Andy asks as Joe reappears by the radio.

Joe shrugs, “Worried,” he offers, “I think he's just gonna stay up there until something happens. I said someone would drop him something off to eat later.”

Andy scratches at his beard, “That's probably for the best,” he admits, “At least he's got something to watch out for.”

Behind Joe, George pulls his microphone away from his mouth and hisses, “Could you two go away please?” under his breath, “We are trying to run a fucking radio station here…”

Joe pulls an apologetic face, and slinks away, towing Andy behind him.

They end up back in the bar. Deacon is standing behind the counter dressed as a Minuteman and doing something that could generously be described as polishing a glass with a small rag. Macready and Mayor Hancock are sitting on stools in front of the bar, watching him in amusement.

Joe drops heavily onto another stool, and performs a hilarious double take at the sight of Deacon.

“I'm not even surprised,” Andy says, slumping over the counter next to him, “Just tell me that Major Garvey knows you're here.”

Deacon's mouth twitches, “Yes,” he says, obviously trying for innocent and trustworthy, “I can honestly say that Major Garvey definitely knows that I'm here.”

“He was in here about twenty minutes ago,” Macready says in what sounds like awe, “I think he gave him a promotion to Corporal when he found him a bottle of tequila…”

“Of course he did,” Andy groans, “He's probably got him convinced he fought beside him at Quincy, even though he’s already met him….”

“Nah, straight off the farm, that's me,” Deacon replies, plonking the clean glass in front of Joe, “Don't I just look like the very picture of a fresh-faced country boy?”

Andy eyes him doubtfully.

Joe taps the rim of his new glass and Deacon unscrews the cap of a clear bottle and pours him a shot. “Five caps,” he says, holding out a hand and beckoning his fingers.

“Five caps!?” Joe says, outraged, “Fuck off, that's daylight robbery!”

Deacon shrugs, “The Minutemen have gotta make money somehow,” he explains, “We've got lots of hats we need to buy, you know?”

Joe scoffs, “You're not even a real Minuteman,” he points out, “If you're gonna charge me five caps, I want the rest of the fucking bottle.”

Deacon laughs, “You don't want the rest of this bottle,” he says, shaking it in Joe's direction, “It's watered down.”

Joe narrows his eyes at him.

“Here,” Hancock offers, tipping something out of a small rectangular bottle pulled from the depths of his coat pocket. It turns the original contents of Joe's glass worryingly gloopy.

Joe holds it up to the light, squinting at it consideringly. Then he drinks it. He has to chew. It's revolting.

It must be true love, Andy realizes. He somehow still really wants to kiss him.

They spend the next few hours in the bar, playing poker with Joe's cards using ripped up pieces of card for chips despite Mayor Hancock unsubtly angling to make it strip. Occasionally a Minuteman will stop by for a drink and not even blink when Deacon cheerfully serves them, addressing them by name and asking them innocuous small talk questions about their lives. It's like Deacon has a fucking superpower from the pre-war comics, Andy thinks - Behold! The mighty power of Impersonator Man!

Sometimes the Minutemen will have a piece of news from George - updates about the Gunner broadcasts and the general state of the Commonwealth.

Just as it's starting to grow dark, a Minuteman comes into the bar and says, “Um, Mister Stump says to tell you he thinks something's happening…” she coughs, “It, um, sounds serious. Those Brotherhood guys are doing something?”

“Already!?” Joe says, jerking upright, “Shit, okay…”

They drop their cards and hurry out of the bar and across the parade ground. As they pass by, George calls, “Pete just dropped his transmission mid-sentence! Whatever is going on, the Gunners know about it!”

Andy waves a salute as they head to the foot of the stairs to the battlements.

Patrick is standing at the very northwestern point of the Castle, hand cupped over his eyes against the setting sun and watching as a flock of Vertibirds fly due west, their engines audible even at this distance.

“There they go,” Patrick says as they approach, “Fuck.”

Andy moves to stand next to him, “Pete knows they're coming,” he says, “He's stopped broadcasting already. He's getting out of there as we speak, okay?”

Patrick wraps an arm around himself and rubs at his forehead, he looks like he's going to be sick. “Yeah,” he says, “Of course.”

They all watch as the Vertibirds fly off into the distance. Macready pulls his binoculars off his belt and holds them out for Patrick to take. He fumbles them out of Mac's hands and uses them to follow the Brotherhood flying machines towards the horizon.

Everything is quiet for a while. Andy holds out his hands and pulls both Patrick and Joe closer to him. The sun sets.

Away to the southwest, something explodes, a massive orange fireball erupting into the night sky.

Patrick makes a horrible, painful sound. Andy hugs him tighter. “Not long now,” he says nonsensically, “Not long now…”

Pete is halfway through a report when Cruz throws open the door to the radio room and yells, “Go!”

Pete flinches and looks up at Patrick as the door slams closed behind him, “What are you waiting for?!” Patrick asks, “Go!”

Pete just drops his microphone, snatches up his bag by the door and runs. Behind him, the tinny voice of Radioman Olsen says, “One-Hotel? One-Hotel? Alpha-Nine, One-Hotel?”

He won't be getting a response. Forever, if everything goes to plan.

Wes, Cruz and Ashworth are waiting for him at the back door. Ashworth shoves a massive backpack at him, saying, “Take this. Be careful.”

Pete wraps his arms around the bag. It's bulky, but not heavy, and Pete glances over at Patrick, who raises his eyebrows knowingly in return.

Wes says, “Follow me - we'll go west to the tracks and then follow them north. Take your shirts off, we don't want to be identified by those fucking Minutemen.”

Pete strips down to his sleeveless undershirt and stuffs his army green Gunner uniform into his shoulder bag with the rest of his things. He’s suddenly very aware that the rough string holding the nail around his neck is visible, even if the metal is still tucked safely under his T-shirt. He hates that Wes and the others can even see that much of the most precious thing Pete owns. It’s like standing in front of them stark naked. If they say anything about it - if they ask what it is, or laugh at his sentimentality - then Pete feels like he might crack right down the middle.

Thankfully nobody says anything about it, so he just shoulders Ashworth's bag nervously and follows Wes out of the back door, abandoning the handful of remaining Gunners to their fate at the hands of the Brotherhood of Steel.

They've just about found the cracked and twisted remains of the railroad tracks when the Plaza explodes behind them.

“Jesus fuck!” Pete yells in surprise, turning and watching the fireball rise into the darkening sky.

“Keep up,” Cruz grunts, scowling at him.

Pete walks backwards for a few seconds, watching the flames and the circling Vertibirds. Some of the Gunners must still be alive, as the Brotherhood soldiers are firing out of the open side doors of the flying machines down at the burning building.

“Keep your eyes open,” Patrick says under his breath, “You'll need to watch for the right time to get away. You can't let Wes or anyone see you, you'll need to get away clean…”

Pete frowns at him, “We,” he points out, “We need to get away clean, you mean?”

Patrick looks away from him, “Sure, Pete,” he says quietly, “We need to get away. Of course, that's what I meant.”

“Wentz!” Cruz shouts, “Move!”

Pete turns away from the Plaza and scrambles after the three officers away into the night.

“He’s not in there,” Joe says, fitting himself better under Andy’s shoulders, “We gave him enough warning - he got out, I promise.”

On Andy’s other side, Patrick breathes deeply, obviously trying to keep himself calm. “Where do you think he’ll go?” he asks, “Fuck, what if he goes back to the farm? What if he goes back and finds that none of us are there?”

Andy hugs Patrick’s head. “Pete isn’t stupid,” he says, “He’ll know something happened. He’ll find somewhere safe - he’ll go to Tenpines or Concord to stay with the Minutemen. Or he’ll go to Diamond City or one of the other big settlements. Hell, he might even come here to find us. He knows George is here with the radio, after all.”

“He’ll turn up eventually,” Joe adds hopefully, “He won’t get lost. We’ll find him again.”

“Mmm,” Patrick agrees, “Just. You know… God, I just want to go and find him, make sure he's alright. Bring him home. I can’t help but worry.”

“Of course,” Andy says soothingly, knocking their heads together, “Of course you’re worried. We’re all worried… But hey, do you realize what we’ve achieved? We just made the Brotherhood of Steel wipe out the Gunners!”

“Ha!” Joe says, perking up, “That’s true!” He reaches out to Patrick and reels them all into a three-way hug. “We just wiped out the Gunners!”

“Nearly,” Patrick says, “We’ve nearly wiped out the Gunners.”

“We’re ours,” Joe says forcefully, “You think we can’t finish the job?”

“That’s all fantastic and everything - seriously, go you guys, but, uh, do you boys have a plan for the Brotherhood?” Hancock asks from somewhere off to his left, “Because I’m thinking they’re probably about ready to turn their attention to the only other faction standing between them and their fucking plans…”

“I think Preston does,” Patrick says, pulling out of the hug, “Wanna go and hear about it?”

They walk through the night, a long slow trek up the rail lines jumping at every single little sound. The officers are only carrying small, light looking backpacks and have unsurprisingly given all their bulky things to Pete to carry. It’s like the long walk out to the west with Kingston, only at least this time he doesn’t have Doyle muttering comments at him constantly. Wes, Ashworth and Cruz are far too busy having their own whispered arguments to really bother all that much with Pete beyond the occasional demand that he keep up.

He thinks they’re getting close to the route of the highway they’ll need to take to get across the river to Mass Pike and he still hasn’t been able to work out a way of getting away. His bag is too heavy to run and they will certainly notice if he tries to get it off his back in order to make a quick escape. Shit, he doesn’t want to make it all the way to Mass Pike with them - it’ll make their job so much harder if they wind up stuck up on the overpass with Wes, Ashworth and Cruz. The fact that there’s three of them means that one of them will always be on hand to watch for the Brotherhood and keep an eye on Pete and Patrick.

Pete turns to Patrick and opens his mouth to say something, but Patrick shakes his head at him sharply, “Shh,” he insists, “Don’t talk.”

He closes his mouth and bites at his lip, glancing over at the group of Gunners. They’re a little way off, but easily close enough to overhear any conversation he has with Patrick. He nods and adjusts the bag.

Pete is trying to slowly drop back from the others, seeing how far behind they can get before Cruz notices and screams at him to hurry up.

“Duck,” Patrick says suddenly, right in his ear, “Now.”

Without even stopping to think about it, Pete drops to the dirt. There’s a whine of an incoming rocket overhead and Pete has just enough time to throw his arms over his head before it explodes.

Pete thinks he’s gone deaf for a moment as the sound dies away leaving nothing behind. He looks around. A little way up the hill, smoke and dust is settling. He needs to hide.

He forces himself into movement, crawling on his knees and elbows off the line of the railroad and into the bushes between the tracks and the steep slope down to the river. It’s not the greatest cover, but it’s all he has right now.

“Stay there!” Patrick commands, “It's not over yet.”

Someone starts screaming. It sounds like it might be Ashworth, but it’s hard to tell.

Patrick crouches next to him and Pete automatically curls himself around his knees, peering up at him with one eye. Patrick is staring down at him, looking worried and biting at his lip. A little way off, there’s the sound of guns - ballistic, thankfully - so at least they don’t have the Brotherhood and their terrifying laser weapons to deal with.

“Is it Raiders?” Pete asks quietly.

Patrick looks at him strangely, frowning. “I don’t know, Pete.” he says gently.

There’s another rattle of gunfire and the screaming trails off into a disturbing gurgling sound. Pete shoves his hand under his neckline and pulls out the nail, gripping it tightly in his fist. It feels a little like praying, holding this tangible symbol of Patrick’s love and hoping that whoever is shooting doesn’t spot him hiding here.

“This is your chance,” Patrick tells him, “This is what you were waiting for. They’re dead. You can get away.”

Pete gazes up at him, “Aren’t you coming with me? You’re acting like you’re thinking of staying!” he asks desperately, “Patrick, you can’t stay here. I can’t just leave you here.”

“Pete,” Patrick says indulgently, as one of his wide, familiar hands drifts over Pete’s hair without making contact, “Pete, sweetheart. you know I’m not real, don’t you? You remember that, don’t you?”

He grips the nail harder, the flat head making an indent into his palm. “Not real?” he whispers, his heart skipping a beat. It’s the worst thing he can think of.

Fuck. If Patrick isn’t real then that means that nothing is real. The last few months of Pete’s life aren’t real. Did he ever really leave the Gunners only to return undercover? Does that really sound like something that would happen?

Has he really made Patrick up in his head? This perfect person - beautiful and kind - someone who, despite everything, somehow wants Pete? He remembers thinking about it months ago - that he had just created Patrick in his head. Maybe it’s true… He involuntarily makes a terrible, terrified high-pitched sound at the back of his throat.

“Shh, shh,” Patrick soothes, “Shh, Pete…”

“Tell me you’re real,” Pete begs, “Please, Patrick. Tell me you’re real. Tell me I didn’t make you up, please… Because if I did then I might as well stand up right now and let whoever fired that rocket take me out as well. I might as well put a bullet in my own head right now.” something wet trickles out of the corner of his eye and trickles down the side of his face to the dirt.

Patrick smiles down at him sadly, nodding towards the clench of Pete’s fist around the nail. “Does that feel real?” he asks.

“Yes,” Pete whispers.

Patrick hunches forward, putting his mouth close to Pete's ear - They're still not touching. They're never touching, Pete realizes. He hasn't touched Patrick for so long, hasn't once put his hands on his skin, not once kissed his soft lips. Patrick isn't real.

“Tell me, Pete Wentz,” Patrick says, “Do you remember your dreams?”

His dreams?

He looks up at Patrick, his eyes in close-up, easy to see without his glasses. His hair is ruffled up, shining golden in the morning light. So, Pete notices with a stomach churning jolt, are his eyes. Pete swallows as he finally realizes that he's not wearing his hat.

“Patrick, where is your hat?” he asks, suddenly recalling the first dream, sitting opposite Not-Patrick as the fire in Peggy's farm burns below them, Real Patrick taking Pete's place at the signpost. He thinks about the radio at the Mass Pike base and his desperate mad dash across the Commonwealth, the bus ride he took on the way to the Plaza…

He remembers looking into the mirror and seeing him standing there, smirking at him in the Gunner's bathroom. He feels sick.

‘You're awake,’ Not-Patrick had told him time and time again, ‘You're awake and crazy…’

“You're not real,” he tells Not-Patrick, “Fuck, fuck, you're not real…”

He scrambles up and away from him. Patrick doesn't move, kneeling exactly where he was, simply following Pete's movements with his awful yellow eyes.

He’d finally kissed him, hadn't he? Out of loneliness and desperation, out of a clawing sense of inevitability, he'd finally given in to his own fucked up brain. He'd fought it for so long, raging against it, but of course he'd finally given in to his own special brand of madness.

Not-Patrick huffs out a sweet little laugh, looking over at him almost coyly. Pete has the sudden thought that he would do almost anything in the universe to hear that sound from Real Patrick’s mouth just one more time, “I'm not real,” he agrees, “And you're not dreaming.”

Pete, still just aware enough, claps a hand over his mouth to stop whatever noise was about to emerge. “Is Patrick real?” he asks, muffled by his own fingers.

“Pete,” Not-Patrick says.

“Is Patrick REAL?!” he asks again, louder, “I didn't dream him up, I know I didn't. I couldn’t have, could I?”

“Pete,” Not-Patrick says, “Pete, get down.”

“Joe and Andy,” Pete wails, “Are they real?”

Not-Patrick holds out a hand, his eyes feel like they're burning. “Pete, get down.” he orders, “You're drawing too much attention. Get down…”

“Please…” Pete starts.

Something off to his left goes bang. Pete gets a sudden stab of pain in his stomach and he can't help but glance down at himself. There's a new hole in his undershirt. Slowly, very slowly, the ragged edge of the material starts to grow wet. He touches a finger to it and it comes away red and sticky with blood.

He looks back up at Not-Patrick. “I've…” he manages, “I've been shot. Patrick.”

With that, Pete's knees turn watery and he staggers backwards. Breathing suddenly feels much harder than before.

“‘Trick…” he says again as the sunny Wasteland starts getting dark around the edges. “Help…” he flails out a hand, trying to catch his balance, trying to reach out for Patrick. Pete feels like he has always been reaching out for Patrick.

But Patrick isn't real and so Pete tips sideways and tumbles down the slope and into the river.

Chapter Text

They all troop into Major Garvey’s office, Patrick leading the way and Hancock, Macready and Deacon bringing up the rear as though they’re just looking for something entertaining to do.

Garvey is there along with three other Minutemen officers - Ferguson and two people Andy doesn’t know, so there aren’t enough chairs for everyone. Andy, who feels like he is only going to be a minor character in this discussion, leans up against the wall by the door.

“You have a plan for the Brotherhood?” Patrick demands, leaning over Garvey’s desk, “What is it? They've taken out the Plaza for you, so now is the perfect time.”

“Excuse me!?” bristles one of the officers, “You resigned your commission with the Minutemen - what makes you think that you or any of your… friends… have any right to know what Major Garvey’s plans are?”

Patrick straightens up, his spine suddenly looking like it’s made of steel. “My friends and I,” he says, “Are the only reason why the Minutemen are in the position to even consider attacking the Brotherhood. Pete is the only reason why we have managed to reduce the Gunners to a point where the Minutemen can turn their attention to them. Joe is the only reason we know so much about them.” He says this while jabbing a finger at the officer. Andy can’t see his face from his spot by the wall, but after knowing him for so long, he finds that he can picture it quite easily.

“Mister Stump,” Major Garvey says warningly, “Please don’t antagonize Captain McDonald.”

Patrick folds his arms, “I resigned my commission,” he repeats grumpily, “I can antagonize anyone I want.”

Major Garvey doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but he does look up at the ceiling in a very long-suffering way.

The female officer coughs performatively and says, “We’re very grateful for all your help, aren’t we? Having someone undercover with the Gunners has been extremely useful. I, for one, can’t wait to thank him in person.”

“Thank you, Captain Juarez,” Patrick says, obviously attempting to be at least slightly diplomatic, “I can’t wait for that either.”

Garvey links his fingers together and leans forward, “Captain Ferguson has had an idea about the Brotherhood,” he says, gesturing to him, “But we're not sure how to go about it. Honestly, I was hoping you would have an idea for us, Mister Trohman.”

Joe visibly swells a little with importance at that, “Of course,” he says, “Anything I can do to help.”

“Well then, let's hear this idea of yours, Ferguson,” Captain McDonald says grumpily.

Everyone turns to Ferguson, who looks startled by the sudden attention. “Oh, um, uh,” he says, stumbling out of his chair to stand up like a kid who hadn't been paying attention at school and had now been asked to complete a problem at the board. “So, I've been thinking - we probably can't deal with the Brotherhood in open battle, or even with our guerilla tactics hitting individual squads. What we need to be looking at is taking out the entire blimp at once.”

Joe looks entranced, “How?” he asks.

“Um. That's the bit I'm stuck on,” Ferguson admits, “We'll need to blow it up, that much is obvious - and we've discovered a cache of C4 packets in the tunnels under the Castle we can use - but how to get up there to set them and then explode them is, well…”

“We'd need a Vertibird to get up there,” Patrick says, “But they'd probably notice that whoever is on board isn’t one of them, and wouldn't exactly let someone wander around setting charges.”

“Joe could,” Hancock breaks in, “He left an entire Brotherhood disguise in Goodneighbor. Power Armor and all. It'll be good enough to fool those guys, easy.”

“You did!?” Ferguson says, sounding thrilled, “That's great news! Do you think you'll be able to fetch it back here?”

“No problem,” Joe agrees easily, “It's all yours.”

Patrick folds his arms, “And the Vertibird?” he asks, “Or are we just going to thumb a lift? I mean, taking out a squad without damaging one will be relatively straightforward, but we have no idea where one will be, so we'll just be hanging around waiting for one to land next to us. Also, I'm still not convinced that any of us know how to fucking fly one.”

Deacon coughs, “I might have a solution for those particular problems,” he says, raising a hand.

Garvey frowns, “Aren't you the barman?” he asks, sounding baffled.

Joe flaps a hand at him, “It's Deacon, dude! Don't tell me you don't remember him!” He turns to Deacon, Macready and Mayor Hancock and says, “I thought you were joking!”

Deacon sweeps his borrowed Minuteman hat off his head theatrically, ending with a sarcastic little bow.

Garvey boggles at him, “Oh,” he says eventually, sounding a little embarrassed, “Sorry…”

Deacon has his back to Andy, but something about the set of his shoulders tells him that Deacon is currently having the time of his life.

“Tell us your idea, Deacon,” Andy says, trying to redirect the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Deacon glances back at him, grinning, “You remember that recording we played you?” he asks.

“Vividly, thank you,” Andy replies, shuddering at the memory of finding out that the Brotherhood had attacked the farm.

“Well,” Deacon continues, “The reason our friend was recording in the first place was that he'd noticed a strange signal bumping into the Minuteman radio station and wanted to get to the bottom of it.”

“Okay…” Andy says slowly, unsure of where this is heading, “So what was it?”

Deacon's grin gets a lot bigger. “He discovered the Brotherhood’s tracking signal,” he announces, “We can easily find any Vertibird you want…”

Nobody says anything for a few seconds, and then Major Garvey says faintly, “You can track the Vertibirds?”

“Yup,” Deacon agrees.

“We could steal one to fly someone dressed as a Brotherhood soldier up to the blimp?” Ferguson asks.

“Yup,” Deacon says again.

“And who, exactly, is going to fly it?” Captain McDonald huffs, obviously determined to rain on everybody's parade.

“Do you think our friend could do that too?” Andy asks, not taking his eyes off Deacon.

Deacon scoffs, “I'm going to tell him you said that in such a disbelieving tone,” he replies archly, “He'll be very upset.”

“Um,” Captain Juarez says, “This all sounds great, but if you’re planning on returning, then you’ll need a way of setting off the explosions remotely - or are you volunteering for a suicide mission?”

Deacon waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, he can cover that too,” he says.

“Alright…” Juarez says slowly, “You seem like you know some very useful people… But could we maybe know a little bit more about you and your… friends, before we commit to anything?”

Deacon’s smile drops, “That's not my place to say,” he mutters.

“I can vouch for his friends,” Joe says, “They're trustworthy. Major Garvey knows that.”

Major Garvey looks a little torn at that. “Well,” he starts, “I mean…”

Andy makes a decision. “Right,” he says loudly, making everyone in the room turn to him, “Joe and Hancock, go and fetch whatever Brotherhood gear you left in Goodneighbor. Deacon and I will go and make your case to our friends and see if we can persuade them to come here and meet with you all personally. At the very least, we can get the method of tracking the Vertibirds for you and hopefully George will be able to use it.”

Patrick stuffs his hands into his pockets, “Do you think they'll come?” he asks.

“We can try,” Deacon offers, “You're definitely heading towards our special area of interest, as it were.”

Major Garvey shifts in his chair awkwardly, “Let’s all get some sleep,” he suggests, “You can all head out in the morning.”

Hancock gives him a significant look as they leave Preston’s office and nods his head in the direction of the dormitories. He says, “Come on Deacon, let’s get the bar reopened. We still have the rest of the Vodka to drink.”

Joe mouths ‘Thank you,’ at him and Hancock sketches out a salute behind Andy and Patrick’s backs.

They find a cluster of open beds in an almost round side room of the Castle and claim them for the night. If they belong to anyone in particular, they will be out of luck, Joe thinks. Andy wordlessly pushes two of the small cots together and spreads his blanket out over them. Patrick slumps down onto the bed next to them and struggles his way out of his coat, leaning his rifle up against the wall with a careful pat.

Andy seems to give Joe a few moments to get settled, crossing back to make sure the door to the room is closed properly and then turns and says, “So, what do you think about Ferguson's idea?”

Joe shrugs, “Blowing up that fucking thing is the best idea,” he admits, “We leave it intact and even if we chase them out of the Commonwealth, they'll just take it to antagonize some other poor Settlers somewhere else. It took them years to build, and they probably don't have the resources left to put another one together. It's best for the entire Wasteland if we deal with that problem once and for all.”

Patrick makes a thoughtful sound, laying down on his mattress, “Maybe I could go and look for Pete while you're gone,” he says. “I mean, it doesn't sound like I'll be particularly useful. I could head over to the Plaza and check it out. Just in case, you know…”

“Pete will be alright,” Joe tries soothingly, “Like I said, he’ll have gotten out, found somewhere safe to go.”

Patrick rolls to his side away from them, a classic Patrick-avoidance move, “He might not be,” he says quietly.

“He got out of the Plaza,” Joe repeats, “He’ll be just fine.”

Beside him on the bed, Andy shifts, “Well…” he says slowly.

Joe feels all his muscles tense up. Nothing good can possibly follow that tone of voice, “What?” he asks, “Andy, what do you know!?”

“So,” Andy sighs, “First of all, we both love you very much, don’t we, Patrick? This isn’t your fault, and neither of us blame you even slightly.”

“Oh fuck!” Joe breathes, as Patrick holds up a thumb just visibly over his shoulder, “What is it?”

“Well, remember what you were worrying about before Pete left?” Andy asks in a soft, breaking-bad-news tone.

Joe stares at him. “Shit,” he says uselessly, feeling queasy, “Shit, just tell me.”

“Pete’s gone nuts,” Patrick says with uncharacteristic bluntness, “Absolutely cracked. He’s hallucinating at least.”

“What?” Joe repeats.

Andy sneaks a hand around his hip and pats at it gently. “Jake told us,” he says, “He said that Pete was talking to himself while they were working together,”

“Talking to me, you mean,” Patrick breaks in stonily, “He was talking to the shitty version of me that he was dreaming about before the farm.”

Joe blinks, “He was dreaming about what now?”

Patrick flops back over to face them and rubs both of his palms over his eyes, “Before the farm, before we attacked the Raiders, he had a dream. He said it was about me, but not me. He said it was about the worst parts of him. He only mentioned it once, but I think he kept having them. He’d cry in his sleep sometimes. In the letter he wrote me, he said… he suggested… Reading between the lines, you know?”

“Oh God,” Joe says, feeling his heart clench painfully, “Patrick. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t think - I didn’t know… We’ll get him back, okay? I’m sorry…” he can’t stop himself from moving, diving off the bed and thudding to his knees on the stone floor beside Patrick’s bed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he continues into Patrick’s side.

Patrick pulls his hands away from his face and looks down at him, biting his lip. They stare at each other for a handful of seconds and then Patrick reaches out and grabs him around the shoulders, tugging Joe closer for a hug. “I don’t blame you,” he whispers into Joe’s ear, “This is not your fault. Andy is right, okay? Whatever is happening to Pete is the fault of the fucking Gunners - of that fucking Kingston, yeah? And we’ve already dealt with him.”

“We'll get him back. We'll help him,” Andy says from behind him, “Whatever he needs, yeah?”

“But,” Joe tries, “But… My plan…”

“Nope,” Patrick says, “Nope. Not letting you blame yourself either.”

There’s a squealing metal-on-stone sound behind Joe and Andy says, “Get up,”

He pulls himself out of Patrick’s grip and moves to the side as Andy continues to shove the two cots he had claimed for himself and Joe up to join Patrick’s. He stands, putting his hands on his hips after he has them positioned and nods in satisfaction. “Just like Spencer’s Fair,” he says, “Come on - let’s get some sleep. Nobody should be alone tonight.”

Joe ends up in the middle of a lovely, warm hug, which goes a long way to help calm him down, but not much for the sense of crawling guilt.

Even so, his final thought before he drops off is, ‘Christ, Hancock is never going to shut up about threesomes now…’

Despite Andy’s insistence and the comforting presence of his two best friends tucked up safe beside him, Patrick doesn’t sleep well. He has the feeling he would be turning in his sleep like Connor always had if he hadn’t been concerned about keeping Joe and Andy awake. A few hours after they go to bed, he hears Hancock, Macready and Deacon giggling and shushing each other drunkenly as they slip into the room, and he squeezes his eyes closed, unwilling to let them know he’s awake.

“Awww,” he hears Hancock say, “So cute!”

“Shhh!” Macready replies, somehow managing to be louder than the Ghoul.

From the other side of Joe, Andy smacks his lips and says, “We don’t have soup on the menu…” which starts the three drunks off on another round of stifled giggling. Someone bumps into something that clatters and Joe makes a grunting noise.

Eventually though, they manage to make it into their own beds. Patrick opens his eyes again and listens to them all fall asleep. Hancock is apparently a world-champion snorer. Joy.

He gives it another hour and then gets out of bed.

The Castle is silent. The only people who seem to be awake are a handful of guards, George’s assistant and Patrick himself. The assistant isn’t even really doing anything, just sitting with his feet kicked up on the desk, leafing through a comic and taking the occasional bite of a Mutfruit, wiping juice off on his sleeve. His headphones are slung around his neck. Patrick leaves him to it.

He winds up watching the sun rise over the water, from the top of the defenses, resolutely ignoring both the Brotherhood and the faint wisps of black smoke still rising from the direction of the Gunner's Plaza.

It's Mac who surprisingly finds him first just as the sun is fully over the horizon, wandering up to him with a handful of Mutfruit.

“Hey,” Patrick says, as he sits down next to him, “You're awake early.”

“Ehh,” Mac shrugs, “I'm a pretty light sleeper these days, and your friend Andy started talking again, woke us all up.”

Patrick laughs, “What was it this time?” he asks, “He was talking about soup earlier.”

“He started yelling something about seagulls,” Mac replies, passing him a Mutfruit, “I'm not sure what… Look, Patrick - Joe and Deacon were telling us about your plan.”

“Okay?”

“You still planning on heading over to the Plaza today?” Macready asks, “Because if you are, I'll come with you. I bet there's some good loot left, and I know my way around the building.”

Patrick breathes out, ready to admit to himself that he hadn't really been exactly looking forward to heading out alone, “That would be fantastic, Mac. I'd really appreciate your help.”

Macready claps him on the back, “Great,” he says, sounding pleased, “I really didn't want to kick my heels around here waiting for you - there's a strange woman wandering around who keeps asking me if I'm interested in taking part in her talent show.”

Patrick laughs, “Wow,” he says, climbing to his feet, “How can you possibly resist?”

“I'm not kidding,” Macready says, following his lead, “I have exactly one talent, Patrick, and I don't think it's the sort of thing she's looking for…”

The six of them and Preston congregate by the gate mid-morning, Joe yawning and leaning on Andy.

“Okay,” Andy says, “So, we'll head up towards Goodneighbor, spend the night there and head back tomorrow morning. We should be back tomorrow night. How long will you two be away, do you think?”

Patrick shares a glance with Macready, “A few days?” he suggests, “Longer than you guys I'd think. We probably won't get there before tomorrow afternoon at least. Our plan is to make for the Minutemen’s Estate for the night and set out from there.”

Preston nods, “I've got a few messages for Lieutenant Turner, if you could take them with you?”

“Sure,” Patrick agrees easily, “Not a problem.”

Garvey heads off to his office to presumably fetch the messages and Andy says, “So we'll see you back here in a few days then?”

Patrick shrugs, “Unless I find a sign of Pete,” he says, “If we get an idea of where he's gone, you know I'll have to follow him.”

“Of course!” Joe hurries to say, stepping closer to put both his hands on Patrick's shoulders, “Of course you should! Christ, I hope you find him. Please tell him how sorry I am for everything…”

“Still not your fault,” Patrick insists.

Joe pulls a disbelieving face, and Patrick sighs. “You know he won't blame you either,” he says, reading Joe's mind.

They're saved by Andy holding out a hand for Macready to shake, and saying, “Good luck, and thanks for helping to bring Nick home, that meant a lot.”

“Eh,” Mac says, sounding embarrassed, “Nick's a good guy. Commonwealth wouldn't be the same without him, you know?”

“Alright,” Joe breaks in, “Come here, Andy, group hug!”

They all sling their arms around each other, and Patrick tries not to feel how much there's an empty spot where Pete is still missing. “Ours,” Andy says, bumping his forehead against both his and Joe's, “We're ours, yeah?”

“We're ours,” Patrick agrees, “You guys be careful, yeah?”

“Completely,” Joe replies, “You think I'm going to be taking risks when I have the chance to fly in a Vertibird to blow up the fucking Brotherhood to look forward to?”

He sounds so childishly excited that it makes both Patrick and Andy laugh.

“Alright, break it up you guys,” Deacon announces, “You probably don't want to know what Mayor Hancock's expression looks like now. You should probably stop giving him ideas.”

Joe pulls out of the hug and says, “If there are any ideas that Hancock hasn't already had, then I don't want to know about them.”

Hancock cackles. It sounds like someone jumping up and down on a bag of dry leaves.

Preston thankfully jogs back over to them at that point, holding a sheaf of paper, “Here,” he says, passing them over to Patrick, “It's mostly about troop movements and squad line ups, so it's not particularly time-sensitive.”

Patrick tucks them away in his bag, “Thanks,” he says, and then, turning to Joe and Andy, “Right, goodbye again, I guess. This is still getting old, isn't it?”

“You'll get bored of us eventually,” Joe says, “But I know what you mean. Come on then Hancock, let's go…”

Patrick and Macready watch them as they set off north, and Mac says, “Alright then, you know where we're going?”

“Yup, let's go,” he replies, adjusting his rifle on his shoulder, “Let's see what we can find out…”

He's freezing.

That's the first thing he can think. For a little while, it's the only thing he can think.

His veins feel like they're full of snow, heavy and cold.

He's also very gently bumping against something flat. He opens his eyes and the sun burns.

At first he can't understand what he can see through his watering eyes - a strange puzzle that he can't put together, all wrong until he realizes he's lying on his side, looking at the world tipped over, twisted trees running left to right.

He chokes up a mouthful of water, but before it gets swallowed up by the sand he notices how pink it looks. That probably isn’t good.

His stomach feels like someone has scooped it out and replaced it with a ball of ice.

“‘Trick?...” he mumbles, licking his lips.

For the first time in a long while, nobody answers him.

“‘Tric…” he tries again, but something in his chest seems to shift and he starts coughing. It makes every single atom of him hurt.

When he finally finishes, he lies there, shaking and sweating for a while. He’s on a rough patch of sand that could maybe be described as a beach. There’s a circle of stones with a pile of charred wood inside a little way away, but he can’t see or hear anyone or anything close by.

His stomach throbs again and he gasps, curling around himself. The movement draws his attention to the awkward lump on his back and he suddenly remembers Ashworth handing it to him at the Plaza. He slowly drags his arms out of the shoulder straps and flops away from it.

He's been shot.

He probably needs to do something about that before he bleeds out right here on this shitty beach on the banks of the Charles and his corpse gets eaten by wild dogs and nobody ever finds out what happened to him - Patrick never finds out what happened to him.

It's that thought more than anything else that makes Pete push himself upright and drag the bag towards him, fumbling at the straps. If he knows - knew - the Gunner's usual M.O. it would be just like them to give all the things they don't want to carry to the most junior member of the squad to carry. He can only hope that that extends to their medical supplies.

He digs through the bag one-handed, the other wrapped tightly around his belly. He feels like he's going to be sick, but he's just aware enough that he knows exactly how bad an idea that would be.

On the very top - thank everything Pete has ever believed in - there’s a white and green first aid kit that contains a worrying amount of doses of Jet, Psycho, Buffout and more and one battered looking Stimpack. Pete shoves the bag away and flops gracelessly onto the sand, staring firmly up at the sky and yanking his undershirt away from the bullet hole. The action makes him scream.

He can't die. If he does - if he never makes it back to Patrick - he gets the terrible feeling that Patrick won't take the news well. He's seen him go blank - the way Patrick will just shut down. He's heard about when Patrick thought he'd died before, back on the overpass with Kingston and how Andy had described the way Patrick had just… gone away… afterwards. Pete has made it his mission to never let that happen to someone as bright and shining as Patrick.

He pulls the cap off the Stimpack with his teeth and gingerly feels around his stomach until he touches something that sends a bolt of white hot pain all over his body. He screws his eyes closed and stabs the needle right into the heart of that spot.

Alone on the beach, Pete Wentz passes out again.

Andy and Joe leave to the north and Patrick and Macready set off out of the south entrance to skirt around the shallow lake. They walk in companionable silence for a while, heading west until Macready says, “You, uh, never said - what happened to your hat?”

Patrick shifts his rifle in his arms and scratches self-consciously at the back of his head. “I left it back at our farm,” he says, “So I have no idea what the Brotherhood might have done with it by now. I, uh, didn’t think that the Minutemen would approve of what I was doing.”

Mac jerks his free thumb back at the Castle, “Sounds to me like they were pretty approving to me,” he points out, “And you claim you're not even a Minuteman any more, so, like, they can’t really say much about it anyway, can they?”

Patrick sighs, “I guess…” he starts, but then has to stop so he can organise his own thoughts.

They walk together for a few more moments before Patrick says, “I guess I really just wanted to make sure I left the Minutemen. I promised I would.”

Macready laughs, “Sure,” he says.

“Pete doesn’t think I will,” Patrick says, seized by some kind of spirit of honesty. “He still thinks I’m gonna go back to them.”

Macready scratches at his goatee thoughtfully, “I mean,” he says, “You, like, haven't left, have you? Formally, yeah - but you know, you helped them retake the Castle and all that. The new recruits call you Sir.”

Patrick can’t help rolling his eyes, “I keep asking them to stop that,” he complains. “Seriously, Mac, I’m running out of ways to tell people that I’m out, that I’ve resigned, but nobody fucking believes me. Look, I still believe in the Minutemen and what they stand for - and for now I’ll help as much as I can - but as soon as I get Pete and the farm back I’m going to stop, okay?”

“Heh,” Mac scoffs, “Yeah, right.”

“What?” Patrick demands.

“You are the most Minuteman Minuteman dude I have ever met in the entire Commonwealth,” Macready points out, “If you manage to walk away clean and never have a single thing to do with those guys ever again I will personally eat every single cap I have ever earned.”

Patrick scowls at him. “Pete doesn’t want me to…” he starts.

“Dude.” Macready says, stopping in the middle of the road, “Patrick. I have met Pete once, and we exchanged probably five words. I have been in exactly one adult relationship in my entire life. I am not even slightly an expert in any of this, but please believe me when I tell you that I think Pete doesn’t actually care if you’re still a Minuteman or not. What Pete wants is you, alright? He will not give a single flying fu… fork that you’re helping the Minutemen. He’s been helping the Minutemen!”

Patrick opens his mouth, closes it, and then says, “Say that again?” in a small voice.

Mac sighs loudly, “Pete is working for the Minutemen, dude. Did you not notice? Your friend Joe's plan is basically the Minutemen's plan, yeah? He'd be a bit hypocritical if he gets angry about you working with them after all this - you think Major Garvey wouldn't jump at the chance to recruit him for real? He'd be a Captain within hours - minutes, probably - you know he would.”

“Of course he would!” Patrick says without thinking, “Pete would be brilliant at it.”

Mac gives him a look, “So, what's the problem then?”

“I promised him I'd leave,” Patrick repeats.

“Okay, but why? If it's just the Gunner thing, then I'm pretty sure that problem has been well and truly solved.”

This, Patrick has to admit, is true. He rubs at the back of his head, “I… I just want to be with him. I just want us to all be safe,” he tries, “If I'm with the Minutemen then we won't be either of those things.”

Macready shrugs, “It's none of my business,” he says, “You guys do you. But in my experience I've never found somewhere safe in the entire Wasteland.”

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can't do this right now, Mac,” he says, “I have far too much else to freak out about right now. I don't even know where Pete is, I can't add worrying about this to it.”

“Sure,” Macready says easily, “Well, come on then, let's see if we can find your boy.”

The four of them head off up the coast - Hancock and Deacon seem to be getting on well, so Andy leaves them to it and walks beside Joe. He’s oddly silent, deep in thought and occasionally chewing on his lip.

“Are you worrying about Pete?” Andy asks quietly.

Joe stares at him with wide eyes, “Of course I am,” he says, “Jesus, how could I not be after what you told me? I mean, you warned me about this exact thing.”

“I didn’t really,” Andy replies, “I mean, I didn’t see this coming.”

“Andy,” Joe says, “Whatever you tell me right now, I’m the one that sent him back there. You and Patrick can forgive me as much as you like, but it was still my fucking idea, alright? Don’t, okay. Just don’t.”

“Joe…” Andy tries, but he stomps ahead to catch up with Hancock and Deacon. Andy watches him go.

Well, Andy thinks, it was probably time for their first argument. He just really didn’t think it would be about Pete of all things.

They walk back up the coast, Joe stomping along grumpily, monosyllabically answering Hancock’s occasional questions until he drops back to walk with Deacon and Andy.

Joe feels guilty about literally everything - Pete, Patrick, his dumb plan, snapping at Andy, dragging Mayor Hancock into this nonsense… Ugh, how the hell has he managed to fuck all of this up?

A handful of seconds after he turns a corner, a bullet ricochets off the brick wall right next to his elbow, making him squawk in panic and dive back into safety.

“Joe!” Andy shouts, “Are you alright!?”

Joe peers carefully around the corner. More Raiders have moved into the same parking lot as the last gang, and now they’re all alert and aware and pointing their guns directly at them. Awesome. Another massive fuck-up to add to his pile.

Joe flings out an arm, “Fine,” he says, “They’ve only got pipe guns from the sound of it.”

“How do you want to do this?” Deacon asks, “We could just leave them to it, see if we can sneak through the city?”

“Lot of muties in the city at the moment,” Hancock says, “Personally I’d rather take my chances with these morons.”

“Can we get them to come closer?” Andy asks, “Hancock and I aren’t exactly set for long range.”

Joe glances around. That much is true - Andy and Hancock both have shotguns but Deacon has a standard hunting rifle that might work.

“Hang back,” Joe instructs, “Deacon, you want to give that a go?”

“Christ, be careful the pair of you,” Andy breathes, “Use that mailbox as cover.”

“On three?” Joe asks Deacon, “We can take some pot-shots and see if they’ll come into range.”

“Sure,” Deacon replies with a grin, “Let’s go.”

They make a quick dash over the open area, ducking the Raider’s shots. Deacon returns fire alongside him, even managing to pick off one of them with a lovely shot that has the rest of the small gang swearing violently.

“Over here!” Joe yells, feeling foolish, but the Raiders are stupid enough to fall for it, darting across the parking lot towards them.

“Oi!” Hancock shouts from behind them, “Motherfuckers!”

Everything sort of dissolves into a huge mess of flying bullets and lasers after that.

The Minuteman Estate is busy with people in the early evening - new recruits in approximately one third of a uniform each queuing at a counter beside the open air cooking fire, and stressed looking NCO's hurrying between buildings. The guard welcomes them once Patrick shows the sheaf of papers from Major Garvey and directs them to a pre-war house patchworked with scrap wood and metal.

“Lieutenant Turner?” Patrick asks the three people in the house.

The two dudes point to the young woman sitting on a grubby couch, halfway through knitting what looks like a pond-scum green scarf.

“...eight, nine, ten,” she counts with a tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth before looking up with a smile, “Hi?” she questions, “How can I help?”

Patrick holds out the papers again, “From Major Garvey,” he explains.

“Oh!” she says, surprised. She rolls her needles up in the length of the scarf and puts it down, “Thank you! Uh..?”

“Patrick Stump,” he replies, “And this is Macready.”

Mac pushes forward and holds out a hand, “Call me RJ,” he says enthusiastically. Patrick looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He hasn't, until now, considered the idea that Mac had a first name.

The Minutemen Lieutenant giggles slightly and stands up to shake his hand, “Gemma,” she says, sounding halfway to twirling her hair with a finger, “Nice to meet you.”

“We were, uh, hoping to spend the night here,” Patrick tries.

Gemma glances at him dismissively, “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. You might have to bunk on a floor,” she offers in a tone of voice that highly implies that Patrick is going to be the only one of them that will have to sleep on a floor.

“Thanks,” Patrick replies, “Mac, I'm just gonna get some food, okay?”

“Sure, sure…” Macready says, waving a hand, “I'll be there in a bit.”

Patrick exchanges a look with the other two officers, one of whom says, “We'll show you where the kitchen is,” with a very badly disguised grin as though it isn't slap bang in the middle of the Estate, “Come on…”

“So,” Macready says in a surprisingly smooth tone to Gemma as they leave, “What are you knitting?”

“You’re an idiot,” Andy says as he jabs a Stimpack into Joe’s arm.

Joe looks up at him with a very hangdog expression, “Sorry,” he says.

Andy rolls his eyes, “Oh, are you talking to me again now?” he asks.

“Sorry,” Joe repeats, “Yes, I’m talking to you. I didn’t stop really - I’m just, I’m worried, okay?”

Andy can’t help but smooth his palm over the prickles of Joe’s inexpertly shaved head, “I know you’re worried,” he says, “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t.

Joe winces and tucks himself under Andy’s chin, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Are you sure about this plan?” he asks.

“The plan to take out the Brotherhood?” Andy asks, “Of course - it’s your plan.”

“Andy,” Joe complains.

“Nope,” Andy replies, pressing a kiss to his scalp, “Nope, none of this please. We’re going to go and get the Power Armor and the Vertibird tracker, and I’m going to meet you back in Goodneighbor and everything will be just fine, alright? You can’t worry yourself into a hole, Joe, not now. We’re so close - you’re so close - aren’t we? Just a little further and we’ll be rid of them for good.”

“Okay,” Joe mumbles, “Okay…”

Chapter Text

Pete isn’t sure how long he was unconscious this time, but the sun hasn’t noticeably shifted in the sky, so he doubts it was very long. He tentatively pats at his stomach, but he can’t feel anything. Whatever has happened, it’s gone numb for now. It’s probably for the best.

Groaning, he sits up as best as he can and looks around properly, trying to work out where he is. It looks vaguely familiar and he realizes with a start that he hasn't gone far, just drifted down the river to the bridge not far from the Tato farm they had spent the night in the day before they had first arrived in Diamond City - presumably whoever shot him couldn't be bothered to look for him in the water. Fuck, this could be a good thing - the farmers had been wary of them at first, but they had offered their help for some payment, and, thanks to Ashworth, Pete probably has plenty of that.

Well, whatever he does next, he definitely can’t stay here, out in the open on this beach.

It takes him several attempts to stand up, and eventually has to resort to crawling over to a small tree that he can use to pull himself to his feet, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. There’s no way he can carry the entire backpack, so he opens it, rummaging around gingerly. It turns out he was absolutely correct about the things that Ashworth had wanted him to carry. He can’t leave them here, he knows, so he pulls out the bulky packages and transfers them to his own shoulder bag. He’ll be able to offer some of the chems to the Settlers at the station as payment, and he discovers a few boxes of random ammo at the very bottom of the backpack that might be useful if he can get his hands on a fucking gun at some stage.

“Okay,” he tells himself, trying not to feel strange when nobody replies, “Okay, let’s go.”

He staggers up the slope back to the rail tracks, panting and clutching at his wound. The Stimpack has probably helped, but he can feel the horrible sensation of his fingers growing wet with his own blood again. He can only hope that the Tato farmers remember him from his previous visit - he’s not sure he’ll be able to make it much further. He angles himself towards the white tower-thing that the settlers use as their home and sets off, forcing himself to put one foot after the other. He makes himself think about Patrick as he does it, conjuring up pictures of his smile to keep him going.

Someone yells, “Halt! Who are you?!” and Pete stumbles to a stop.

“Help,” he says weakly, “Please.”

“Put your hands up!” the person yells at him. Pete’s head feels heavy and he has the idea that if he lets go of his belly then his guts will just spill out all over the dirt.

“Help,” he says again. Everything jolts, and he realizes that his knees have finally failed him, sending him to the ground.

“Hold up,” someone else says, “Hang on…”

“Please,” Pete whispers, “Patrick, please…”

“No, don’t shoot,” the second voice continues, “I think I know who that is…”

The crash to his knees must have knocked something loose - he can’t catch his breath. “Patrick,” he tries again, but the effort pitches him forward and he lands face first into the earth.

“Shit,” the helpful person says, “Shit, I do know him…”

Pete tries to look up at them, but his vision is spotty and hazy. “Help,” he tries again, but he doesn’t quite know how successful he is.

“Fuck, is he bleeding?!” a third person asks, “Have you got a Stimpack?”

“Help me to get him back to the station,” Person Two says. Pete likes Person Two. She sounds friendly and familiar, even if Pete can’t quite place her. Hands grab under his armpits and around his ankles, and he gets turned over so he can squint back up at the sky.

A face appears in his vision and Pete thinks it's the person who first spoke - the man who had told him to put his hands up. “Woah,” he says, looking down at him, at his fucking forehead, “Are you sure?”

“Honestly, that pretty much confirms it,” Person Two says as Pete's vision darkens worryingly again.

Pete opens his mouth to reply, but chokes instead on a mouthful of coppery tasting blood. He has no idea who any of these people are, how Person Two seems to know him, but it sounds as though they're going to help rather than kill him.

His eyelids are getting heavy, but he really wants to stay awake just in case he needs to explain himself more.

“Come on, grab his feet,” the third voice says. Pete gets lifted into the air, setting off a wave of all-encompassing pain radiating out from his stomach.

He thinks he must be screaming because Person Two says, “Shhh, shh, we're helping, alright? We're helping… Jesus, Donnie will never forgive me if you die…”

The last tattered remains of Pete's sanity grips onto the mention of Andy’s codename and clutches it tight like a talisman.

Everything else? Everything else he just lets go.

“Right, this is our stop,” Hancock says at the mouth of a tight looking alleyway, “Are you boys alright from here?”

“No problem,” Deacon replies, “We’ll come and find you soon - It shouldn’t take too long to get our main points across.”

“Joe,” Andy says, “It really will be alright.”

Joe throws his arms around him, holding his face in his hands and dotting kisses all over his face. It’s an act, Andy thinks, returning them, Joe’s smile is too stiff, his hands too shaky. “We’ll be in Goodneighbor tomorrow at the latest,” he tells him quietly, “You’ll barely have time to miss me, yeah?”

“Hah,” Joe replies, “Shows how much you know - I miss you already.”

“Mmm,” Andy agrees. “Same here. Now, go to Goodneighbor with Hancock, get drunk, try not to worry. Don’t have a threesome without me though, okay?”

Joe pinches his ass, which Andy takes as a good sign - Joe has never really been the type to stew in a bad mood. “Does that mean I can have a threesome with you?” he asks lightly.

Andy laughs, “We can discuss that later,” he says, returning the quick grope, “Love you, alright? See you tomorrow.”

They kiss one final time and Joe heads off, squeezing through the narrow alley behind Hancock.

“Alright then,” Deacon says, “Let’s go have a conversation with Des.”

Andy tears his gaze away from Joe’s retreating form, “You think she’ll agree?” he asks.

“Well,” Deacon says thoughtfully, “I imagine that the moment you say the words ‘Hey, Tom, you wanna see if your new piece of tech works and maybe get to try flying a Brotherhood Vertibird’, he’ll join our side of the argument pretty quickly, which should work in our favor.”

He laughs again, “I suppose so,” he agrees.

Pete startles awake feeling like his heart is trying to beat out of his chest, like if he looked down he'd be able to see it jumping under his skin. Someone who looks familiar is leaning over him with an apologetic expression and an empty Jet inhaler.

“Pete, yeah?” she asks.

Pete makes an inhuman sounding noise containing a slight questioning note.

The woman - Person Two - Andy's fucking friend Corby from Monson, Jesus Christ - smiles down at him. She waves the inhaler slightly, “Sorry about the harsh wake-up,” she says, stroking a hand over his revolting hair, “You, um, you kinda might've died for a moment there. Just a little bit.”

“Corbs?” the man with the itchy trigger finger says. He's middle aged and bearded, staring down at Pete with a scowl, “Are you…”

Corby smiles down at Pete, “We're fine,” she interrupts, “Toby, this is Donnie's friend Pete. We met in Monson while I was waiting for your lazy ass. We're golden.”

“C…c…corby!” Pete says, teeth chattering, mind spinning, heart racing. Jesus, this is why he never became a Jet addict like so many of the other Gunners. It does him no good at all. It feels like half his body is on fast forward and leaving parts of himself behind. His jaw feels tight with how much he's clenching it and he can't get the acrid, chemical smell of the Jet out of his nostrils even as he breathes harshly through his nose like an overworked Brahmin.

“I'm gonna have to ask you a few questions,” Corby says, “But you just nod or shake your head if you can?”

Pete nods jerkily. Corby smiles again.

“Is Donnie okay?” she asks, “Joe? Your Minuteman?”

“Month,” Pete forces out, nodding. “Haven't…”

“You haven't seen them for a month, but they were alright then?” Corby guesses.

“Mmm,” Pete agrees. He tries to close his eyes, but the lids feel like they're spring loaded and pop open again almost immediately. “Mish’n,” he tries, “Mn'ntmen, G’ners…” he gives up trying to speak more as his words are slurring so badly that he wouldn't be surprised if Corby couldn't understand him. He raises a shaky hand and draws a finger across his neck in the universal sign for ‘dead’ and taps at his blood-type tattoo.

Corby frowns at him. “The Gunners are dead?” she asks eventually. “The Minutemen sent you on a mission to kill them?”

Pete forces himself to waggle his hand in a so-so motion.

“We saw an explosion last night,” the man, Toby, says slowly, “It looked like it was coming from the Plaza…”

Pete gives him a wobbly thumbs up and twirls his fingers in a way that hopefully suggests a Vertibird.

“Flying?” Toby guesses, pulling a confused face, “What?”

“The Brotherhood!” squeals the third person, a plump, mousy woman, who peers down at him from over Toby’s shoulder, “The Brotherhood flying machines? Is that right?”

Pete nods and mimes an explosion, puffing out his cheeks.

“The Brotherhood blew up the Gunners?!” Corby says, startled, “Alright… Was that part of the plan?”

Pete jerks his head up and down as enthusiastically as he can manage with his head feeling like it’s about to detach and spin out into space.

Corby sits back on her heels. “Right,” she says, “So, all of this sounds way above my pay grade. I am quite happy to help you out here - and we can get you to Diamond City tomorrow when you’re feeling better - but we need to get back to our own friends. We’ll get you back on your feet - I owe Donnie that much - but after that you’re on your own. Whatever you’ve got yourself mixed up in, I think it might be a little too high-profile for us, you know?”

He tries shrugging, but the movement pulls at his stomach and he ends up gasping.

“Okay, another Stimpack for you,” Corby tuts, “And some Radaway now you’re conscious. I take it from the state of you that you’ve been frolicking around in the river, so we better deal with that.”

The mousy lady rummages around in her bag for a moment and then passes a bag of Radaway and a Stimpack. Corby takes them from her with a muttered, “Thanks, Marybeth.”

She injects the Stimpack and then starts him on the bag of Radaway. Pete has nothing to do except lie on his back and watch the sky, trying to keep his brain in one piece. He can’t quite bring himself to believe his luck in stumbling across one of the few people in the Commonwealth that would possibly be willing to help him without Pete having to beg. He supposes that he was due some good fucking news sooner rather than later.

The Jet starts wearing off, or maybe it’s the combination of medication he’s on making him feel sleepy.

“Th’nkyu…” he mumbles.

Corby rubs her hand over his hair again, making Pete feel like a small child. “Get some sleep,” she advises, “We won’t let anything happen to you, yeah? You’re safe here, alright? We're all friends. You’re safe now.”

That is probably the most wonderful thing that Pete has heard since Patrick told him that he loved him. He lets his eyes drift shut and sleeps.

“Oh God,” Doc Carrington complains as they push their way through the secret door into the bunkroom, “Why on Earth would you bring him back? We only just got rid of him!”

Deacon obnoxiously finger-guns at him, “Good to see you too,” he replies, making Andy laugh at Carrington’s annoyed face, “Des and Tom around?”

Doc Carrington points at him accusingly, “You two are absolutely not allowed to be friends,” he demands, “I forbid it. The knowledge that you two wouldn't combine forces was the only thing keeping me sane…”

Deacon grins, “I told you I'd wear him down eventually,” he says.

Carrington tuts at them, “They’re in the crypt. Please go and annoy them instead.”

Sauntering into the crypt, Deacon calls out, “Des!? Light of my life? Yoo-hoo!”

“What?” Desdemona shouts back from the corner where Tom has all his equipment set up.

“Boy oh boy, do the Minutemen have an offer for us!” he sing-songs back, “Tom! You wanna learn to fly?”

Tom jerks up from his computer so quickly that Andy can’t remember ever seeing him move so fast before in his life. “Woah!” Tom says, “Like, real flying?”

Andy doesn’t really want to consider what Tom would consider real flying - or what he thinks the alternatives could be.

“What’s all this about, Deacon?” Desdemona sighs, sounding long-suffering.

“You still got that Vertibird tracking programme up and running?” Deacon asks, “The Minutemen want to destroy that Brotherhood blimp for us.”

There’s a short pause. “For us?” Desdemona clarifies finally.

“Well, for them, I guess…” Deacon starts.

“For the whole Commonwealth,” Andy finishes loyally, “We should help at least - it’s not like the Brotherhood are making any part of our jobs easier.”

“Hell yeah,” Tom says,

“Oh for the love of God,” Desdemona sighs, “Start at the beginning, the pair of you.”

Hancock lets Joe walk for a while in companionable silence, which he appreciates.

They pass by a small, open area that’s covered in a scatter of rather elderly corpses that they smell before they see.

“Jesus,” Hancock mutters, prodding one of the bodies with the barrel of his shotgun, “I think these were Gunners once upon a time.”

Joe swallows around the gross taste of decay in his throat. There are a couple of ammo cans that are open and empty tucked behind the sandbags, already scavenged. “I think this is one of the first locations we got the Brotherhood to attack,” he says slowly, looking around, “Is this Postal Square?”

Hancock examines his gun, frowning, “Yeah,” he replies, “It is.”

He blows out a long breath, “Well,” he tries, but really, there's nothing that he can say.

Hancock nods, “Not far now,” he says, pointing down a road that's cluttered by ruined cars and fallen concrete, “Let's see if the old place fell apart without me, and then you can stand me and Fahrenheit to a few drinks as a thank you.”

“A thank you?” Joe echoes, “Sure…” but then he has a thought, “Umm… Any chance I can borrow some caps then? I'm a little short on cash.”

Hancock laughs loudly, sounding like a malfunctioning piece of industrial equipment, and slings his skinny arm around Joe's shoulders, “Nah,” he grins, “I gotta place that'll let me drink for free, no worries.”

“Well,” Joe offers, smiling back, “There's got to be some benefits to being the boss man, I guess.”

“Oh, I'm all benefits, baby,” Hancock leers, “One day I'll even talk you and your dude into sampling some of them.”

“Yeah, I think we're both one-dude dudes,” Joe laughs, “No offence.”

“Ohhh,” Hancock sighs dramatically, clutching at his chest with his free hand and then shrugs, “ Eh, plenty more Radroach in the stew. I'll fish out some tasty lumps eventually.”

“Maybe don't, like, say it like that to their face,” Joe advises as they duck down a cramped alleyway.

Hancock waves a hand and patting Joe on the cheek, “Hey now, that's one of my best lines, I'll have you know.”

“That's probably why you're single,” Joe replies, climbing over a pile of rubble.

“I've just got too much love for one person to handle,” Hancock says with what Joe assumes is a disturbing hip-thrust.

As soon as they get through the gate to Goodneighbor, Hancock is dragged into an argument between a couple of guys in snazzy vests and Daisy the shopkeeper, so Joe slinks into the pre-war building that serves as the town hall.

“You bought him back then,” Fahrenheit says suddenly, stepping out of a shadow as though she'd just spent the last week waiting to scare Joe shitless.

“Argh!” Joe replies, grabbing the railing of the central spiral staircase, “Don't do that!”

Fahrenheit raises an eyebrow at him. Joe raises one back.

“Where's the Power Armor?” he asks when it becomes apparent that Fahrenheit isn't going to apologize.

She jerks her head towards the stairs, “I thought it would be best locked up in a cell downstairs,” she says, digging around in the pocket of her leather pants, “Stuff has a terrible habit of going walkabout around here if you leave it lying around.” She holds out a small key, “It’s all yours, I guess, but I had a look at it and the Fusion Core is almost done - you’ll want to get another one if you’re planning on taking it anywhere. I think KL-E-0 had one for sle.”

Joe sighs, “Awesome. I guess that’s something else I’m gonna have to owe Hancock for.”

Fahrenheit sniffs, “Are you planning on taking him away again?” she asks. Her voice is so flat and emotionless that Joe has no clue if she’s in favor of the idea or not.

“Um, maybe?” he replies, “If he wants to, I guess?”

“Humm,” Fahrenheit says thoughtfully.

“I said I’d meet him in the bar,” Joe mumbles, “Do you want to join us?”

Fahrenheit narrows her eyes suspiciously, “Is this about the threesome thing again?” she asks.

Joe rolls his eyes, “Still in love with a dude,” he points out, “You’re not getting to me that easily. Just a drink, yeah?”

“Fine,” she says, “Just a drink.”

It takes a while, and like so much of the Railroad, a hell of a lot of discussion, side tangents and arguing, but Andy and Deacon finally manage to tell everyone their entire story.

Tom, typically, is incredibly excited about the prospect of using his tech to track down a Vertibird and learning how to fly it, fiddling with his equipment and tapping through computer programmes.

Drummer Boy is a little more guarded, but generally in favor of the plan, calmly pointing out how useful wiping out the Brotherhood will be to their mission.

Carrington listens to all their explanations and ideas as though he’s annoyed at himself for not being able to find a reason why they shouldn’t attempt it, nitpicking at them and forcing them to consider all their options.

Desdemona is more concerned with how much they have revealed to the Minutemen.

“The only dude who knows who Deacon really is is still Major Garvey,” Andy points out, “We didn’t, like, go around announcing all our secrets to the entire Castle.”

Des folds her arms, “Well, that’s good.” she agrees grudgingly.

“And it’s not like we’ll need to explain anything more,” Deacon wheedles, “Well, I mean, Tom usually takes a bit of explanation, but I’m sure that we can keep the Railroad out of it.”

“Humm…” Desdemona says, tapping her foot, “So it’s just find a Vertibird, learn to fly it as fast as possible, fly up to the blimp, hope nobody notices that your Mister Trohman isn’t actually a member of the Brotherhood for long enough to secretly plant explosives, hope nobody notices Tom isn’t a member of the Brotherhood long enough to do that, fly off and then blow it up?”

“Well, I mean, when you put it that way, it sounds difficult…” Deacon allows, “But I’m sure we can roll with it.”

Des lights another cigarette and blows the smoke up at the vaulted ceiling. “Are you sure you can find a Vertibird and fly one?” she asks Tom.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Tom agrees, patting the small box beside him, “No problemo. I’m already getting good pings on this baby - and how hard can it be, really?”

She turns back to their round map table and taps ash off her cigarette into the ashtray next to her, pursing her lips.

“We can’t let the Brotherhood get any more of a foothold,” Andy says quietly, “We need to deal with them right now. The Minutemen are the only force in the Commonwealth that we’ll be able to work alongside - even if they don’t know that they are. A strong, stable Wasteland is going to make our lives easier, you know it will. Maybe even eventually we’ll be able to start changing everyone’s opinion on Syths, stop having to take them out of Boston, letting them live here on the Minuteman settlements without worrying. Maybe if we support the Minutemen now, they’ll one day be strong enough to take on the Institute.”

Desdemona closes her eyes, “Okay…” she says eventually, “Alright - you convinced me, fine.”

Deacon fistpumps, “Awesome,” he crows, “Tom! Pack your gear! We’ll head out to Goodneighbor in the morning!”

Hancock wanders down the stairs to the bar around an hour after Fahrenheit had let herself behind the counter to snag three glasses and a bottle of slightly watery bourbon. He's walking next to another one of those guys-in-a-vest that Joe is like, ninety-nine percent sure are gangsters. Vest dude is talking to Hancock quietly, but intently, using a lot of insistent pointing. For his part, Hancock is listening, but with a faint expression of ‘Shut the fuck up’ on his wrinkly face.

He catches sight of Joe and Fahrenheit sitting at a corner table and breaks into a wide grin, clapping the dude heartily on the back. “Well, I have another meeting I need to get to,” he says, “Why don't you ask Marowski what he thinks and get back to me?”

“Look, John, I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but…” Vest dude says, starting to sound condescending.

Hancock sort of vibrates to a stop halfway to their table, “Excuse me?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but the background chatter of the bar very definitely lowers as he speaks.

There's a metallic sound like the audible equivalent of sunlight glinting off a pane of broken glass. Beside Joe, Fahrenheit has pulled a knife out of a sheath that is probably large enough to be technically described as a machete. She puts it on the table and stares at Vest dude.

As Joe watches, vest dude swallows, looks down at the knife, back up at Fahrenheit, over at Hancock, around at the rest of the bar patrons, swallows again and then says, “Sorry, Mayor Hancock, I'll, um, go and ask Marowski then.”

Hancock grins, “That's a good idea,” he says, “Why don't you do that right the fuck now?”

Vest dude nods and then manages to make a spirited attempt to not run back up the stairs to Goodneighbor.

Hancock watches him go and then drops into the unused chair at their table. Fahrenheit pushes a drink over to him. “I swear those Triggermen are getting dumber every day,” he sighs, knocking back the entire contents of the glass in one go.

Joe drinks his own shot, “If you guys keep doing shit like that,” he says approvingly, “Maybe we'll be able to revisit the whole threesome thing after all…” He feels like he's only half joking.

“You're not my type,” Fahrenheit mutters.

Since there are so many members of the Railroad in the crypt, the rest of the evening descends into some kind of impromptu combination of staff meeting and party. Everyone crowds around the large round tomb in the middle of the room with whatever drinks they can get their hands on, and Desdemona runs through the state of every single Railroad mission, safehouse and agent.

“Corby should be on her way back with Toby and Marybeth,” Desdemona says, “They’re pretty late - I hope they’re all alright.”

“We met her at Monson when we swung through there,” Andy points out, “She was a little shaken, but alright. I didn’t think she’d be this far behind us, honestly..”

Desdemona nods, “Well, there’s not much we can do about that now,” she says, “We’ll have to rearrange everyone anyway. As soon as all this blows over we can start moving people out of Ticonderoga - I think High Rise has his hands full with the amount of guests he’s looking after.”

“As soon as we get our farm back, you can send us a few,” Andy says helpfully, “We had a pretty decent set-up started, and as long as the Brotherhood haven’t completely wrecked the place we have enough space if they can bring their own sleeping bags… And…” he trails off, unsure as to how to frame his thought.

“And?” Deacon asks, nudging at him with an elbow.

“And there’s always the Minutemen,” Andy says, holding up a hand to calm Desdemona and Doc Carrington’s arguments, “Hear me out, alright? They want settlers - More people in the places under their protection who can help farm, or trade, or take guard duties. Why can’t some of them be Synths? Take the ones that have done well in our safehouses and introduce them to the more stable Minutemen settlements. That way they can stay somewhere familiar and the Minutemen get to increase their numbers.”

Desdemona puts her beer bottle down on the large tomb and sighs, “Donnie,” she says, “It’s… an idea. But I don’t feel comfortable leaving Synths in settlements who know about their existence. That’s why we decided that getting them out of the Commonwealth was the best idea.”

“It won’t be forever,” Andy tries, “The top Minutemen know about us - they support us, they’ll help protect them, I know they will - let’s sort out the Brotherhood and we can think about it at least, yeah?”

“It’s not just the Minutemen,” Carrington says, “Or the Brotherhood. Getting them out of the Commonwealth gets them out of the hands of the Institute for good. Unless you and your friends are planning on taking on the Institute for us next?”

“Joe probably could,” Andy says, taking another long drink.

Deacon laughs, “I’ll bet,” he says, clapping Andy on the back, “We’re not saying no, dude - just, like, not yet?”

“Yo,” Tom says, “I think I've got something,”

Everyone turns to him. Tom has been dividing his attention between listening to Desdemona and listening to a small headset that leaks a high-pitched warbling noise every time he pulls it away from his ear.

“What have you got, Tom?” Deacon prompts after an uncomfortably long pause.

“Oh, oh yeah, I think I've triangulated a couple of spots where Vertibirds seem to land pretty often. We can just go and wait for them to fly one to us, you know?”

Deacon hunches forward over the tomb, turning his mug with a finger, “So where are our options?”

Tom flaps a hand at the collection of stuff on the flat surface between them. Under the cups, bottles and loose papers is the large, hand-drawn map of the Commonwealth. Together with Drummer Boy and Doc Carrington, Andy helps move everything to a nearby desk.

“Alright,” Tom nods, “So, like, there's the airport, yeah?” He looks around for a second before pulling the mug out of Deacon's hand and plonking it down on the little picture of the strange multi-legged structure marking the location.

“I'm… not convinced that stealing a Vertibird from the airport to fly to the blimp hovering above the airport is a good idea,” Desdemona says diplomatically.

“Nah, man, nah,” Tom agrees, “But there's others - here in Cambridge…” a spot just down the river from the robotic farm at Graygarden gets marked by Desdemona's half-full beer bottle.

“That's gonna be a bit of a hike from the Castle,” Drummer Boy points out.

“I'm not finished, my dude,” Tom replies, grabbing the cleanish medical beaker Drummer Boy is using as a cup and dropping it on the map so hard that whatever he's drinking splashes out a little, “There's this spot a little further north,”

“That's that bank of those big dishes,” Deacon says, “I'm sure the tin-can men will be super interested in it, but those Mutants are dug in deep.”

“Last,” Tom says, ignoring him and casting around for something. Andy holds out his glass into his eyeline. Tom grabs it and plonks it down on the map just to the south of central Boston, “Here.”

The collective members of the Railroad consider the map.

“That's… closer,” Drummer Boy says eventually.

“Closer? That's practically next door,” Desdemona says, “Where is that?”

Deacon scratches his chin and squints at the map, “That's the big salvage yard right by the checkpoint your Mister Stump crashed a Vertibird into,” he says to Andy. “We walked right by it the other day. It'll be a good spot for picking up scrap now the pesky next-door neighbors have been dealt with.”

Tom sits back and grins at them all. “Ta-dah?” he asks, waving his hands over the tomb.

Desdemona snatches her beer bottle back from Cambridge, “I guess we have a winner,” she says, taking a drink, “Well done, boys.”

“Alright then,” Andy agrees. “A plan. Great. We’ll head out again in the morning - Can you get all your stuff together by then, Tom?”

“Yeah, yeah, man,” Tom says, nodding so hard his goggles wobble, “The tracker is already all set and I can work on the timer tonight, no problem.”

They take the party back to Hancock's room after a while, and he rummages around in a cupboard to pull out two bottles and three shot glasses. One of the bottles is square, with a homemade paper label and the other a very familiar green.

“Is that the Tarberry stuff from The Slog!?” Joe asks excitedly, making grabby hands at the bottle, “Yum!”

Hancock passes him the Tarberry liquor, “It's good stuff,” he says, uncapping the square bottle, “Enjoy it - I usually get Mac to pick it up for me, but it seems he's a little busy at the moment, so that's the only one I have.”

Hancock and Fahrenheit sit on one of the twin couches and Joe drops onto the one facing them. He distributes the glasses and pours everyone a shot of the liquor.

“Are you coming with us tomorrow back to the Castle?” Joe asks, throwing back the drink, “To find a Vertibird?”

Hancock glances quickly at Fahrenheit. “Sure,” he says eventually, “Might have to leave the infiltration to you boys, but I’m always up for causing a little more chaos.”

Fahrenheit makes an unimpressed ‘humph’ sound and refills all their glasses. Hancock leans sideways and hugs her around the shoulders in a way that makes her look a little like a wet cat and makes Joe think that Hancock is probably the only person in the entire Wasteland who would be able to get away with it. “I’ll be home soon,” Hancock tells her, “You won’t even have time to miss me again.”

Fahrenheit shrugs his arm off her, “I didn’t even miss you the first time,” she says, obviously lying.

Hancock smiles at her, “Attagirl,” he tells her.

“I'm gonna leave you two to it,” Fahrenheit says, standing up, “I've been running this place on my own for long enough - I need a good night's sleep before you go running off again.”

Hancock raises his glass at her, “Sleep tight,” he says, “I'll come and tuck you in later.” He stretches out lengthways on his couch again and lights a cigarette.

She scowls at him. “If you wake me up before lunchtime tomorrow,” she says, “I'll cut whatever's left of your balls off.”

Hancock laughs and calls out, “So is that a no on the bedtime story too?!” as Fahrenheit slams her way through the door, giving him the finger as she goes.

As soon as her footsteps die away, he sits back up normally and taps the ash off his smoke into the ashtray. “So, a little trouble in paradise back there between you and your dude, yeah?”

Joe really needs to stop making friends with clever people. “Uhhh,” he prevaricates, waggling a hand, “It wasn't actually about us,” he says, “Like, as a couple.”

“About your Gunner friend, yeah?”

“Ex-Gunner,” Joe says automatically.

Hancock bows his head in agreement, “Ex-Gunner,” he allows.

“Patrick doesn’t think he’s… doing well. Pete going back to the Plaza was my idea. I just hope that he can forgive me.” He turns the bottle around in his hands and pulls out the cork again.

Hancock takes another long swallow of his drink, “Okay,” he says thoughtfully, “But he agreed to go, yeah?”

Joe rolls his eyes, “Not you too,” he complains.

“Can’t blame yourself for everything,” Hancock points out mildly, “At least wait to talk to him before you start kicking yourself.”

They both drink in silence for a little while.

It’s still dark and Patrick is already halfway eating breakfast when Macready stumbles out of Lieutenant Turner's house with his hat in his hand and his shirt buttoned wrong. He raises an only slightly judgemental eyebrow as he makes his way over to him. “Good sleep?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Macready says, “Great, thanks… We're, um, planning on coming back here, aren't we?”

“I'm sure we can manage that, yes,” Patrick grins.

“Cool,” Mac says, sounding like he left his upper brain functions in bed, “Awesome.”

Patrick throws him a Mutfruit, “Come on,” he says, “Let’s go check out the Plaza.”

Chapter Text

Pete is getting strangely bored of waking up suddenly. At least this time he wakes up next to the warm embers of a campfire with a blanket spread out over him. He feels sick again, but this time it feels like it's because he's ravenously hungry.

The other Railroad lady is close by, repacking a backpack and counting bullets.

“Uh, hi?” Pete mumbles. His throat feels like he's been gargling with drawing pins, but he's relatively sure it manages to come out in actual, identifiable words.

The lady jumps slightly, but turns to him with a smile, “Hi!” she says, “How are you feeling?”

“Starving,” Pete says honestly.

“I’ll bet,” she agrees. There’s a pot resting in the gently glowing remains of the fire and she points at it with an elbow, “It’s just Tato and Radroach,” she says, “And it might be a little cool by now, but it’s all yours. You missed lunch and dinner yesterday so we saved you some.”

Pete pushes himself upright, and only notices that he doesn’t hurt when he leans forward to inspect the contents of the pot. In comparison to some of the meals he’s been forcing himself to eat at the Plaza recently, it looks like the most appetizing bowl of food Pete has ever seen - big juicy lumps of Tato swimming in thick, dark gravy with what looks like perfectly boiled pieces of ‘Roach bobbing to the surface. His mouth waters just looking at it. He doesn’t know what to say thank you for first - and is alarmed to realize he’s close to grateful, happy tears.

It's not perfect, not by a long shot, but after everything that has happened - after the Gunners, after all those sleepless nights and Not-Patrick tormenting him, and the sheer crushing loneliness of the last month or so - just being here with a good meal and people who are friendly enough to save him and smile at him and make sure he has a safe place to sleep is enough for now. He smiles back at her weakly, “Thank you,” he says damply, “Thank you all so much.”

The lady hands him a spoon, “Hey,” she says kindly, “Any friend of Donnie’s, yeah?”

He takes the spoon and digs into the pot without replying. If he opens his mouth for any other reason than to shovel food into it, whatever comes out is likely to be highly embarrassing.

“You look better,” Corby says just as he’s scraping the final pieces of stringy Radroach meat out of the pot.

He swallows his mouthful of breakfast and says, “I feel better, but then again, I’m not sure it’s possible to feel worse. Thanks for all your help.”

Corby waves a hand, “Donnie’s lost enough friends,” she says, sounding sad.

“We went to see… um, we went to the Church you recommended,” Pete tries, “He still has a few left.”

“That’s good to hear,” Corby nods, and then “Okay, so we need to get going - The Settlers are getting a little antsy with you, I think, and we want to get to where we’re going as soon as possible. Our plan was to spend the night just gone in Diamond City doing some trading and such, so we’re a little behind. We can drop you off at the City though - is that okay?”

“Absolutely fantastic,” Pete says honestly, “Oh, hang on, here…” he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a mostly-full bottle of Buffout pills, probably the least dangerous of the drugs he’s currently carrying and rattles them experimentally, “Can you give this to the Settlers?” he asks, “Payment, I guess - or a ‘Thank You For Letting Me Almost Die On Your Farm’ present?”

Corby laughs lightly, “You’re the strangest Gunner I’ve ever met, no wonder why Donnie likes you so much,” she says. Pete is about to protest, but she takes the bottle from him and corrects herself, “Ex-Gunner, yeah, I know.”

Toby wanders up to them both at that point and says, “Are we almost ready to go?”

“I am!” Marybeth chirps happily from the other side of the fire, “We need to trade for some more .44 when we get to the city though.”

“Oh!” Pete says, “Where’s my bag? Hang on…”

Toby slings him over his shoulder bag and Pete digs through it, pulling out the handful of .44 ammo boxes he’d taken from Ashworth’s backpack, “Here - take these - It’s the absolute least I can do.”

Toby takes them off him with a raised eyebrow, “Thanks?” he says, “You sure you won’t need them?”

Pete laughs hollowly, “I haven’t even got a fucking gun at this point,” he says, “The only thing I could do with them is throw them.” Corby and Marybeth both look concerned, so he adds, “Don’t worry - I got enough chems from those assholes to buy one at Diamond City.”

“Well, okay. As long as you’re sure,” Corby says, “Are you ready to set off?”

He nods, “As I’ll ever be,” he replies, pushing himself to his feet. His stomach twinges, but the pain is more a rough, dull ache than the bright, stabbing agony of the day before. He’s lived with much worse. “Diamond City, here we come…”

The Plaza has at least stopped smoking and Patrick and Macready approach it slowly and carefully. There’s a handful of bodies scattered by the front entrance - most of them are Gunners, but there are two Brotherhood soldiers who have already been stripped of their Power Armor and weapons lying beside one of the main doors. Patrick methodically turns each of the Gunner bodies over, peering down at their faces.

‘Pete got out’, he tells himself with every step, ‘Pete heard our warning. He got out of here before the Brotherhood attacked.’ It helps somewhat, but he still has a flash of panic when he approaches the crumpled body of a slim, tanned, dark haired Gunner lying in a puddle of blood. It looks as though they might have fallen from the roof of the building.

‘Please,’ Patrick thinks, ‘Oh, please…’ He rolls the body over, tugging on their shoulder and stares down at their face, blowing out a deep breath of relief when he doesn’t recognise them. Their eyes are plain dark brown and stare out of a face with a too-small mouth and too-wide nose. It’s not Pete. Pete got out of here before the Brotherhood attacked.

“Should we take these?” Macready calls.

“Huh?” Patrick asks, struggling to get his thoughts back on track.

“These under-armor things,” Mac explains, “Might be useful for your friend Joe’s plan.”

“Yes, sure,” Patrick agrees, “Great idea.”

“I’ll strip them,” Mac says, “You carry on… doing what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” Patrick sighs gratefully, “He got out, I know he did, but…”

Mac starts unzipping the orange jumpsuit and gives him a small smile, “Yeah, yeah, you’ll be no good for anything unless you know for sure.”

None of the scattered bodies are Pete’s, and something starts to unknot in Patrick’s chest. Macready waits for him to finish his circuit of the Plaza and Patrick comes back to find him leaning up against one of the pillars, the jumpsuits folded in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding them out, “Might have to wash them, but they should do just fine.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, taking them and shoving them in his bag, “Alright, shall we check inside?”

Mac nods, “It’s pretty big inside,” he explains, pushing off the pillar and heading towards the closest door.

Macready isn’t wrong. The building is huge. It’s also dark, full of litter and smells of mildew. It’s disgusting. Jesus fucking Christ - Pete grew up here, he thinks. Patrick can put up with it for as long as it takes to clear it.

He swings his rifle over his shoulder and pulls out Pete’s pistols, glancing over at Mac, who is currently digging through a cupboard with a revolted look on his face. “Have you got a close-range weapon?” he asks him.

“Uh, no.” he replies, wiping his hand on his pants.

Patrick passes over one of the guns, “Here,” he offers, “I’m gonna want that back.”

Macready looks it over, pulling back the hammer and sighting down it, “It’s nice,” he replies, “Thanks.”

Patrick shrugs, “They’re Pete’s,” he explains, “I’m looking after them for him.”

Macready claps him on the back, “Come on,” he says, “Let’s see if I can remember where everything is.”

The plaza seems to be entirely abandoned. There aren’t even any bodies like there had been outside.

“Everyone must have run when the Brotherhood showed up,” Mac mutters as they clear a room that seems to have been a bunkhouse. Dirty mattresses are shoved into corners and there are several footlockers and boxes scattered around. Macready immediately makes a beeline for one of them, and tugs at the lid.

Patrick pulls out his bobby pin and says, “Here, hand it over?”

Mac passes it over and Patrick gently works the pin into the lock, jiggling it until it opens. “Where, um, where would the Radio room be?” he asks as the lid pops open.

Holding out grabby hands and taking the box back, Mac jerks his head to the right, “Just down that corridor there,” he says.

“Cool.” Patrick replies, feeling himself twitch slightly.

Macready sighs, rummaging through the box and pulling out a brass lighter and giving it a thoughtful spin, “Just give me your bobby pin,” he says, “I’ll check out all these and come and find you in a bit.”

“Thanks,” Patrick replies, and practically runs out of the door.

The Radio room is quite small and windowless. There’s a desk, a bank of lockers and a sleeping bag spread out in front of them. In the corner is a pile of broken metal and plastic that looks like it might have once been a chair. The radio itself is still hissing out white noise, the headset dangling off the edge of the desk on its wire. Whatever has happened to Pete, it obviously happened quickly, abandoning his equipment without a second thought. Another piece of Patrick’s chest unclenches slightly. ‘He got out of here before the Brotherhood attacked.’ he reminds himself.

He sits in the only intact chair and picks up the headphones, putting them back on the surface of the desk. He doesn’t touch the radio in case there are still people listening.

Very slowly, Patrick leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. He takes a few deliberate breaths and then buries his face in his palms, pushing the tips of his fingers under the lower edge of his glasses and pressing gently on his closed eyelids until he sees golden-purple sparkles.

He stays like that until he hears Macready push open the door behind him and cough apologetically. “You okay?” he asks.

Patrick considers the question. “Not especially,” he admits, finally sitting upright and turning to look at Mac.

“He’ll be okay,” Macready says, obviously trying to sound soothing.

He’s honestly getting sick and tired of hearing that. “Sure,” he says, “Sure.”

“Do you want to check out the Commander’s office?” Mac asks.

“The first time I met Pete, I almost slit his throat,” Patrick’s mouth says without permission.

“Um,” Mac replies, which Patrick supposes is fair enough.

“I can’t help but think about what I’d have done if I’d known this was where he grew up,” Patrick admits, “If it would have made me think twice.”

“Um,” Mac says again, “This is pretty far out of my area of expertise, dude, not gonna lie.”

Patrick sighs loudly, “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“So, like, in my actual experience, most of the Gunners I met in the few months I was with them were all massive, uh, butts, but some of them were just there because they didn’t have anywhere else to go. I was kinda lucky with that - since I knew that there were other places I could go and things I could do. It’s pretty incredible that someone who grew up around these guys turned out so great. I mean, I only met him once, I know, but he seemed cool, and I can’t see you falling so hard over someone who isn’t…”

“I’m so worried about him,” Patrick admits, “I’m really, really worried about him.”

Macready scratches at his goatee, “Well, I don’t think he’s here,” he says apologetically, “Do you, um, want to go look for him?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Patrick mutters, “He could have gone anywhere. It might be easier to wait for him to find us. He might… he might even still be with some Gunners.”

Mac nods, “Come on,” he says, “Let's check out the rest of the building. If we get it done quickly, we should be able to make it back to the Minutemen before tonight. We can get some decent food and sleep.”

Patrick tries to shake himself out of his ‘worrying about Pete’ funk. “Uh-huh,” he attempts to tease, “Food and sleep, yeah? That’s all?”

Macready laughs, sounding pleased that they’ve moved on from talking about Pete, “What can I say,” he says, pushing through the radio room door, “She seemed like a nice girl. Maybe we should find all the people who managed to get free of the Gunners and find them a Minuteman of their own.”

*****

The Railroad people take him to Diamond City along a slightly different route than Andy had done, skirting a small lake and ducking through alleyways and ruined buildings until they emerge just around the corner from the main gate. He feels rotten by the time they make it - apparently massive abdominal trauma and several miles of hiking don’t mix particularly well.

The guards let them in without too much chatter, and Pete slinks past them, still clutching at his stomach, head bowed.

They push their way through the doors into the main open area of the city and stand at the top of the ramp leading down into the marketplace.

“Alright,” Corby says, “Are you sure you’ll be okay from here?”

Pete wishes that he still had his hat, and makes sure to lick his hand and plaster down his overgrown hair across his forehead in a desperate attempt to cover his tattoo, but other than that he’s probably as okay as he could possibly be given the circumstances. The pockets full of chems that he has will probably get him started with another Stimpack, a cheap gun he already has ammo for and at least two nights of food and a bed in a safe, lockable room which is all he really needs before he works out what the hell he’s planning on doing next. Honestly, apart from the time he’s spent with Patrick, Joe and Andy, it’s more than Pete has had for most of his life.

“Peachy,” he says, trying to sound confident and happy, “I’ll be absolutely fine thanks to you guys. Really, you saved my life - anything I can do to help, please just let me know.”

Corby smiles at him, “Just make sure you really lay it on thick when you see Donnie again,” she replies, “He can owe me a few more favors… I don’t suppose you know if he’ll be at the Church?”

Pete shrugs, thinking about Jake, “Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe? But he explained to your friends that he wasn’t going to leave the Commonwealth again. We’ve started a farm up north - by that big antenna.”

Corby looks surprised at that, “Oh, wow, alright,” she says, “And everyone was alright with that?”

“Yeah,” Pete allows, “You can probably ask them about it when you see them again.”

“Intriguing,” Corby laughs, “I can’t wait. Well, I might find my way up there sometime - say hello and all that.”

“We’ll roll out the red carpet,” Pete says, “I’m sure everyone else will want to say thank you too.”

Corby opens her arms and Pete practically flings himself into a hug. The sheer emotion of the friendly skin contact makes his eyes prickle again. He sniffs slightly and says, “Thank you,” again into her ear, “Thank you.”

In return, Corby pats him on the back, “No problem,” she tells him, “You take care, Ex-Gunner Pete.”

Pete stands at the top of the ramp and watches the three Railroad members head down into the market. Okay then, he thinks. Drugs, guns and dinner - in that order.

There’s a dude leaning up against a wall in the market who looks exactly like the kind of person that would buy a staggering amount of drugs off someone with a badly disguised Gunner tattoo, so Pete makes a beeline for him first. If he can get rid of some of the… less socially acceptable… chems then he’ll be able to buy the rest of what he needs with cold, hard caps.

“Heyyy…” the stallholder says, looking up from his newspaper when Pete approaches him, “How can I help you, man? You wanna buy?”

“Sell,” Pete tells him, “What can you give me for these?”

Pete walks away with a decent pocketful of caps and some less controversial trade goods including a fistful of Stimpacks. He makes sure to tuck a couple of them away in his bag just in case and then approaches the guy leaning on the counter for the gun store, making sure to flatten his hair down again. He looks weirdly familiar, but Pete has never bought a gun from Diamond City before in his life - before he arrived here on the way back from out west he’d only really skulked into the settlement once or twice alongside Commander Kingston.

“Can I help you?” the man asks, smiling at him.

“I’m just looking for a pistol,” Pete says, considering his available ammo, “Ten mil if you have one? Something cheap?”

“No problem,” the man says, rummaging around under his counter and plonking a gun down on the top of it. “Fifty caps,”

Pete looks down at it. It’s a little rusty, but it’ll do the job and fifty caps is a decent enough price. “Sold,” he says, digging into his pockets.

He’s halfway through counting out the payment when the guy says, “Look, not to sound strange, but did you ever know a woman called Faye? She would have been about twenty years older than you.”

Pete’s head snaps up, “Uh,” he stammers, “I mean, I did - years ago… That was my Aunt’s name.”

The guy stares at him. “Faye Wentz?” he asks, looking oddly intense.

Pete nods.

The guy sticks out his hand. “Hi,” he says, grinning, “I’m your cousin Arturo.”

“What?” Pete says, dumbly, shaking his hand on autopilot.

“You must be one of Uncle Peter’s kids - Faye was my mom.”

Pete just blinks at him.

“Are you Peter Junior or Mike?” Arturo continues, jiggling their hands up and down enthusiastically.

“Pete,” Pete says weakly, “Mike was my brother… He’s… He’s dead. They’re all dead.”

Arturo sighs, “I thought they might be. I still remember David from Bunker Hill coming through on a trip and saying that it looked like Raiders had attacked. Mom kinda stopped talking about you guys after that. To be honest, I wouldn’t have said anything, but you just look so much like her that I thought it was worth asking.”

Pete barely remembers Aunt Faye as a person - just a vague memory of her sitting in the tiny waterside shack and tutting about the state of his hair, manners, behaviour, state of hygiene, diet and education, much to his own Mom’s annoyance. “Uh, wow,” he manages, “Sorry - this is, well, it’s just that this is a lot.”

“You’re telling me!” Arturo says, “Look, call the gun thirty caps - as a family discount, yeah? Are you planning on staying around for a while? I could meet you in the Dugout later tonight?”

Pete can’t really say no to that, “Yes,” he replies, “Yes, I’m staying for a day or so. I was gonna get a room there. Thanks, I’ll see you later.” Everything feels a little unreal right now.

“Excellent,” Arturo says, “In that case, I will see you there.”

Joe wakes up on Hancock’s couch again with a mouth that feels like a Molerat has died in it. He says, “Urgh,” to himself and attempts to sit up. Hancock is lying mostly face down on the other couch, sucking at his wrinkly thumb and cradling an empty liquor bottle like a teddy bear.

He reaches over the coffee table and jabs him in the shoulder with a finger. “Wake up,” he groans, “Andy will be here soon.”

“K’off,” Hancock mumbles without opening his eyes.

Joe pokes him again, “Wake up,” he insists, “Or I’ll go and find Fahrenheit and get her to do it.”

Hancock pulls his thumb out of his mouth and slaps at Joe’s hand, “Nooo…” he complains, “M’wake.”

“Come on, dude,” Joe says, “I’m gonna go get something to eat.”

Hancock raises his head slightly, peering at Joe through bleary eyes, “Food?” he asks.

“Food,” Joe agrees, “In The Third Rail, come on… There were Sugar Bombs behind the counter - I saw them last night. We could have some for breakfast…”

“Breakfast?” Hancock asks, like it's a novel concept.

“Breakfast!” Joe repeats as cheerfully as he can manage, “Sugary, sugary breakfast!”

Hancock levers himself upright, leaving a worrying patch of drool on the seat cushion. The empty bottle falls to the floor with a loud sound that makes them both flinch in unison.

“Breakfast,” Hancock nods sadly.

Together they stagger down the stairs and out into the streets of Goodneighbor.

“Argh!” Hancock says as they step through the door, clapping a hand over his face.

“Argh,” Joe agrees. It is offensively sunny.

Hancock staggers them over to Daisy, who's standing in front of her store with a mug, and wobbles a pointing finger at her. “Guests,” he slurs, moving to point between his own face and Joe's, “Breakfast.”

Daisy nods wordlessly, a small grin on her face. “Good night?” she croaks, “I almost missed your two am serenades from the balcony while you were gone.”

“Tarberries,” Hancock replies sadly, “All gone.”

“You sure?” she laughs.

“More please,” Hancock mumbles.

“I'll send someone up that way as soon as I can,” Daisy says. “Might be a little while - but word on the street says you're off adventuring again anyway.”

“Bah,” he scoffs.

Joe pokes him again, “Breakfast,” he reminds him, “Sugar Bombs.”

“Breakfast,” Hancock agrees, and together they navigate themselves through the narrow streets and down into the underground station that serves as Goodneighbor’s main bar.

Pete stumbles his way into the Dugout Inn in a state of absolute disbelief at the turn his life has suddenly taken.

“You look like a man who needs a drink!” the barman booms at him, “Ha hah ha!”

Pete nods, “Please,” he says.

The barman slams down a glass of clear moonshine and says, “The best! Four caps!”

He fumbles a pile of caps out of his pocket and levers himself onto the barstool, “I need a room too,” he says.

Scraping the caps off the bartop with one hand, the barman passes him a heavy brass key with the other, “Room two!” he announces, “Ha!”

Pete drinks his drink.

“Another!” the barman says. It’s not a question.

He manages to stop the barman from pouring him any more drinks after shot number three by telling him that he needs to use the toilet and escaping to his rented bedroom. He has some time before Arturo will close his shop and make it to the bar and he feels like he needs to have a moment to decompress before that point.

He closes and locks the door behind him and then slowly slides down it until he’s sat on the floor.

“Patrick?” he asks quietly.

Apart from the muffled sound of the bar patrons, everything is quiet. It’s creepy and weird and so unusual that Pete shivers. He doesn’t like being alone, he thinks.

“Patrick…” he tries again, muffling himself with a hand over his own mouth, “Patrick, I think I just met my cousin. He seems nice?”

He moves to cover the rest of his face with his hands. It’s all too much. “Patrick, please?” he whispers, “I can’t do this on my own… I need you.”

Patrick doesn’t reply. Pete slumps sideways and curls up on the floor with his back to the door, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to force himself to fall asleep - it’s the only place he knows where to find Patrick now.

Pete is standing behind a bar counter. Bottles and glasses are strewn around on the shelves surrounding him. There are other patrons, but they’re all shadowy, half-formless shapes chattering wordlessly. Patrick is the only customer who’s in focus. Pete stares at him, he’s dressed in a dark green shirt and his yellow eyes are watching him with a strange look. He swallows. This is a dream, he thinks. He can do whatever he likes.

He leans forwards and pulls Patrick towards himself, sinking his hand into his hair and pressing their mouths together. Patrick goes with the kiss, opening to him and tipping his head sideways in order to align themselves properly, but his hands remain still on the countertop.

“Patrick,” Pete mutters into his mouth, trying to press harder, “Patrick, please.”

The kiss is hot and wonderful and Pete can feel the pulse thumping in his cock, but there’s something indefinable missing. He pulls back, licking at his lips.

“You don’t need me,” Patrick says calmly.

“I need you,” Pete replies, aghast, “Fuck, of course I need you!”

Patrick picks up the glass in front of him and takes a sip. Pete can’t remember pouring it.

“Pete,” Patrick says, sounding slightly condescending, like he’s talking to a particularly annoying child, “You don’t need me. Don’t be stupid.”

“I can’t do this without you,” Pete gasps, reaching out and fumbling for Patrick’s shirt collar, “You can’t leave me - please come back.”

Glancing down at Pete’s hands, Patrick sighs, “I’m not real, Pete,” he points out, “You’re just crazy, remember?”

“But…” Pete tries, but Patrick keeps talking over him, “Maybe you should concentrate on finding the Real Patrick while you’re awake?”

“Real Patrick?” Pete whispers, “Oh God… You’re not real…”

Not-Patrick finally reaches out and pats him companionably on the hand holding his collar, and then attempts to unlock his fingers from the fabric. “I’m not real.” he agrees. “Wake up and go and find the one who is. Now.”

Andy and Deacon have to basically steer Tom towards Goodneighbor.

“I told you he needs a leash!” Andy hisses as they pull him away from investigating an armed land mine. “It's gonna take all four of us just to get him to the Castle in one piece - how the hell did you manage to get him all the way up to the farm?”

“He really wanted to see that antenna of yours,” Deacon says out of the corner of his mouth.

“I thought he really wanted to fly a Vertibird!” Andy replies, negotiating Tom around a pile of sharp metal building rubble.

“Oh, man, I bet those babies are amazing!” Tom says gleefully, “Can you imagine!” he swoops a flat hand through the air making spluttery mechanical noises with his lips.

“Sure,” Deacon says, adjusting his hold on Tom's shoulder, “We have to get you there in one piece first, my dude.”

They finally make it to the hidden, rickety gate to Goodneighbor and Deacon shoves Tom through it with a relieved sigh.

“Mister Hurley!” Daisy calls, “Good to see you! Your young man is in The Third Rail trying to feed Mayor Hancock breakfast.”

“Thanks Daisy!” Andy says back, waving, “Everything alright here?”

“Same old, same old,” Daisy croaks back, “You need anything?”

“Shells maybe?” Andy replies, “I’ll pop by later on our way back out.”

Joe and Hancock are both slumped in a dark corner of the bar, squeezed together on a couch. Joe is sitting relatively normally, but Hancock is lying across him lengthwise, back against an armrest, legs over Joe’s lap. They’re sharing a battered box of cereal, taking it in turns to shovel a handful of the dry sugary flakes into their mouths.

“Hey,” Andy says, “You both okay?”

“Urgh,” Hancock groans.

“Nosh’bash,” Joe tries, dribbling pieces of Sugar Bomb over Hancock’s knees.

Andy waits until he swallows, “What was that?” he asks with what he is sure is an embarrassingly soppy smile.

“Not bad,” Joe repeats, “Took your advice to heart a little too much maybe.”

“A hangover is just the universe's way of telling you that you haven't practiced drinking enough,” Deacon says cheerfully, plucking the box out of Joe's loose grip and helping himself to a handful.

Joe watches the cereal disappear into Deacon's mouth like he's helpless to prevent a terrible accident. He makes a mournful noise when Deacon offers the box to Tom.

“We've got some good news anyway,” Andy says, “Want to pick up your gear and we'll let you know?”

Joe shoves Hancock’s legs off his lap, “Sure,” he agrees, “Let’s go - Fahrenheit says we'll need a new Fusion Core anyway.”

“We can grab that,” Deacon offers, jerking his thumb at Tom, “Andy can get you both up to speed with our decision making process...”

The cellar is dark and creepy - the general ambience not improved even slightly by the row of small barred cages, one of which contains the looming bulk of a half-covered Power Armor frame, standing hunched in a corner. Andy shivers involuntarily.

“So Tom says he's found a location where the Brotherhood have been scavenging,” he explains as they wait for Deacon and Tom to return with the core, “There's a scrapyard south of Boston and I think the intel is pretty solid - Patrick took down two Vertibirds close by on our way to the Castle, so it's on their radar for sure. Plus, it's only a few hours walk from the Castle itself so we won't need to hike halfway across the Commonwealth.”

“Sounds good,” Hancock agrees, sounding slightly more functional than before, “And my Mom says I'm allowed out to play again as long as I don't get my new shoes dirty.”

Andy nods as though that made sense. It's usually best just to ignore Mayor Hancock at moments like this. “Alright then,” he says, “I'm gonna warn you now - we'll all need to pitch in to get Tom down to the Castle in one piece, and he's a pretty vital piece, so you know… all hands on deck, yeah?”

“We should be there by this evening if all goes well,” Joe says, “We can check in with the Minutemen and head to this scrapyard tomorrow morning - no sense in hanging around.”

“Mmm,” Andy agrees, “Hopefully Patrick will be back from his recon with good news.”

“Hopefully he'll be back with Pete,” Joe says, chewing at his lip, “Fuck, I hope he's alright - I'm gonna owe him so much booze.”

“It'll be fine,” Andy tells him again, “Everything will be just fine, you'll see.”

Andy really, really hopes he sounds convincing.

The trip back down to the Castle is like an exercise in herding one particular, incredibly stoned cat. If Joe ever manages to get his seeds planted, he makes a mental note to make sure Tom never, ever finds out about it. Tom on Daytripper is bad enough, but he probably isn't ready for the sort of industrial strength weed Nousari had managed to cultivate.

Fortunately if seems as though the Raiders have finally taken the fucking hint and moved out of the parking lot by the water, and they don't encounter anything trickier than a handful of Mirelurks protecting a nest that are almost insultingly easy to deal with between the five of them. Even Tom manages to get a few shots off with some kind of terrifying hand-made rifle that shoots huge metal spikes with a loud whistling thump and pins a Mirelurk to a concrete wall by one of its pincers.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Joe gapes as Deacon attempts - and fails - to pull the spike out of the wall, “What the ever-loving hell is that?!”

Tom grins, “My own personal design, my dude,” he says proudly, patting the barrel nerve-wrackingly close to the trigger, “I call it a Railway Rifle.”

“It's… certainly effective,” Joe allows, edging out of the way, “Has anyone got a knife?”

Hancock digs around in one of his huge pockets, “This do?” he says, holding out a decent looking hunting knife.

“Cheers,” Joe says, taking it. The Mirelurk will be a perfect way to start apologising to Patrick for keeping him and Pete apart for so long.

“He'll be fine,” Andy tells him as he cracks through the shell, instantly catching onto Joe's motives, “He doesn't blame you.”

“Well, now he can not blame me while eating his own body weight in seafood,” Joe points out, setting about carving chunks of ‘Lurk, “You can't tell me it won't put him in a better mood.”

“You're getting blood all over the Power Armor,” Deacon points out unhelpfully.

“It'll help sell the bit,” Hancock says, taking the opportunity to have a smoke, “He's supposed to be a blood-thirsty Brotherhood soldier.”

“I'll wash it off before we leave,” Joe says, “Someone go grab me that newspaper to wrap these bits?”

Andy, Deacon, Hancock and Tom all eye the paper blowing down the road and then get into an amusing four-way staring competition. Finally Andy blinks first and huffily heads off to chase it down.

“Here,” he says, flapping it at Joe, “This means I'm not carrying it!” he calls back to their audience grumpily.

“Hey man, I'm not putting raw Mirelurk in my pockets,” Hancock says, holding up his hands, “This coat is, like, a historical artefact, you dig?”

Deacon gives everyone a supremely unimpressed look. “Fine,” he says, “But if I end up smelling of crab, I'll make sure you all live to regret it.

Chapter Text

The Minutemen all seem to be in a very good mood when they finally make it back into the estate. Most of them seem to be crowded around a large bonfire.

“Hi!” Gemma calls out to Macready, waving at him, “You guys came back!”

“Hi!” Mac says back, and Patrick can hear the grin, “What’s the occasion?”

Gemma holds out a full mug to him, “Oh, one of our squads came back this afternoon,” she replies, biting at her lip, “They took out a couple of Gunners last night - they think they must have been escaping the Plaza, so they were probably some of the higher-ups - but honestly, we just really wanted an excuse for a party!”

“Sorry,” Patrick breaks in, “But what did you just say?”

Gemma tears her gaze off Macready and grins at him, “One of the squads took out some Gunners running north last night,” she repeats before turning back to Macready, “So, would you like to…”

“Who?” Patrick demands, “Which squad? Who was their leader?”

Gemma frowns at him, “Sergeant Horowitz,” she says, “He’s over there by the…”

Patrick doesn’t even bother to say goodbye, just dashes across the field towards the small group of Minutemen clustered around a bench.

They all look up as he jogs over, “Horowitz?” he asks.

“Mister Stump!” Horowitz says, with his wide, cracked-tooth smile, “Hey, how are you, man? Guys, this is that wild-ass sniper from the Castle attack I was telling you about.”

Patrick waves this away and says, “You took out some Gunners last night?”

“Oh man, yeah!” he replies, grinning, “Only a few of them, but we managed to surprise them with a rocket, cleared them up with a few well-placed hits.”

Patrick feels like he’s about to be sick. He swallows back down his panic, “Where?” he asks.

Horowitz blinks at him, “Just up the rail tracks,” he explains, “You okay?”

“I’ve got to go,” Patrick gasps, “Fuck, fuck… I’ve got to…”

He basically runs back over to where Macready and Gemma are giggling together under a tree, ignoring Horowitz following him. “Mac, Mac!” he calls.

Macready, to his credit, pulls his attention away from Gemma, “Patrick?” he says, “What did they say?”

“They… Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to see. I have to check, alright?”

Mac nods, even as Gemma pouts slightly, “Do you want me to come?” he asks.

“Please,” Patrick begs, “Please. I can’t - what if… Mac?”

“Alright,” Macready says, “You know where we’re going?”

“We were North - a little way up the train tracks,” Horowitz puts in from behind him, “I can show you if you like? I mean, if that’s okay, Lieutenant Turner?”

“Uh, sure?” she says, sounding confused, “Okay, yes. Sergeant Horowitz can show you if it’s important.”

“It’s important,” Patrick confirms, “Believe me, it’s important.”

“Alright, are you leaving now?”

Horowitz and Macready both look at him, “Yes,” Patrick says, practically twitching with his desperate desire to already be going.

Gemma nods, “Okay, well - Sergeant, please help Mister Stump with whatever he needs. I’ll fold your squad into Sergeant Yen’s unit until you return,” she says, turning to Mac, “Hopefully we’ll be able to catch up soon.”

Macready scoops up her hand and kisses the back of it, making her giggle again, “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he apologises, “This is kinda important.”

They set out as soon as it's light enough to see, finding the tracks easily where they run vaguely north parallel to the river, and every step Patrick takes is terrified and awash in so much adrenaline that his stomach is churning.

“Shouldn’t be too far now,” Horowitz says, “We hadn’t quite made it to the highway bridge when we spotted them.”

Patrick hasn’t even been able to ask him any questions - he knows for an absolute fact that any information he’s going to get is going to send him into a panicky spiral that absolutely won’t help anything.

A little further on Horowitz says “Here,” and points.

Swallowing back terror, Patrick edges his way forwards to where Horowitz is pointing. There’s a dead body at the edge of a crater, blood has dried in a long trickle down the hill.

“There were four of them,” Horowitz says apologetically, “I got one of them with the rocket straight away, and shot the others.”

The body isn’t Pete’s at least - he’s a stocky, muscular man with shaggy light brown hair and a bullet hole through his jaw. He’s not wearing the Gunner’s standard uniform shirt, but it’s obvious that he’s one of them thanks to the combat pants and tattoo.

Macready edges past him and peers down into the middle of the crater. “Jesus,” he mutters to Horowitz, “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

“Mac,” Patrick asks, “Is it…”

“Nah,” Macready says, crouching down over something horribly misshapen, “Nah, not this one - It’s not him, Patrick. I promise. He’s got a stupid mohican and the world’s worst facial hair, alright?”

“Where were the others?” Patrick asks Horowitz.

“One of them made a break for it,” he replies, pointing further north, “The other one was hiding in the bushes over there. Fuck, I’m sorry about this, man…”

Patrick covers his mouth with a hand, not wanting to find out what will happen if he tries to say anything.

He goes north first. The Gunner managed to get a decent way away before being shot in the back by Horowitz’s squad, and for a horrible second he thinks it’s Pete - that this is all over - but then he spots that his dark hair is far too long and straight and the skin of his bare arms are free of Pete’s tattoos. He rolls him over with a toe, just to be sure, but he knows he’s right.

“Patrick?” Macready calls over to him, “Is it?”

“No,” Patrick says shortly, turning away from the corpse and heading back down to the crater, “No, it’s not.”

“Alright,” Macready says, appearing out of the bushes to the west of the tracks, “Alright, so, we have something, maybe?”

That makes Patrick look up, “Good news?”

Macready jerks his thumb over his shoulder to where Horowitz is standing, “He says they shot a dude over there, but there’s no body.”

Patrick frowns, “No body?”

“Just come and see,” Mac offers, walking back into the bushes, “Look, here - this must be where they hit him…” he points at a patch of stained dirt, scuffed over with footprints, “But he obviously survived it for a while…”

He takes a few steps towards Horowitz and points down again, “He went this way.”

There are drops of blood leading towards the river, ending at a steep drop off with a trail of broken branches.

“He must have gone into the river,” Horowitz says, leaning out over the cliff with a hand on a tree, “I can’t see anything down there though.”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut - he really doesn’t think that he’ll be able to take this much more. “Well then,” he says, “I guess we’re heading down the river…”

Arturo is sitting at a table with two people when Pete finally staggers out of his room and back out into the main bar. One of them is a pretty lady and the other can only be the great Nick Valentine.

He orders a drink at the bar from a different, thankfully quieter barman and sidles over towards the table.

“...no, he was here about a week ago,” Nick is saying, “When Andy was here - they came together.”

Arturo nods thoughtfully, “Sure… He mentioned he was here with Deacon when he came for dinner…”

“Deacon?” Pete can’t help but say, turning to Nick, “Hang on, you know Andy Hurley, don’t you?”

Nick looks up at him, his yellow electronic eyes make Pete rock back on his heels - they’re too close to his dream for comfort. “And who, exactly, are you, kid?” Nick asks suspiciously, “How do you know Andy Hurley?”

“This is my cousin,” Arturo says proudly. Pete isn’t sure that anyone has announced their connection to him proudly before.

“Um,” he says.

“Your cousin…” Nick says, still suspicious.

“I didn’t know you had a cousin,” the pretty lady says, sipping her beer.

“We only met this morning,” Arturo explains, shuffling his chair sideways and pointing at a nearby free seat for Pete to pull over and join them, “He’s my Mom’s brother’s son. They had a farm on the coast by the airport.”

“Alright, that doesn’t explain how he knows Hurley though,” Nick points out.

Pete drags over the chair, “He’s my friend,” he says, simply, not wanting to get into the whole story with people he barely knows, “You said he was here a few days ago? With Deacon?”

Nick fixes him with those inhuman eyes, which makes Pete flinch again. “Humm…” he says thoughtfully, “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Pete replies, “I’m Pete.”

Nick leans back in his chair. “Pete…” he says, “Pete the Gunner.”

“Ex-Gunner!” Pete corrects hurriedly, “Very Ex!”

“Now what does that remind us of, Ellie?” Nick asks the pretty lady, “We’ve been having an awful lot of conversations about Pete Wentz, The Very Ex-Gunner recently, haven’t we?”

Ellie dimples with a smile, “We have!” she agrees, “Isn’t this a surprise?”

“Um, who exactly has been talking about me?” Pete asks nervously, clutching his glass to his chest.

“Well, apart from Mister Hurley and his colleague, there were a few people who came by for a meeting this morning who might have mentioned finding you out at Oberland Station…” Nick explains, “But I think the one you might be most interested in hearing about was a visit from Mister Macready and a new sniper friend of his.”

Pete feels his mouth drop open. “A sniper?” he repeats weakly, “Patrick?”

“That’s the one,” Ellie says, with a grin, “He said you were good looking - nice to see he was right.”

“When… when were they here?” he mumbles, “Where did they go?”

“Just before Mister Hurley came by,” Nick says, “About a week ago. They said they were going to the southside to hunt Gunners and the Brotherhood, so I guess they could be anywhere by now.”

“Andy said he was going to head for the Castle,” Arturo interjects helpfully, “He said his partner was already there and he was going to meet him.”

“The Castle?!” Pete repeats, grabbing onto the information with both hands, “Andy’s partner? Joe’s at the Castle too? Shit, okay… I guess that’s where I’ll go next then.” If tracking down Patrick in the Wasteland is too tricky, then a solid lead on Andy and Joe is very much the next best thing. A thought occurs to him, “Hang on - you know Andy and Joe?”

Arturo gives him a strange look, “Andy was my best friend growing up,” he says, “He lived with us even, after his Father died.”

Pete isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he imagines it’s pretty odd looking. “Andy was your best friend?” he repeats slowly, “And you’re Aunt Faye’s kid…”

“Sure,” Arturo says, frowning, “Are you alright?”

He lets out something that could charitably be called a laugh, but is probably a lot closer to hysterical than it probably should be. “Yes,” he wheezes eventually, “Yes… just. Just thinking about how different my life could have been if I hadn’t been so stupid as a kid…”

Ellie leans over the table towards him with a compassionate expression on her face, “If it helps, it sounded like they were all very worried about you,” she says, “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see that you’re alright.”

“Thank you,” Pete says, still feeling giddy, “I’ll be pretty thrilled to see that they’re alright too.”

Arturo claps him on the back, “Good!” he says, pleased, “I’m glad you have some people looking out for you.”

“Me too,” Pete sighs, his eyes prickling with unshed tears, “Really.”

Arturo raises his glass, “Well, cheers!” he toasts, “To friends!”

“Friends,” Pete echoes, raising his own drink.

Patrick had no idea what they must look like - himself, Mac and Horowitz trailing down the banks of the river, keeping a watch on the water and both sides for anything that even slightly resembles a body. He has a constant sense of fear churning in his gut, positive that with each turn they'll stumble across Pete.

At one point they spot a crumpled figure on the opposite shore, unmoving and twisted. Horowitz swears loudly and Macready says, “Patrick…” warningly, but a few terrified seconds of staring through his rifle scope reveals that it's only a dead Ghoul.

“Well, that's alright then,” Horowitz says cheerfully, “And if we don't find him soon then I guess he must have escaped. The dam is coming up, and a corpse wouldn’t have gotten through that.”

Horowitz is trying to be helpful, Patrick knows this, but of course now all he can see inside his own head is Pete's dead body bumping up against the dam grating.

Macready must realize that because he pats him on his shoulder and gives him an understanding, sympathetic face.

“The dam is just around this bend,” Mac reminds him, “You want me to check first?”

Patrick nods wordlessly. However he finds Pete, he knows he's going to have the picture burnt onto the insides of his eyelids for as long as the rest of his life turns out to be and words cannot express how much he doesn't want to carry a vision of his fiance’s swollen, bloated corpse around with him.

“It's almost time for something to eat,” Mac says kindly, “You want to stay here and get something ready?”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers hoarsely, “Yeah. Let me know what you find?”

“Sure,” Macready replies, “Of course. Look, I'm sure it'll be fine, we're not even certain we're actually following him, don't forget. It could be any old Gunner you know?”

Patrick nods again. All of that is true. There is nothing that means that they are definitely following Pete, but until they know for sure he won't be able to stop feeling so anxious that he thinks he might be subtly shaking - and even then, once he does know for sure it feels like a fifty-fifty chance that he'll never be able to stop shaking ever again.

He sits down with his back to a tree and puts his bag on his lap, too nervous to even think about eating and watches as Macready and Horowitz disappear around the bend of the river.

He chews on his lip as he digs out the nail in his pocket, wrapping his fingers around it. The waiting is awful.

Patrick’s head snaps up from the nail as Macready says his name - he’s standing on the beach just at the point where the river bends.

“Have you…” Patrick starts.

Mac shakes his head, “No, no body,” he replies, “But you might want to come and see this.”

Patrick follows him to a small, dirty sandy beach. It’s covered in a mess of footprints and pink watery splashes of blood. At the edge of the water is an abandoned backpack being washed occasionally by waves. Horowitz is standing off to one side at the bottom of the slope back up to the rail tracks.

“Someone obviously came out of the river here,” Horowitz says, pointing, “Looks like they were hurt too.”

He seriously cannot take much more of this. He’s going to have a fucking heart attack if this keeps happening to him. Not knowing what has happened to Pete is going to kill him stone dead.

Macready pokes hopefully at the backpack, “It’s mostly junk,” he says after a few seconds. “A couple of tools…” he pulls out a roll of thin wire, “And this. Oh…”

“Oh?” Patrick demands, “What oh?”

Mac pulls out a handful of dripping wet dark green fabric. “Well, whoever left this looks like they were a Gunner - Does this all look like it might be something your boy would be carrying?”

Patrick nods mutely.

“Whoever it was, they got out of the river alive and walked up this way,” Horowitz points out, “There’s a bloodtrail, but only one set of prints, so they were alone.”

He doesn’t want to think about Pete, hurt and alone, stumbling away from the river, but it’s better than the train of thought that leads to the picture of his dead body in the river, so he grasps it with both hands. “We’re not far from that farm by the train station,” he says, “He might have tried to go there? We’ve been there before…”

“Sounds like it’s worth checking out,” Mac says, dropping the bag back in the water, “Let’s go.”

They follow the trail of drops of blood and snapped branches up the hill, and Horowitz stands at the top by the twisted rails with his hands on his hips, looking left and right. “I think you might be right,” he says, “They went north from here.”

Patrick looks down the tracks to the roof of the white station building, “When I find him again,” he promises to himself determinedly, “I am never letting anyone split us up ever again.”

Arturo loads him down with another box of ammo, a knife, some pre-cooked food and an ugly orange and white jacket that Pete is especially grateful for before he leaves Diamond City the next morning. He knows roughly where the Castle is from Diamond City - south around the center of Boston towards the southside checkpoint and then due east to the coast. The injury to his stomach is still pink and tender so he makes sure to give himself one final Stimpack injection before he sets out just in case - there’s no sense in setting out alone at anything less than one hundred percent.

He even walks with Pete to the Diamond City gates, which makes Pete feel like he could just run straight across the Commonwealth to the Castle like he had when he dreamt about running to Bunker Hill to find Patrick.

Thinking of Patrick, his hallucination has still not made an appearance. Maybe he’s completely vanished back into Pete’s dreams again. He can only hope, even though he kind of misses him.

“You’ll come back soon, yes?” Arturo asks him as they stand by the statue in the small square outside the gate, “You should meet the rest of your family - My Nina would love an Uncle.”

“Are you sure you want me as your daughter’s Uncle?” Pete asks, but he doesn’t mean it with quite as much self-hatred as he would have done a few days ago.

“My wife was an only child,” Arturo says with a wave, “Any Uncle is a good Uncle, even one who might have made some poor decisions in the past.”

“Do you think she’d like to come to a wedding?” Pete asks.

Arturo looks at him with a pleased smile, “Ah,” he says indulgently, “A Bridesmaid, yes?”

Pete licks his lips, “More of a… Grooms…maid?” he says slowly, “His name is Patrick.”

“Ha!” Arturo says, sounding like the Dugout barman, and clapping him cheerfully on the back, “We shall look forward to it. Any excuse for a new dress.”

“Thank you,” Pete says, “For everything.”

“It’s nothing,” Arturo says, “Now, when you see him again, say hello to Andy for me.”

“I’m sure he’ll be at the wedding too,” Pete replies, “Just as soon as we’ve finished our business, we’ll be back.”

Arturo nods, “In that case, safe travels,” he says, wrapping Pete in a startling, but very welcome hug, “I shall see you soon.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Pete says honestly, “The very fucking second, believe me.”

So, he thinks, setting off - a little south, then a lot east.

They follow the drips closer to the small settlement, but just before they reach it the trail ends in a worryingly large pool of dried blood surrounded by more than one scuffed set of footprints, a couple of empty Stimpacks and a used Jet canister.

“Fuck,” Patrick says, “Fuck…” and takes off for the station as fast as he possibly can. Macready and Horowitz can follow him if they want, but he’s getting to the bottom of this once and for all.

The two settlers are weeding their Tato crop when he flat-out runs into their farm. The man has his gun up and pointing at him before Patrick can start talking. He raises his hands as Mac and Horowitz jog into the settlement behind him.

“Hey, hey, man,” Horowitz says, waving at the man, “It’s all good. Minuteman business!”

“Hello, Levi,” the man says, lowering his gun slightly, “What’s all this about?”

“Have you had any visitors recently?” Patrick demands, “Someone badly hurt? A Gunner, maybe?”

The man narrows his eyes as the woman comes to stand beside him. “Why do you want to know?” he asks guardedly.

“They might be a friend,” Patrick tries, “Please? Did you see anyone?”

“Might have done,” the man allows.

“Was he… were they a Gunner?” Patrick asks twitchily, “About my height, slim, tanned, black hair? His name is Pete.”

“Pete?” the female settler says, sounding surprised, “That was…” she starts, but the man elbows her and she stops talking.

“That was what?” Patrick isn’t above begging, “Please, if you know who I’m talking about, then he’s my friend. I have to know if he’s alright.”

Horowitz steps forward, “It’s important,” he says, “Seriously, Trent, Amy - if you know anything, can you tell us?”

“Well,” the woman says, “We recently had a few visitors, you know? They just needed somewhere to stay for the night - paid us for a spot by the campfire.”

Patrick is about ready to grab both the settlers by the shoulders and shake them until they answer the fucking question.

“They might have found someone like who you’re looking for,” she continues, “He’d been shot.”

He already knows that Pete - if that really is who they’ve been following - has been hurt. Hell, they’ve found a little too much blood for comfort, even, but the confirmation makes his knees go a little wobbly. If Pete had been hurt badly, and the people who found him thought he was a Gunner, then there’s no telling what they might have done.

“Is he okay? The guy who was hurt.” Macready asks for him, “What happened?”

“The other visitors recognized him,” the man adds, “They gave him some of their Stimpacks. Healed him up.”

“They recognized him?” Patrick asks, trying to think about people who could possibly know Pete well enough to help him, “Are your friends Minutemen?”

“No,” the man says shortly, “They weren’t Minutemen. They always say they’re traders - they’ve been through here before, so we trusted them. Like Amy said, they spotted this guy - he wasn’t dressed like one, but he had one of those Gunner tattoos - and said they recognized him. Took him with them when they left.”

“And he was alright? When was this!?” Patrick demands, “Where did they go?”

Horowitz coughs and Macready lays a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder, pulling him back slightly. Oh, yeah. Maybe he shouldn’t be quite so accusing towards the only people who could help him find out what happened to Pete.

The man is starting to look a little huffy, but Horowitz says, “Hey man, look, he’s just worried about his friend, yeah?”

It’s a little embarrassing to realize that he’s so worked up that an Ex-Raider is smoothing over feathers that Patrick has ruffled. He shoves his hands into his pockets, “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“He’ll live,” the woman sniffs, “Just about. They said they were going to Diamond City yesterday morning.”

Patrick resolutely doesn’t think further on that ‘Just about’, and blows out a long, relieved breath instead.

“Diamond City,” Mac repeats, “That’s good news, isn’t it Patrick?”

That makes both the settlers look surprised, and they peer at him with interest, “Oh, you’re Patrick?” the woman says, “He was looking for you, I think? He kept saying your name, at least.”

Well, at least that means they’re definitely on Pete’s trail.

“Thank you,” Horowitz says, “You’ve been very helpful. Come on then - Diamond City. Let’s go and find him.”

Captain Juarez meets them in the Castle's parade ground as they troop in through the makeshift gate. “All good?” she asks, looking Joe up and down, “One of our squads came back this morning with a couple of bits of scavenged Armor if you want to see if they'll fit? They're not much use to us otherwise, so you might as well get as complete a set as you can.”

“Awesome,” Andy says cheerfully, “Is Patrick back yet?”

Juarez shakes her head, “Not yet,” she replies, “But we had a few reinforcements from the Estate arrive earlier and they said that he and Mister Macready got there alright and went off to check out the Gunner's Plaza first thing this morning.”

Joe blows out a breath, “Well, that's something at least,” he replies.

“Alright,” Andy nods, “Come on Joe, let's get to the armory and I'll take a look at the bits. Once Deacon has dropped off his packages you can take him and Deacon to Garvey and explain the plan.”

To say Captain McDonald is unimpressed by Tom would be an understatement of such gigantic proportions that Joe can't quite bring himself to think it. His mustache bristles in silent outrage every time Tom opens his mouth.

“So, like, yeah man,” Tom is telling Major Garvey, “Like, so, this baby says that the Brotherhood dudes fly over to that yard on the regular to check it out, so, like, if we just go there we could wait for one to turn back up. A bit of, you know, ‘pew-pew-pew’ and we can get our hands on one of those ‘birds.”

Joe has to stare at his shoes. Next to him, Hancock’s shoulders are shaking silently and he knows that if he catches sight of either his, Deacon’s or Ferguson’s expressions he’ll start laughing.

“Right…” Garvey says slowly, sounding a little like he’s on the brink of laughing himself. “Well, that all sounds like a good plan…”

“Captain Ferguson has the explosives ready and packed for you,” Captain Juarez says, sounding amused.

Joe shakes himself, “Great,” he tries, “Sounds great. We’ll, uh, get some sleep and head out in the morning? No sense in hanging around, is there?”

Major Garvey sighs, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I hope you are all okay with taking this on. We’re mustering for our final push against the Gunners and don’t have the troops to spare for you.”

“If we assume the Brotherhood have wiped out whatever hostiles are at the scrapyard in order to scavenge there, then we just need to take out one squad of soldiers,” Joe says, “Once we have the Vertibird we won’t need many people - Me, Tom and one other maybe?”

“Just take out one squad of soldiers?” Hancock echoes, “Sure.”

Joe shrugs, “If we get there first, dig in, we should be able to do it.”

“Should,” Deacon and Captain McDonald say at the same time.

“See, Major!?” McDonald continues, “You’re planning on leaving something so important to these people?”

Garvey pinches the bridge of his nose, “Alright,” he says, “Look, do not - I repeat, do not - take on the Brotherhood if you aren’t confident that you’ll be able to get hold of the Vertibird. You’ll need to take out the squad, capture the Vertibird and fly it up to the blimp before the Brotherhood can work out what’s happening. We absolutely cannot allow them to realize what our plans are. If you don’t think you can, fall back from the scrapyard and wait. After we have finished our push south, the Minutemen might be able to spare you some troops to try again. I know I’m not your Commanding Officer, and that none of you are Minutemen - but right now, you’re our contractors, alright? Please don’t risk it.”

Joe sketches out a shitty salute, “Sure thing, dude,” he says, just to watch Captain McDonald twitch.

“How’s it going?” Joe asks Andy as he wanders into the armory. He’s stripped all the pieces off the Power Armor and is tinkering with them at a workbench.

“Not bad,” Andy replies, straightening up, “I think you’ll have a mostly full suit - No left leg, but the rest is all there. I’m just patching up these holes…”

“Ah,” Joe says, leaning up against the bench, “You spotted those, did you?”

“What happened?” Andy sighs, “It looks nasty, Joe - are you alright?”

Joe shrugs, “Mutant in Boston took offence to me trying to find Goodneighbor,” he explains, “That’s how I wound up with Hancock - he helped me get patched up. I’m fine, honestly, look…” he turns and hikes up his shirt to show Andy his back.

Andy rubs a hand over his skin just above the waistband of his pants. His hand is warm and rough and makes Joe shiver.

“Joe,” he says, “This could have been bad.”

“It was just shrapnel,” Joe points out, “It wasn’t deep. Hancock’s friend Farenheit picked out all the bits and gave me a Stimpack. I’m as good as new, I promise.”

Andy’s hand shifts to curve around his waist. Joe smiles and twists back towards him, “Hi there,” he says in what he hopes is a flirty tone, “Come here often?”

Andy laughs, “Stop that,” he says, but keeps his hands on Joe’s skin, “I need to get this done. How did it go with Garvey?”

“Pretty good,” Joe says, allowing him to change the subject, “We just need to be sure we can take out the whole squad before attacking.”

“Makes sense,” Andy nods, “I just wish Patrick was able to come with us - or Macready even.”

“Mmm, a sniper would definitely help,” Joe agrees, “But we’re not exactly shabby ourselves - with the power Tom gets from the rifle of his he could probably even make it shoot through Power Armor.”

Andy pulls away from him with a gratifyingly regretful expression, “Well, there’s some more good news,” he says, nodding to a crate in the corner of the room and turning back to the piece of Armor, “Have a look in there - they brought it back with these pieces.”

Intrigued, Joe heads over and crouches down to open the crate. Inside, nestled among boxes of ammo and a stack of fusion cells, is a pile of material - brown and red and awfully, awfully familiar. Joe rears back as though the box is full of Radscorpions, tipping back off his heels and landing on the dusty floor.

“Woah!” Andy says, startled, dropping his tools, “You alright?”

Joe swallows loudly, “Uh,” he tries, “Yeah, yeah… just… a bit surprised.” He pushes himself back up onto his knees and shuffles back over to the crate. Yup, it’s still there. He makes himself reach out and touch it. The thin red leather is slightly sticky and worn.

Andy’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Joe,” he says in his lovely, calm voice, “It's all okay.”

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, glancing up over his shoulder at Andy, who shakes his head.

“It was part of the haul the Minutemen brought back with the Armor pieces,” he says, “I assume it's part of some kind of Brotherhood uniform…”

Joe takes a deep breath and pulls the bundle out of the crate, spreading it out over his lap, running his hands over the folds. “Not everyone in the Brotherhood of Steel is a soldier,” he says, “You know I wasn't. Some of us - them - were Scribes. It's their stupid fancy word for anyone who isn't just stomping around in Armor. Scientists and engineers - historians even. This is… this is what they'd wear. It's what I wore. I traded mine to some dude in some town years ago for a bed and a meal. I guess I never thought I'd see one again…” he lets out an hysterical giggle that makes Andy's hand tighten on his shoulder.

“I was… I was thinking about it earlier, actually - on my way down to Goodneighbor in the Armor. Weird.”

“You don't have to wear it,” Andy points out.

“I, uh, think I might have to actually,” Joe says, his mind whirring with updating plans, “I mean, this is pretty good actually - I was trying to think about how to get Tom to dock with the blimp with only one disguise between us. This way he can wear the Armor and I can sneak around in this. Better than trying to surreptitiously plant explosives in a massive metal can, I guess.”

He clambers to his feet and separates the pants and undershirt from the red leather of the robe, shoving his head through the opening at the bottom and pulling it down. “There,” he says once it's properly situated, “What do you think?”

Andy takes a deep breath and looks him up and down, “You look…” he starts as Joe does a showy twirl, “You look… sad,” he says eventually.

Joe blinks at him, “Oh,” he manages, “I don't feel especially sad… I mean, not more than usual, I guess.”

Andy cups his hands around Joe's face and kisses him, “One day,” he says once they separate, “One day, when we're all back together on our farm, I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you're never sad again.”

“Right back at you,” Joe says, still slightly breathless from the kiss.

Andy smiles at him, “Take that ridiculous thing off,” he says, fondly, “Captain Juarez says that we can spend the night in that diner just outside if we like - the Minutemen will be on guard for us.”

“Oh really?” Joe says, “And why on earth would she think we wouldn't want to spend the night in a crowded dormitory listening to Hancock snoring?”

“Well, I mean,” Andy says, shoving Joe's head back through the robe's neck hole, “We could always invite him too - arrange that threesome, you know?”

As soon as his arms are free, Joe makes a grab for Andy's ass, “Absolutely not,” he growls playfully, “I'm not sharing you with anyone…”

Chapter Text

“Arturo seems nice,” Pete tells Patrick as he weaves his way across the tops of some burnt out cars littering what used to be a parking lot. It's the most direct route towards the Castle and the only things that want to kill him are a handful of Radroaches who are following him at ground level as he hops from hood to trunk. He might have to kill them eventually, but for now it might be prudent to conserve what little ammo he has.

Patrick doesn't answer him, which isn't surprising since he's not there, but Pete guesses he's in the habit now. He doesn't know if it makes him more or less crazy, talking to someone he knows isn't there rather than someone he thinks is, but he's feeling so much better than he has been that he makes a conscious decision not to dwell on it.

Everything is looking up, Pete considers - he's full of delicious noodles, his gunshot wound is healing nicely, the sun is shining, he's on his way to see Joe and Andy and maybe even Patrick, and he has a lovely warm feeling that comes from the thought that someone, somewhere exploded Commander Wes into a shower of manky, unwashed chunks.

“I never even thought I had any family out here,” he continues conversationally, “Can you believe I never even thought about Aunt Faye once Kingston found me…”

An especially large Radroach chitters at him, and Pete pulls out his new pistol just in case.

“And the fact that he knows Andy, well… that's just crazy, isn't it?” he takes a careful running jump to clear an especially large gap and scrambles his way back onto the large, wide, blackened frame of what must have been an impressive machine before the bombs dropped.

“Do you think that the Real Patrick will be happy?” he asks, climbing over the remains of the passenger cabin. Below him, the Radroach is starting to sound amusingly annoyed.

“I think he will,” Pete answers himself cheerfully, “I think he’ll be really pleased. I think he’ll be exactly the kind of Uncle who’ll spoil Nina like anything.” He finally reaches the end of the parking lot. Two of the four Radroaches cluster around the car making gross clicky noises while the others are a little way off investigating some kind of muddy puddle. Ugh, he’s going to have to deal with them before he can jump down and keep going towards the old checkpoint. He glances down thoughtfully at his boots. One of the Roaches headbutts the car’s wheel arch.

“Might as well try, eh?” he asks Patrick, cocking his gun before jumping off the car roof and landing on the closest two of the mutated bugs. They splatter satisfyingly between the cracked asphalt and the soles of his boots and Pete shoots the other two as they approach. He blows the faint wisp of smoke away from the barrel and grins to himself.

Yeah, Pete feels just so much better today.

“Okay,” Andy says, gently arranging the blocks of explosive from Ferguson in his bag, “Have we got everything? Tom, do you want to wear the Armor? Get a feel for it?”

Joe, Hancock, Deacon and Tom all exchange looks. Joe is leaning up against the empty Power Armor.

“Hell yeah!” Tom says gleefully, “Awesome!”

“Alright,” Major Garvey says, “Good luck, Gentlemen. The Minutemen will be heading out in a week or so for our own mission, so we might not be here when you come back depending on how long you're away- but I'm sure we'll know when you complete the task. It should be an excellent fireworks show. Captain McDonald will remain here heading up a skeleton force, and I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you return safely.”

For his part, Captain McDonald doesn't look as though he's been particularly delighted by anything a day in his entire life and is completely unconvinced that Andy and Joe will be able to do anything to change that.

“Good luck to you too, then,” Joe says as Deacon and Hancock gently insert Tom into the huge metal suit, “I guess this is the final push, yeah?”

Garvey nods, “Guess so,” he sighs.

“Thanks for all this,” Joe tells him.

Major Garvey laughs, “I was going to say the same thing to you,” he says, “Without you boys we wouldn't have been able to consider doing this - and God only knows what sort of trouble we'd be in with the Gunners and the Brotherhood. I’m with Captain Juarez, I can’t wait to be able to thank Mister Wentz for everything he’s done in person.”

Joe squirms awkwardly at that, “Thanks,” he says eventually.

“We should set up another series of incredibly boring meetings as soon as we’re all back here,” Deacon says to him with a wink at Andy, “If you feel like repaying that debt.”

Garvey peers at him as though he still isn’t one-hundred percent sure who Deacon is, “Right,” he says, “Sure.”

Anxious to get things moving, Andy claps his hands together, “Alright then,” he says jovially, “Let’s get to work.”

Half an hour later Joe leans to the side and says, “Let’s get to work? Really?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy sighs, “I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

Joe laughs, “No, no, you sounded very cool.”

Andy elbows him in revenge.

“Do you want to get any scavenging done?” Deacon calls back from his spot in the middle of their little group, one hand still carefully tucked around Tom’s Power Armor clad arm, keeping him from running off, “These buildings look pretty open.”

“Nah,” Joe calls back, “I think we’re good.”

“Actually,” Andy replies, “Maybe we could check back in at the Gunner base we took out - there might be a few things we can scavenge from the remains of the Brotherhood.”

Deacon waves back at him in agreement.

“Jesus,” Hancock says, “You boys really did a number on this place…”

He’s not wrong. The low building formerly inhabited by the Gunners is basically just a set of crumbling exterior walls, blackened with fire. Joe is very impressed.

“We dropped a Vertibird on it,” Andy says, “I don’t think there’s gonna be much left…”

Joe climbs up the rubble of one of the walls and surveys what remains of the Gunner base. “Uh, yeah, we’re not gonna get much out of this place unless anyone is collecting burnt rocks.”

“Yo, what about this dude?” Tom calls from around the front of the remains of a truck.

Everyone turns. “Your boy missed one,” Deacon explains from over Tom’s shoulder, “Might be useful?”

Joe heads over, peering round the vehicle. There are two corpses lying on the ground, almost underneath the back of the truck. One of them is a Gunner, pocketed combat pants and a shirt that’s now more hole than fabric. The other one is a Brotherhood soldier, wearing a strange olive green jumpsuit covered in several pieces of ruined combat armor.

They look down at the dead body. It’s been there for almost a week,

“I’m not wearing that,” Hancock says, “In case you were thinking of asking for volunteers, I mean.”

Andy sighs.

“I’ve worn worse,” Deacon offers, “If you want - we can wash it?”

“How many people do you think should be on the Vertibird?” Andy asks Joe.

Joe shrugs, “Three of us should be fine. Deacon can come and babysit Tom, I guess? You and Hancock can wait here for us - or head back to the Castle if you like?”

Andy gives him a very long look. “Joe,” he says, “Do you imagine that I’m about to stay here and watch you fly up to that fucking blimp without me?”

Because he is, fundamentally, a complete moron, Joe’s immediate, unthinking, knee jerk reaction is to say, “Don’t be stupid - you’re absolutely not coming with me,” which he realizes is a mistake as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Andy’s expression goes very flinty and cold.

“Oh wow,” Deacon says flatly, “Would you look at that… thing over there… Tom, Hancock, why don’t we go check it out right now?”

Joe, in the presence of Andy’s terrifyingly unimpressed face, almost begs them to stay, but they scurry off too quickly to stop.

“Um,” he says. Fuck, Andy has his hands on his hips - never a good sign.

“You were going to go up there on your own, were you?” Andy asks, deceptively mildly.

“Tom was going to come too,” Joe protests, “He needs to fly the…”

“You think I’m not going to get on that fucking Vertibird with you?” Andy continues over the top of him.

“You think I’m going to let you go up there with me?” Joe shoots back.

“You’re not going to… let me?” Andy replies slowly.

“Um,” Joe says, now very aware of the metaphorical alarms this conversation is producing, “It’ll be very dangerous,” he tries, taking an unconscious step backwards.

Andy’s eyes narrow. Joe could kick himself. On reflection, that was probably the stupidest argument he could have tried. “Yes,” he says shortly, “It’ll be very dangerous, Joseph.”

Uh-oh. The full name is basically a giant blinking neon sign to let Joe know that he might have made a massive mistake. He attempts to perform some kind of damage control. “I just want to keep you safe, sweetheart,” he tries.

Andy blinks at him in what looks like disbelief. Alright, so maybe the pet name was a little too much.

“Sweetheart,” Andy echoes skeptically.

Well, at least if Andy is focussing on the terrible nickname part of this conversation then Joe can probably defer the Vertibird argument for a while, “Honey?” he says, “Darling? Pookie?”

In any other situation, the baffled look on Andy’s face right now would make Joe crack up.

He gives it one last try. “Sport?” he ventures hopefully.

“I…” Andy says, sounding nonplussed. “I can’t even be mad at you right now.” It sounds like it’s a surprise.

Joe grabs the opportunity with both hands and holds out his arms, “I don’t want to put you in danger,” he says, approaching Andy with a view to hugging him.

Andy sighs and takes a step forward, folding himself into Joe’s embrace. “It works both ways, idiot,” he tells him, somehow making the insult sound more loving than any of Joe’s terrible ones. “I don’t want you to be in danger either. I am just trying not to let it show - because I know that if I start thinking about it, I’ll want to drag you back to the Castle and find a nice secure room I can keep you in so I know you’re safe.”

“Ditto,” Joe tells him, “I think I’m just worried about worrying about you while I’m wandering around planting explosives.”

Andy almost laughs at that, “Do you have any idea how frantic I’ll be if you fly off there without me?” he asks, “You leave me here with Hancock and he’ll probably throttle me out of annoyance.” he sounds a little hysterical.

“Okay,” Joe soothes, “Okay… We’ll both go. It’s okay…”

They approach the scrapyard slowly and not for the first time, Joe curses the fact that Patrick isn’t there. It’s insane how much easier having a world-class sniper on your team makes traveling the wide open Wasteland.

There’s a festering pile of dead Super Mutants in a neat stack close to the main gate of the associated house.

The pre-war house is relatively intact and they edge their way inside.

“Well, not bad,” Joe says, looking around. There’s holes in the walls, sure, but the roof is still keeping most of the rain off and there’s still some intact furniture. As far as places in the Commonwealth go, it’s practically a palace.

He encourages Tom to walk the Power Armor up to a corner and explains where the switch to open the back of the suit is so that he can climb out. Tom grins at him when he manages it, “Awesome, dude,” he says, “That was great.”

Joe pats him on the back and briefly considers removing the suit’s fusion core, but then decides that if they get attacked it’ll be better to have it powered up and ready to use. He turns back to the assembled group.

“Shall we hole up here then?” Hancock asks, “Wait for our guests?”

“Guess so,” Andy replies, dropping his bag, “Who wants first watch?”

Everyone sort of eyes each other waiting for someone else to blink first. Joe does the mental math and works out that if he takes his turn now, he’ll be able to get most of a night’s sleep and wake up refreshed sometime after someone else has already cooked breakfast. “I’ll go,” he volunteers selflessly.

Andy gives him a suspicious look, but Joe just grins innocently and heads up the half-collapsed staircase to check out the top floor of the building.

A little while later, after a not inconsiderable amount of rearrangement of furniture, Joe has a way of climbing up through a hole in the roof to camp out on top of the veranda. From up here he’ll be hidden from most enemies on the ground, while also able to jump back down inside easily if he hears the sound of an oncoming Vertibird.

He leans up against the slope of the roof and checks his pistol over. He’s still excellently set for ammo thanks to Hancock’s contributions, which is always a nice position to be in, but he knows that if he has to use it for anything except getting control of a Vertibird then everything will have gone terribly wrong. There’s no way he’ll be able to shoot his way off of that fucking blimp even if he had every last scrap of ammo in the Wasteland - If the Brotherhood see through their disguise then he and everyone he takes with him will be full of more laser holes than those Gunners back at that last base before he’ll be able to use more than half a fusion cell of his own.

It’s a strange feeling, honestly - a mixture of impatience, excitement and terror. He has no illusions that flying a Vertibird up to the blimp to blow it up will absolutely be the most dangerous thing he has ever done in his entire life and not just because he’s still not one hundred percent convinced that Tom can actually fly one successfully. And on top of that he's managed to get guilted into bringing the most important person in the entire Wasteland with him on what he is trying his absolute best not to think of as a suicide mission…

However, if they manage it - if they can get their hands on a flying machine, fly it, plant the explosives, manage to escape and set them off - then they’ll be free of the Brotherhood for good. Even if they build another one, this one took a decade to get in the air, so even if they’ve already learnt all their lessons, by the time they get themselves back to the Commonwealth the Minutemen should be so dug in that it would be a whole different political landscape.

Joe feels very aware of his own mortality all of a sudden, way more than he ever has before - more than in the DC tunnels with Sally, more than during the entire long walk north, more than fighting the Gunners to rescue Pete back in Connecticut. Fuck, but he'd really like to see Pete and Patrick again before he leaves - just in case it turns out that he should have said goodbye. He wishes they had a timeline for the Vertibird so he could count down the hours until he has to kiss Andy for what might be the final time so he can make it the best fucking kiss of his life.

Hell or glory, Joe thinks. It'll be one or the other.

For now though, the Wasteland is quiet - the only sounds he can hear comes from the low conversations from below him. It's a clear night, and he's surrounded by almost all his friends who are as safe and dry as he can make them. He can't dwell on the future when the present is so nice.

Pete gets a little bit lost after his epic Radroach fight and stumbles into a slightly more epic Molerat fight after he climbs a hill in order to get his bearings and walks into a nest of the fucking things. Fortunately, the top of the hill is also home to a radio mast - not quite as impressive as the one at the farm, but scrambling up it still provides him a useful way of staying out of reach of their big yellowish teeth while he takes pot-shots with his new gun.

After the powerful kick of his much-missed .44’s it feels a little like trying to take them out with a peashooter, but enough 10mm ammo unloaded into something will always kill it eventually, so after several precarious reloads he eventually manages to get rid of the infestation, and, as an added bonus, provide himself with a tasty dinner.

“Is this the radio tower by the Minuteman estate?” he asks Patrick, who still isn’t there, while skinning one of the tastiest looking Molerats.

“I think we might have gone a little too far south,” Pete adds thoughtfully, dicing up some chunks of meat, “We should head a tiny bit north towards the Southside checkpoint to get through to the Castle.”

“What do you think Joe and Andy are up to?” he asks him as he collects a small pile of wood to start a fire, “Do you reckon they’re still in the Castle?”

“I wonder where Real Patrick is,” he says as he turns the skewer of Molerat over the scrappy fire, “I bet he’s out here somewhere being very brave.”

“I can’t wait to see everyone,” he explains to Patrick as he tucks into his dinner, “I’m gonna be incredibly embarrassing, I imagine.”

By the time he's finished eating both the portions of Molerat that he accidentally cooked, the sun is getting very close to the horizon. The radio mast is surrounded by a mostly collapsed chain link fence, so the only way it'll make for a secure camp spot is if Pete somehow manages to create some kind of impromptu sling halfway up the tower. He feels like a complete idiot for letting it get so late without having anywhere to bed down, but in his defence he can probably count the nights he's spent alone in the Wasteland without having to take his shoes off and he's still faintly impressed that he managed to remember that the trauma-hallucination of his fiance would make a spectacularly ineffectual look-out. He gets the feeling that before he'd been shot he was so fucked up that he probably would have just gone to sleep and left a completely imaginary Patrick to it, Molerats be dammed.

Sighing, he reclimbs the tower and peers off to the east, looking for somewhere slightly more secure to spend the night.

There's a whole mess of buildings - both pre and post-war - and a maze of cargo containers a mad dash away across relatively open fields and Pete takes the time to watch them intently for any sign of movement.

“It looks pretty quiet, do you think we can make it?” he asks Patrick after a while.

Patrick, obviously, doesn't reply.

“I don't think there's anything there,” he muses, “And we can always bunk in one of the containers.”

He climbs down a few feet and then jumps the rest of the way, immediately regretting it when a bolt of pain shoots up from his belly. “Ugh,” he says, rubbing at the spot where he'd been shot, “I'm really not looking forward to Real Patrick noticing this scar. I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Alright then,” he announces to nobody, “Let's check it out. If it doesn't look promising, we can just keep going to the Castle. We've had worse nights.”

Pete picks up his bag, kicks out the remains of the fire and sets off east.

The walk is a little hair-raising. As soon as it gets dark, the entire Commonwealth seems to conspire to make weird, creepy noises just on the edge of Pete's hearing. It's a symphony of cracky dry twig sounds, suspicious earthy scrabbling and pitchy whines that - in his apparently vivid imagination - could equally be an Alpha Deathclaw considering how tasty it thinks Pete looks or the first charge of some kind of prototype Brotherhood laser-murder-cannon designed exclusively to reduce people like him to small piles of gray ash.

Pete's estimation of Joe and his multi-year solo trip grows with every step he takes and he resolves to himself that the very moment he finds his little family again he'll never set a single foot outside a friendly settlement without at least one other heavily armed person next to him.

By the time he's getting close to the house he'd spotted, it's pretty much fully dark. It's a big, sprawling affair that puts him horribly in mind of the one they had been caught in by Commander Kingston all those months ago, with a double stacked veranda and a garden edged with a faded, broken white picket fence.

He peers at it from around a nearby tree. It's quiet. He takes a step out from cover. Nothing happens.

Pete blows out a breath, “What do you think?” he asks Patrick in a whisper, “Safe?”

There's no reply. He wishes desperately that Patrick was really here. He'd do anything to stop feeling so alone.

Joe is just considering asking either Hancock or Deacon to take over guard duty so he can drag Andy off to a secluded corner when a shadow disengages from behind one of the trees at the edge of the property. He slowly flattens himself down against the roof of the veranda and charges his pistol.

The shadow takes a few steps towards the gate to the garden. Joe can't make out any features, but they’re holding some kind of gun by their thigh, barrel still pointing down at the ground. He clicks off the safety to his own pistol and sights down the barrel.

He thinks briefly of getting the attention of everyone in the house below him, but the shadow is so close that anything he does will also catch their attention too.

It’s definitely a person rather than any kind of mutated creature and if they’re wearing armor then it’s just leather or combat rather than a Brotherhood powered set, and they seem to be alone unless the others they’re with are much, much better at hiding.

They creep closer, and Joe’s finger tightens on the trigger, his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. He squints down at the figure. They don’t have their gun raised as though they’re about to start shooting, and if they’re here to start something then they’re severely under equipped. The house Joe is sitting on is large enough to house a decent squad and the scrapyard behind him could be concealing an entire Raider gang. For a moment he considers just shooting first and not bothering with any questions - and if it was around a year ago - still travelling on his own with nobody to answer to - he probably would have done.

As it is, he thinks again about Andy’s disappointed face and the very certain way he stands with his hands on his hips that makes Joe feel like a ten year old Squire caught doing something particularly stupid, and adjusts his aim to fire a warning shot over the figure’s head. The sound of the discharging laser will probably catch everyone’s attention downstairs and hopefully at least give their visitor something to think about.

The shadow reaches the gate. Joe fires.

It’s evening by the time they make it to Diamond City. All three of them are exhausted following their ridiculously early start and non-stop chase around the Commonwealth. Macready is stumbling and yawning almost constantly and even Horowitz looks like he’s flagging badly. Patrick himself is basically forcing himself to continue on with visions of Pete's smile, digging the point of his nail into the palm of his hand every time his eyes threaten to close.

“Who are you going to ta…uhhhhh…lk to?” Macready mumbles, leaning against the closest wall.

“Nick,” Patrick replies, “I mean, if anyone will know, it'll be him, won't it?”

Mac shrugs slowly.

“Do I need to be awake for this?” Horowitz asks blearily.

“No, no,” Patrick says, waving a hand towards the bar and their beautiful, comfortable, rentable beds, “You’ve done enough - Thanks for coming with me. I know neither of you signed up for any of this. I’ll go and see if Nick is around…”

Macready blinks at him slowly, “Do you get the feeling that we’re just going round and round in circles?”

Patrick tries to laugh, but it doesn’t come out right.

He hammers at the door of Nick’s Detective Agency until Nick yells, “Fuck off, we’re closed.”

“Nick! It’s Patrick - Mac’s friend. I need to talk to you!” Patrick calls back.

The door cracks open, and Nick’s yellow eye peers through the gap. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he sighs, “I’ll be glad when you all do whatever the hell you’re doing and leave me alone. Stop your screaming - you’re waking up the whole neighborhood.”

“More importantly, he’s waking up me,” Ellie says from behind Nick, “Let him in for God’s sake - you know what this is about. Let’s just get it out of the way and we can all go back to bed.”

Grumbling, Nick opens the door wider and lets Patrick slip inside. He’s holding a pistol loosely at his side and behind him, Ellie is standing with folded arms, her usually neatly tied back hair loose around her shoulders.

“Alright,” he says as Patrick closes the door, “To answer all your questions in one go - Yes, your boy was here yesterday. Yes, he already left first thing this morning. Yes, he said he was going to head for the Castle to look for Donnie and your other friend. Yes, he's armed and well kitted out for the trip. Yes, he’s as fine and dandy as he probably could be. Yes, he got shot, but he made it to Oberland Station and Donnie’s friend Corby patched him up for you. Yes, she's already left the City too. Did I miss anything?”

Patrick opens and closes his mouth several times, clutching for the back of Nick's client's chair. “Um,” he manages finally, a wash of relief so thick that he thinks he could cut it with a knife running through him, “No, no, I think that's everything,” then he lets out an involuntary hysterical giggling noise that he immediately resolves to never make again and slaps a hand over his mouth.

Nick, despite only having half a synthetic face, somehow manages to roll his glowing eyes.

Ellie yawns, “You might wanna talk to Arturo at the gun store in the market - he's probably got some interesting intel for you,” she adds, “But tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow,” Nick agrees, opening the door again, “Now fuck off, kid. Get some sleep, yeah? I imagine you'll be busy for a while.”

Patrick stumbles into the Dugout, which is empty apart from a different barman than last time arranging bottles behind the counter, a young woman sweeping and a dude dressed in leather armor face down and snoring on top of the abandoned pool table.

The barman looks up as he pushes his way through the doors and nods, “You Patrick?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, stumbling up to him, “My friends should have…”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man says, “You're sorted.” He digs around under the countertop for a second and emerges with a small brass key attached to a small, worn plastic Nuka-Cola bottle, “Here,” he says, “All paid for. You want a nightcap before I close up?”

Patrick considers this, rubbing the smooth surface of the keyring with his thumb. “Uh, please?” he asks, “Whisky?”

The barman nods, “Sure,” he agrees, turning to grab a bottle and a chipped shot glass. “On the house, yes?” he says, pouring, “You look like you need it.”

Patrick takes a deep breath, “Thanks,” he replies, “I think I totally do.”

Several things happen at once.

First, the bolt of red laser fire shoots over the top of their visitor’s head and hits a tree, making sparks fly and one of the dead branches to fall with a too-loud crash.

Second, the shadowy figure drops like a stone behind the fence, shrieking something that sounds awfully like Patrick’s name.

Third, there’s the sound of several people in the house below him all jumping to their feet in unison and the noise of two shotguns being cocked.

“Joe!” Andy’s voice comes up the stairs as a hiss that Joe can barely hear, “What’s happening?”

Joe doesn’t answer straight away, too busy squinting out at the garden and replaying the yell in his head. He doesn’t know if he’s right or if he’s just trying to convince himself because he wants to be correct so much.

Either way, the veranda isn’t all that high up, so he jumps, landing on his feet and dashing across the garden towards the dark, crumpled form.

“Pete!?” he calls, “Fuck, fuck, fuck… it better be you, dude!” Behind him, there are footsteps out onto the porch.

“Joe, please tell me you didn’t just jump off the roof!” Andy shouts.

The figure is wearing a ridiculous jacket, and his dark hair is messy and longer than Joe remembers, but as he gets closer to him, he raises his head and he finds himself looking at Pete’s wonderful, familiar face.

“Joe,” Pete says, his eyes are wide and a little glazed over, but so is his smile, “Hey, look, Patrick - It’s Joe!”

Joe manages to tear his gaze away from him to look around at the dark garden, “Patrick’s here?” he asks.

Pete climbs to his feet, dusting off the knees of his pants, “No,” he says, “He’s not - not really.”

Joe is just about to ask him what he means when Andy barrels into Pete, practically knocking him back over.

“Oh thank fuck,” Andy says, sounding very relieved.

There’s absolutely nothing that Joe can possibly do but fling himself into the hug.

Pete finds himself suddenly surrounded by people. Andy has his arms around his neck, beard tickling at his cheek, and Joe has his arms around both of them, feeling like he’s trying to squirm in between them.

They’re both repeating his name over and over and Pete feels a little overwhelmed. He’s very aware that he’s still holding his pistol at his side and he tries to at least flick the safety back on before this embrace gets even tighter.

“Hi,” he says into a mouthful of Andy’s hair, “Hi, wow. Oh Christ, it’s good to see you.”

“You all alright there?” someone drawls from behind them, “Or are we now looking at a foursome?”

“Fuck off, Hancock,” Joe says into Pete’s shoulder. It sounds like he’s crying.

“Woah, woah,” Pete says, trying to disentangle himself, “Are you alright?”

“Pete,” Andy says, holding onto him tighter.

“This is all very lovely,” Deacon’s voice comes from a distance, “But maybe we could take this touching reunion inside?”

“Please!” Pete squeaks as Andy’s arms somehow get even tighter.

The person Joe had called Hancock laughs - or at least Pete thinks he does - it’s really more of a crackly sort of sound like someone is walking over gravel. “Boys,” he says, “Let the little dude breathe.”

Pete would take offence at the ‘little dude’ comment, but he really is finding it a little tricky to inhale, so he lets it slide, patting Joe on the back with the hand that’s still holding the gun. “There, there?” he tries to soothe.

Andy’s grip around his neck slowly loosens, and he pulls away slightly so that Pete can see his face.

Trails of tears are evident on his face, creating clear paths down his grubby cheeks and soaking into his beard, “Andy!” he says, shocked, “You’re crying!”

Andy moves his hands to cup his face, only slightly hampered by Joe’s death grip around Pete’s waist and his face still mashed into the curve of Pete’s shoulder.

“I am so glad you’re alright,” Andy says, “You have no idea how worried we’ve all been.”

Joe makes a soggy, agreeing noise into Pete’s neck.

“Um,” Pete says, a little concerned, “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Deacon says, clapping his hands together, “Right, come on, inside. I’ll take Tom upstairs and we’ll keep watch.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the little dudes,” the Hancock guy says, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh again, “Just in case this gets interesting…”

“Stop it,” Joe mumbles, “You’re not helping.”

Andy is still staring at him as though he can’t quite believe he’s real, so it seems as though it’s up to Pete.

“I’m, uh, quite tired,” he suggests. He’s not all that tired in truth - yesterday’s nap and the miraculous full night’s sleep in a cosy, secure room without a radio set hissing or Commander Wes yelling has worked wonders for someone who has spent the last two months subsisting on approximately four hours a night - but it seems as though neither Joe or Andy are prepared to be the ones to move first.

Andy’s face falls as though Pete has announced that he’s dying. “Oh fuck, of course!” he says, “Come on, we’re all set up in the house - are you hungry? We’ve got some food. Joe, put Pete down, we need to get him inside…” He grabs the hand that isn’t holding the gun and Joe and tugs him forwards.

Joe doesn’t let him go, and Pete is forced to drag him along behind him as Andy pulls him up the garden and into the house.

He gets shoved down into a pile of sleeping bags in a corner of the house and Joe immediately arranges himself around him while Andy fusses around them both like someone’s mother, moving bags and tutting a lot.

“Right,” he says, “Food?”

“I’ve eaten already,” Pete says like it’s an apology, “I’m fine, really.”

“Right,” Andy says again.

Joe’s fingers are starting to dig into his stomach, uncomfortably close to the still-tender gunshot scar. He pets gently at his hair and says, “Joe… please don’t do that… Ouch.”

The sound of pain seems to electrify him and he sits bolt upright, almost clocking Pete on the underside of his chin with the top of his head.

“You’re hurt!” Andy cries, “Fuck, why didn’t you say? Joe, get out of the way - where did we put our Stimpacks?” while Joe fumbles desperately at Pete’s shirt, dragging it up.

As soon as the small rounded and still red wound to the left of his navel is revealed, both Joe and Andy freeze.

“Um,” Pete says.

“What. Is. That?” Joe says slowly.

“Um,” Pete says again, looking between them, both still staring fixedly at his bare torso. He glances over their shoulders to the guy he presumes is Hancock, who turns out to be a tall, amused looking Ghoul in a truly awesome outfit. Despite everything that is currently happening he experiences a sudden rush of covetousness for his amazing long red coat. Hancock grins back at him as though he knows exactly what Pete is thinking, and also - a little worryingly - like he's really enjoying the view of Pete's naked stomach, “Well… So, the thing is…” he starts.

Chapter Text

“I might have been shot while escaping the Plaza,” he tells them.

This seems to cause slightly more drama than Pete thinks it really requires, especially since he is currently walking, talking evidence that everything turned out alright in the end.

Andy swears loudly and dives for his bag, scrabbling at the pocket he keeps their medical supplies in and Joe says, “Oh my God, oh my God, lie down! Are you alright? Don't die! Can you feel your legs? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“That's how you test for concussion,” Hancock points out, apparently the only sane person in the room.

“I'm fine,” Pete reiterates, trying to pull his T-shirt back down, hindered by Joe's flapping hands, “Joe, Andy, calm down. I'm fine, really. I've already had enough Stimpacks!” He says the last part to Andy, approaching him with an uncapped needle and a determined expression.

Andy, for his part, falters slightly and lowers the Stimpack, “You're alright?” he asks, “Really?”

“Really,” Pete confirms.

“Really, really?” Joe asks, finally moving his hands enough to let Pete cover himself back up and feel a little less like a piece of meat laid out for Hancock’s personal enjoyment.

“Really, really,” Pete agrees.

“Really, really, really?” Hancock choruses sarcastically from the back of the room.

Pete squints at him dubiously, but Hancock just grins back as though he's told an excellent joke.

“What happened?” Andy says quietly, recapping the Stimpack.

Pete shrugs, “Like I said, got shot running north from the Plaza. Don't know who - probably wasn't Gunners though - I was in a pretty bad way for a bit, but I made it to that Tato farm on the train tracks and - oh, yeah, Andy, you'll never guess! Your friend Corby from Monson patched me up! She just happened to be going through that farm on the way into Boston - how lucky was that? It was a bit touch and go for a while there, but she gave me some Jet and Stimpacks and Radaway and got me to Diamond City…” he trails off at that point since neither of his friends are taking the news about Corby in the jolly, surprised way he was hoping.

Andy in particular is looking a little white-faced and drops out of his solicitous crouch to sit heavily on the floor in front of him. “Corby gave you Jet?” he asks, sounding strange.

“Uh-huh,” Pete agrees, “It was awful - Jet makes me feel like I’m going to explode.”

Andy swallows loudly, “And you’re really alright?” he asks again.

“Please don’t start that again,” Hancock says. He’s pulled a tube of pre-war chips out of one of his huge pockets and is now crunching his way through it as though he’s watching a particularly good show.

Pete ignores him. He reaches out and puts his hands on Andy’s knees, “I’m really alright,” he says, as firmly as he can manage while mentally adding ‘physically, at least…’ If one little gunshot is creating all this fuss, then letting Joe and Andy know that he might have gone a tiny bit mad probably won’t help.

Andy feels faint. Like he’d told Preston Garvey after the Bloodbug attack, Jet is the best thing to restart someone’s heart, but also a last resort. It’s an old Railroad trick, and if Corby had thought it necessary to give some to Pete then it means that his situation was pretty much hopeless any other way. He tries not to consider how close they must have come to losing him and resolves not to tell Joe what the Jet was used for unless he absolutely has to - he’s not keen on the idea of adding to Joe’s already guilty feelings.

Christ, but he’s happy to see Pete. He’d barely even let himself think about how they would find him too loudly, in fear of manifesting something more terrible.

He tries to take a deep, calming breath. Pete is here. He’s alive. He’s not raving mad - holding it together enough to try to console Andy, even. For now, everything seems to be okay.

“Alright, I believe you. You’re okay,” he says, more for his own and Joe’s benefit rather than Pete’s, “Patrick is looking for you. We saw him a few days ago and he was good. He’s with Macready - that merc he sent after Nick we met in Goodneighbor.”

Pete nods, “I know,” he says, smiling slightly, “Nick told me when I was in Diamond City.”

Andy nods, “Good,” he says, “The last we saw of him, he was heading out to investigate the Plaza after we saw the Brotherhood attack,” he adds, “He was going to stay the night in the Minuteman base close by.”

“Awesome,” Pete says, “So what the hell are you guys doing out here?”

“We’re on a mission,” Joe says, “We’re going to blow up the Brotherhood blimp for good.”

Pete looks impressed at this, “Wow, really? What’s your plan?”

Andy lets Joe explain, “Tom from the Railroad can help us track down one of their Vertibirds,” he says, “That’s why we’re here waiting for one. Once we’ve got one, Tom is gonna fly me…us… up to that thing and I’m gonna sneak on board in disguise and plant some explosives that the Minutemen gave us. Then it’s just a matter of back on the Vertibird, fly off, and then boom. No more Brotherhood assholes.”

Pete stares at him. “Can… uh, can Tom fly a Vertibird?” he asks.

Joe shrugs a shoulder, “How hard can it be?” he replies, which Andy privately thinks is just asking for trouble, “He’s good with tech - better than most of those dumb tin cans that seem to manage it, anyway.”

“O…kay…” Pete says slowly, “Sure.”

“Why don’t you stay here until we hook one?” Joe asks, “A couple of extra guns to take out the squad would be useful - and then you can head back to the Castle with Hancock. Safety in numbers, you know?”

Pete gestures down at the rusty gun beside him, “Only got this shitty thing,” he says, halfway between sad and angry, “Some dumb Gunners thought those pistols you got me were too nice for a Radioman. Sorry - I know you worked hard on them.”

“Well, we have some more good news for you, then.” Andy says, patting him on the shoulder, “Patrick has them.”

Pete blinks, “What?” he asks, “How?”

“He attacked some Gunners up by the farm,” Andy says, neatly glossing over the fallout of the fight, “They had them, so he took them back for you.”

“There were Gunners up by the farm!?” Pete says, alarmed, “I never heard that!”

Andy suddenly realizes exactly how much Pete has missed while he has been back with the Gunners, “Right,” he says, “Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

“So,” Pete says eventually, “Let me get this straight - Jake’s a Synth, but he’s safe. The Brotherhood attacked our farm, but everyone is safe. Patrick went on some kind of revenge mission and learnt how to take out fucking Vertibirds, but he’s safe as far as you know. Joe got attacked by a Supermutant, but he’s alright because he made friends with the Mayor of Goodneighbor, who hasn’t stopped following you around because he still thinks he can score some kind of threesome out of it. You’re planning some kind of final, ridiculous push against the guys who literally flew into the Commonwealth on a blimp and Andy’s stopped wanting to drown Deacon in a Brahmin trough every time he opens his mouth.”

“Pretty much,” Joe replies.

“Hell yeah,” Hancock leers, “I’m hopeful.”

“Not gonna happen,” Andy tells him.

“Well, now I’ve properly seen this little dude, maybe I’m not thinking about you two any more,” Hancock says with what Pete hopes is mock seriousness, “Your Minuteman friend is pretty sweet too, you know? Maybe I’m thinking I could get into the middle of some kind of Romeo and Juliet situation.”

“Extra not going to happen,” Joe says on Pete’s behalf, “Those two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

“Cheers,” Pete thanks him.

“Right,” Andy says, “Bedtime.”

Pete still isn’t particularly tired, but he knows better than to argue with that tone of Andy’s mothering voice, so he says, “Sure,”

“Here,” Hancock says, passing him a patched blanket, “You can have this for the night - I’ll go and take over from Deacon and Tom upstairs in a while.”

“Thanks,” Pete tells him, a little startled. He thinks he’s going to have to get used to people being nice to him again, which is an odd feeling that drags him right back to those first few, terrifying days after Joe had rescued him from bleeding out chained to a signpost - grateful and baffled and suspicious.

Andy fussily sweeps clear a space for Pete and pats it like he’s encouraging a puppy to settle down. Pete obediently lays down and flaps the borrowed blanket over his legs. Andy and Joe take up the spots either side of him and Hancock wanders over to one of the smashed front windows of the building, dragging one of the remaining dining chairs. He sits down and kicks his feet up onto the sill, rocking back on two chair legs in a movement that makes his fantastic coat flap out dramatically that Pete just knows is deliberate. He digs around in one of his top pockets for a moment before pulling out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and blowing the smoke out with a pleased sigh.

Pete closes his eyes, since he feels like it’s expected of him.

“So happy you’re okay,” Joe mumbles sleepily, “We were so worried about you. I thought I’d sent you off to get really fucked up…”

“I’m okay,” Pete tells him again, quietly, “I’m okay.” It’s only a small lie, he tells the Patrick inside his head, it’s not worth worrying Joe and Andy when they’re already planning something so dangerous.

He thinks he drifts for a little while, mainly thanks to the warm, calming presence of his two best friends either side of him, but he wakes up while it’s still dark and feels absolutely incapable of getting back to sleep. He lies on the floor for a few minutes, but eventually a combination of his insistent bladder and the looming, creepy bulk of the Power Armor in the corner forces him to get up, stepping over the sleeping bodies of Deacon and Tom, the weird Railroad guy. He feels a twinge of guilt as he realizes that he has absolutely no idea where he left the lovingly folded foil hat he’d been given all those months ago.

He wanders out onto the veranda and pees off the side onto a slowly decomposing pile of Mutant corpses. “Talk about a coincidence,” he tells Patrick as he shakes himself off, “Meeting the guys here - what are the fucking chances?”

Someone laughs close by, but by now he recognises it immediately as the Ghoul Hancock. He looks up and sees his legs dangling off the upper roof of the covered porch. Shrugging to himself, he wanders back inside and up the stairs, climbing the stacked pile of furniture until he can pop through a hole in the ceiling and join him.

“Hey, little dude,” Hancock says, grinning and pushing his weird pointed hat further back on his head with a crinkled finger, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Too much sleep, I think,” Pete sighs, sitting beside him on the edge of the roof, “I think I accidentally trained myself to function on, like, four hours a night.”

Hancock nods and then offers him a cigarette. Pete waves the pack away. “Clever, dude,” Hancock says approvingly, lighting his own, “They’re getting harder and harder to find these days.”

They sit companionably for a while, looking out over the quiet Wasteland.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hancock asks him eventually.

“Don’t you start,” Pete snaps, and then, “Sorry, sorry… I didn’t mean that. I’m fine. My main problem at the moment is that everyone keeps asking me if I’m okay every thirty seconds.”

Hancock laughs and flicks the end of his cigarette off the edge of the veranda, “Fair enough,” he says, “I guess I’d find that pretty fucking annoying too.”

“Mmm,” Pete says vaguely.

“You should cut them a break though,” Hancock says after a while, “They really were worried. Even had a bit of a fight over you at one point.”

Pete wrinkles his nose, “They fought over me?” he asks suspiciously, “Why?”

“Oh, dude, I only heard about all this from disgustingly blatant eavesdropping,” Hancock says, “But from what I heard, your Jake dude came with a story about how you were talking to people who weren’t there, and Joe was feeling guilty about sending you off to lose all your marbles, you know? Andy was trying to convince him it wasn’t his fault.”

“I didn’t lose all my marbles!” Pete says, slightly affronted.

Hancock gives him a slow side-eye, “Just some of them, then, yeah? ‘Cos you sure as shit weren't just talking to me down there…”

That hits a little close to home, and Pete squirms, “Well,” he prevaricates, “Maybe?”

The Ghoul twists to face him, “Come on then - despite appearances, I'm a pretty good listener - and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it might do you some good to unload on a relative stranger rather than add to their problems…” he says, tipping his head down towards the room where everyone is sleeping.

Pete has the sudden wish that he had a drink, and rubs his fingers through the complete disaster that is his hair. Hancock raises his eyebrows - or at least he raises the lumpy ridge of skin where his eyebrows once were - and, like he's read Pete's mind, digs into one of his huge, apparently bottomless pockets and pulls out a mostly-full bottle of something brown. He holds it out to him, “Here,” he says invitingly, “Have a go with that. It'll put hairs on your chest, guaranteed.”

Pete takes the bottle gratefully and takes a big mouthful.

After a little while, when he feels like he can speak again, he manages something that sounds like, “Haaaaa-gnhnargh…” and coughs, slapping himself on the sternum, “Jesus,” he says hoarsely, “Are you trying to get me drunk as fast as possible?”

“Would it work?” Hancock asks brightly.

“No,” Pete tells him shortly, “Not in the way you're thinking, anyway.”

Hancock just laughs, “Oh well,” he says, “Worth a try, I guess.”

They sit in silence for another few moments. Pete attempts another mouthful of the hell-booze and is disturbed to discover that now he's braced for it, it's actually quite nice. “You've met Patrick, haven't you?” he asks after a while.

“Yeah,” Hancock agrees, “Sweet little dude. You did well for yourself.”

“Fuck, I know right!?” Pete laughs, “He's amazing. Too good for the likes of me.”

“Eh, you seem like a sweet little dude too,” Hancock says kindly.

Pete pulls a face, “I don't know about that,” he says, waving a hand at his Gunner tattoo, “Just a lucky one, I think.”

“None of us can help things outside our control,” the Ghoul says wisely, “You’re doing the best you can, I bet. From the little I know of him, your Patrick wouldn't be hanging around if you weren't awesome.”

“I hallucinated him back in the Gunners Plaza,” Pete says frankly, “Like, full-on, carrying on conversations, couldn't tell he wasn't really there, hallucinations. I'm pretty sure I've gone absolutely, underpants-on-the-head, no coming back, ‘might as well lock me up without access to anything sharp’ insane. That's what I don't want to tell Joe and Andy.”

“Okay…” Hancock says, “Can you still see him? I mean, don't get me wrong, but you seem pretty good for a crazy person.”

Pete shakes his head, “He vanished after I got shot,” he says, “But I keep talking to him anyway.”

Hancock shrugs, “Not the strangest thing I've heard in the Wasteland. And hey, at least you know he's not there.”

“Mmmm,” Pete agrees, “I've been dreaming of him too.”

“Oh really?!” Hancock says gleefully, resting his elbow on his upraised knee and propping his chin up on his palm, “Tell me more!”

Pete sighs, “Not like that,” he tells him, and then adds “More's the pity…” morosely.

Hancock laughs again, “Look,” he says, “We're all lucky enough to be living in the remains of a nuclear hellscape. There are mutated green assholes and fucking Deathclaws and Ferals all over the place. Sometimes the rain irradiates you. There are Synths and Minutemen and dudes in Power Armor and all sorts. You think you're the weirdest thing in the Commonwealth? Not even slightly, alright? Look at me! I deliberately turned myself into a Ghoul for shits and giggles and then dressed up as a dude who's been dead for five hundred years. Patrick knows this. Joe and Andy know this too, and all of them were just waiting for you to get back to them. That's all I heard, you know? Worrying about you, hoping you were alright. You could be sitting around dribbling into your own hands, thinking you were fucking Grognak and they'd still love you.”

Pete blinks at him, “Um, thanks?”

“Little dude, as long as your hallucinations aren't telling you to, like, massacre all the settlers you come across, you're probably okay.”

“Um, no, they’re not,” Pete assures him.

“Well then,” Hancock says, “What does he say?”

Pete shrugs, “He didn’t seem to like me much at the start,” he tells him, “But I think he saved my life at the end…”

Hancock peers at him in interest. The sun is just starting to rise off to the east, and even through the low clouds it illuminates his odd expression. “He didn’t seem to like you?” he repeats. He doesn’t sound like he’s being judgemental, simply trying to understand.

“He would tell me how useless I was, how the Real Patrick wouldn’t want me any more, try and drive me crazier, I guess,” Pete tells him.

“Huh,” Hancock says, “But he saved your life?”

“I guess,” Pete sighs, “We were heading north - me and the Gunners who had run from the Plaza before the Brotherhood attacked - I was a little behind them, thank fuck - and he tells me to duck just before someone fired a rocket at us. I got shot anyway, obviously, but he was helping me by then… Jesus, this is just making me sound absolutely cracked, isn’t it?”

“I’ve heard weirder,” Hancock says mildly, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much - you seem pretty okay to me… What do you think made him change?”

“Mmm,” Pete agrees, oddly grateful that Hancock isn’t making a big deal of the ruinous state of Pete’s brain, “I think I just stopped fighting with him, honestly - I just gave up.”

“Nah,” Hancock grins, “Look at you - you haven’t given up shit, have you?”

Pete considers this. He thinks about how all he’s wanted for the last few months is simply to make it back to Patrick, to finally get married, to settle down on their farm for good. He remembers all the fights he’d had with Not-Patrick as he tried to convince Pete that he was alone, and realises that no, he never gave up that desire. It might have gotten muddled for a little while, but it never went away. “I guess not,” he says eventually.

“There, see?” Hancock says, clapping him on the back with one hand and retrieving his bottle with the other while Pete is concentrating on not falling off the roof, “You're fine, little dude. You've got your friends back, you'll get your man back, and who the hell cares if you talk to yourself now and again?”

“Hey man, what can I do for ‘ya? Got a pile of .308 if you're looking…” the guy behind the gun store counter greets him cheerfully, gesturing at the rifle slung over Patrick’s shoulder, “That's a nice piece.”

“Um,” Patrick says, “Thanks?” The market has only just opened and Mac and Horowitz are a little way away, sitting at the noodle counter eating breakfast, but he's feeling itchy with the fervent desire to get out of Diamond City and back onto Pete's trail. Ellie's comment about this dude, though, had been intriguing enough for him to check it out.

“So, .308?” the store owner grins, bending to rummage in a box under his counter.

“Ellie Perkins says you can tell me about Pete Wentz,” Patrick says quickly, like he's pulling a splinter and trying to get it out all at once.

The guy straightens up slowly, a new wary look in his eye replacing the pleasant customer service smile. As he watches, his eyes flick up to Patrick’s forehead for a second or two.

“Pete Wentz…” he says, “Maybe I can… but who are you to be going around asking questions like that?”

Patrick wipes his sweaty hands on the thighs of his pants and holds one out for the guy to shake, “I'm, uh, Patrick?” he announces, annoyed that it comes out as a question.

The guy's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, “Patrick?”

“Look,” Patrick says, feeling twitchy, “Ellie said I should talk to you. I'm looking for him, and I really want to get going because I haven't seen him in a very long time and…” he lowers his voice so he can't be overheard by any of the other settlers in the market, “He's my fiance, alright?”

The guy regards him steadily and then breaks out into a wide, strangely familiar grin. He finally takes hold of Patrick’s hand and shakes it enthusiastically, “Well in that case - Hi Patrick,” he says, “I'm Arturo Rodriguez. I'm gonna be, like, your cousin-in-law - if that’s a thing.”

Patrick blinks at him. “What?” he asks stupidly.

“Pete's dad was my uncle,” Arturo explains, dropping Patrick’s hand.

“What?” Patrick asks again, nonplussed.

“His dad and my mom were brother and sister,” Arturo says as though it's the entire concept of cousins that Patrick is having trouble with.

“Yes, no, I mean, I get that, but…” Patrick stammers, “Does Pete know?”

Arturo gives him a dryly sarcastic look, “No, I thought I'd keep it to myself for fun,” he says.

Patrick supposes he deserves that, and tries to pull himself together. “Wow,” he replies, “That's awesome. I bet Pete was thrilled.”

“We both were,” Arturo says, resuming his digging through the box under his counter, “I thought that the whole family had died years ago. I was glad to see I was wrong.”

“I'm happy you found each other,” Patrick smiles, “Pete's great, and the more people he has around him the better.”

Arturo nods and shoves a box of ammo across his counter, “Here,” he says, “Call it a wedding present. My Nina is looking forward to being a… groomsmaid, shall we say, for her new uncles, so you better get yourselves sorted out quickly before she grows out of the dress.”

“Oh,” Patrick replies, suddenly feeling a little choked up, “You have a kid? Pete has a family? He’s an uncle?” This is amazing news - a proper family is exactly the sort of thing that Pete needs in his life, he thinks.

“Yeah,” Arturo grins again, “Oh, and hey, if you really wanna freak out, your boy Andy Hurley was practically my brother when we were growing up, so…”

“Jesus,” Patrick mumbles, “That's…” he can’t quite finish that thought, it’s somehow too big. “Fuck,” he says instead, pivoting to asking a more important question “Look, is Pete okay? Not physically, I mean. Did he seem, like, alright to you? Mentally?”

Arturo frowns, “You asking if he's nuts?” he asks frankly.

Patrick nods, and then immediately feels guilty.

“I mean,” Arturo says, knocking his knuckles on the surface of his store counter, “He was tired, been through a lot, but he didn't seem crazier than anyone else around here, you know?”

“He wasn't talking to himself? To people who weren't there?”

“Not that I noticed,” Arturo says, “He was quiet, but pretty normal. I don't let crazies around my Nina… Oh hey, um, you, uh, you okay there?”

Patrick flaps a hand at him, “I'm…” he gasps, “I'm fine. I'm fine… Fuck…” he wipes his fingers under the lower edge of his glasses and they come away damp. “Fuck, I'm crying. Why am I crying?” ‘Pete’s okay,’ he thinks in response to his own question, ‘Pete’s okay.’

“Deep breaths, man, deep breaths…” Arturo says, coming around to Patrick's side of the counter and patting him gingerly on the shoulder.

“Everything okay, Patrick?” Macready asks from behind him.

“I'm fine,” Patrick sobs, obviously sounding anything but, “I'm fine…”

“Yeah, it's all just hit you at once, hasn't it?” Mac says kindly, “Come on - noodles and Nuka-Cola, that's what ol’ Doc Macready recommends. Have a sit down and something to eat.”

Between them, Arturo and Mac steer him over to one of the stools in front of the noodle counter.

“I don't know why I'm crying,” Patrick wails as Horowitz passes him a set of chipped chopsticks.

“Yum, noodles,” Macready says encouragingly, nudging a bowl in front of him, “Eat the yummy noodles, Patrick.”

“You've been under a lot of stress recently,” Horowitz says in the slow, thoughtful tone of someone who is repeating something they've heard once and aren’t sure if they’re getting it quite right.

Patrick gets the feeling that Macready is giving the Ex-Raider a funny look behind his back.

Arturo tries patting him on the shoulder again. It doesn't help, but Patrick appreciates it all the same. “There, there?” he questions.

“He's been very worried,” Macready explains half-heartedly, “He's probably just a little overwhelmed.”

“Ah, Pete,” Arturo says understandingly, giving him another pat, “Of course. He’s fine, Patrick. He's off looking for you and Andy. It'll be just fine.”

“Oh great,” Mac says, sounding relieved, “You already know about Pete.”

“Pete,” Arturo says proudly, “Is my cousin.”

For some hellish reason, that sets Patrick off crying again. He thinks they're probably drawing a crowd, but covers his face with his hands - only just missing stabbing himself in the forehead with a chopstick - so he can't see them.

“Oh, nice,” Mac says, “Family is always great… Eat the noodles, Patrick.”

Patrick, still crying for absolutely no reason - Jesus Christ - eats the fucking noodles.

Joe is absolutely correct in his assumption that someone else will take care of his breakfast needs, but he somehow failed to account for the fact that that person might be Weird Railroad Tom.

He regards the contents of the bowl he's been given with deep suspicion. “What,” he asks delicately, “Is this?”

“Glowing fungus, lunch meat and Bloatfly,” Tom says, pointing at the various ingredients helpfully.

“It's, um, very… green,” Joe says, “Thank you?”

Tom beams at him proudly.

Joe takes his bowl back over to Andy, Pete and Hancock who have rescued the ancient dining table and the remaining chairs. He puts his bowl down and prods it gently with a fork in case it tries to fight back.

Andy laughs quietly from behind his hand.

“If this is what you had to eat at the Railroad,” Joe hisses, “It's no wonder you spent as much time in Connecticut as you did.”

“It's not bad, actually,” Pete says, shovelling another spoonful into his mouth, “At least he picked all the larvae out of the Bloatfly first - I hate that part. Sometimes the squishing noises put me right off, you know?”

Everyone around the table takes a moment to digest this concept.

“You're meant to cut those out,” Andy points out eventually, “You're not actually meant to eat the bits with the larvae.”

Pete peers at him, “You're not?” he questions.

Joe, along with Hancock and Andy all shake their heads in unison.

Pete looks back down at his breakfast. “Oh,” he says, before shrugging and tucking back in.

“You think we'll get a hit today?” Hancock asks after a while in the tone of a man desperately trying to change the subject.

Still slightly grossed out, Joe says, “Maybe!” with slightly more gusto than the question requires.

“So you’re just hoping to take out the Brotherhood soldiers without damaging the Vertibird?” Pete asks, “Won’t they be wearing Power Armor?”

“Well, yes,” Joe allows, “But hopefully there’s more of us than one squad - and since we’re here first it’ll give us a chance to dig in, find some protected spots to shoot from, you know?”

“We should check out the rest of the scrapyard,” Hancock says, “There’s bound to be some good places out there and maybe we could try a little stealth attack. Pick ‘em off one by one while they’re exploring, you know?”

“That might be easier than a full-frontal attack,” Andy says reasonably, “If they think the area is already cleared and empty then they’ll probably be off their guard.”

“Maybe…” Joe thinks, “Or maybe we could have, like, a decoy?”

Pete frowns, “A decoy?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, put someone out in the open. Non-threatening, badly armed… the Brotherhood won’t shoot anyone without reason, not if they just think they’re a normal scavenger - Andy, tell them what were they like back at the airplane when you ran into them?” Joe says, getting into the swing of the idea.

Andy shrugs, “Condescending,” he replies, “Annoying. But yeah, they weren’t threatening us. One or two of us pretending to just be regular Wastelanders won’t alarm them, I don’t think - even now.”

Joe waves a dismissive hand, “They’ll never think that,” he points out, “They probably don’t even think the Minutemen are a threat, you know? They won’t even consider the idea that a gang of normal people would be dangerous.”

“Should we really fuck with them?” Hancock asks, “I reckon having a Ghoul hanging out would probably put them off guard even more…”

“Hell yeah!” Joe agrees, “You and someone else would be perfect!”

“I’ll do it,” Pete volunteers, “If you like? I mean, I’ve got the shittiest gun right now - I’d need to be close to land a hit with it anyway, so I’ll be useless from further out.”

“What about your, uh. you know?” Andy asks quietly, “Wouldn’t the Brotherhood spot it and realize you’re… um…”

Pete squirms awkwardly, “You can say it,” he mumbles, “It’s still not like I haven’t fucking noticed.”

“Eh, cover it in mud, flatten down your hair, borrow my hat,” Hancock says, “They’re idiots anyway.”

“Alright then,” Joe announces, “Deacon, Tom? We have a plan!”

“Nice,” Deacon says, herding Tom back inside from where he had been supervising the creation of breakfast, “What are we doing?”

“So, Hancock and Pete are going to hang out in the house - It’s a decent place, so the Brotherhood can’t be too shocked that someone has moved in now that they’ve dealt with the Mutants. We’ll go and scout out some good hiding spots where we can ambush them. The Brotherhood should assume that since some stupid, badly armed Wastelanders have set up here then there aren’t any hidden surprises and we’ll catch them completely off guard.”

Deacon nods, “Good plan,” he says, “Let’s go and find some sneaky little spots then…”

“Hey, maybe I could, like, rig up a couple of traps?” Tom asks, “I bet I could find something out there that will do something nasty to one of those dudes.”

“Sounds great,” Joe says, nodding, “That would be awesome. Go nuts, I suppose.”

“Alright then,” Andy says, standing up, “Joe and I can look for hiding places, Tom and Deacon can see if they can set up a trap or two, and Hancock and Pete can keep watch. Move the Mutants maybe, make the place look like you’ve moved in properly?”

“Aww,” Hancock says, grinning, “Look, we get to play house, little dude. Sweet - I’ll win you over yet.”

Pete rolls his eyes, “Still not happening,” he points out.

Hancock’s laugh follows Joe all the way out to the scrapyard.

The morning is cloudy and dull, and the temperature has noticeably dropped. Patrick, still feeling wrung-out and emotional, pulls his coat further around himself as he follows Mac and Horowitz to the giant, mechanical gate at the entrance to Diamond City. He’s a little worried by the way the two of them seem to be getting along so well - frankly, the combination of their mercenary backgrounds and complimentary skills in sniping and explosives would be disturbing if he wasn’t so sure that they were firmly on the Minutemen’s side.

“Back to the Castle again then?” Mac asks, “At least we know the way.”

“Do you still want me to come with you?” Horowitz asks.

Patrick looks him up and down. He still looks incredibly disreputable, like someone has given a Raider a good bath and then poured the result into a Minuteman uniform, but he has to admit that he has grown on Patrick immensely. “Please, Sergeant Horowitz,” he says, “You’ve been so helpful - but if you think you need to head back to the estate, then don’t let us stop you.”

Horowitz grins at him, “No problem, Mister Stump,” he says, “Lieutenant Turner did order me to help you with whatever you need, after all - and hey, I think you can probably call me Levi by now.”

“Levi,” Patrick echoes, “Sure.”

“Come on then,” Mac says, “Let’s get out of here - we can spend the night back in the same building as last time. It was secure enough.”

Patrick nods. He really does feel as though they’re just going round and round in circles. It’ll be nice to just get to stay in one place for a while. As soon as he gets hold of Pete he’s going to make sure they have at least one day together in one spot, and he won’t even care if that spot is infested with fucking Deathclaws. The Wasteland will just have to deal without them for twenty-four hours.

“Alright then,” he says, “Back to the Castle, I guess.”

Chapter Text

They spend the first day scouting out the scrapyard and trying to rein Tom in from creating ever more intricate traps for the Brotherhood. The scrapyard has obviously been a Raider hideout at one point or another, with scattered, scrappily built shacks and walkways which means that Andy and Joe can easily find some good hiding spots and spend a fun few hours working out the best way to reach them quickly and under cover. There’s a small caravan perched on top of a pile of stacked containers that a little bit of scrambling gets them up to, and they stand next to each other for a while, looking out of the window together.

“Pete seems alright,” Andy says eventually.

Joe sighs, “I suppose so,” he agrees.

“I told you everything would be alright,” he continues, trying to sound upbeat and confident.

Joe rolls his eyes, “Sure, because he's never lied to us about being okay when it obviously isn't before,” he points out, “He was totally fine when he was having nightmares every time he fell asleep.”

Andy tries gesturing out at the general state of the world beyond the scrapyard, “He’s fine for the Wasteland,” he says, “He can hold a coherent conversation. He’s not wandering around trying to make friends with Yao-Guai. He can still shoot. He knows where he is and what he’s doing well enough to get himself here safely from Diamond City. He knows who he is - who we are - who Patrick is. I’m not trying to make light of any of this, Joe - you know I’m not. You know I’m just as worried about our friends as you are, but Jesus, what more do you want?”

Joe watches him carefully, and Andy cups the side of his face, scratching his ragged fingernails through the short hairs behind his ear, “Do you trust him to take part in this fight?” he asks, “Do you trust him to shoot the Brotherhood and not us? To not fuck this up?”

Joe nods.

“Then that might be as good as we’re going to get right now, Joe. Look at me. Please, look at me.”

Joe looks at him.

“Thank you,” Andy says, “I absolutely cannot worry about Pete right now - not as long as he is upright and breathing and talking sense. Every single part of me right now is worrying about you, okay? About your fucking plan - flying up there and blowing them up. I imagine I’ll feel pretty guilty about this once we’re done, and I will buy Pete and Patrick as many drinks as I can at whatever victory party you are also currently planning. But. But I also don’t want you worrying about him either - you hear me? He’s fine. Patrick’s fine. They’re both absolutely as alright as they could be right now. Do not start worrying about them when you should be worrying about yourself. That’s an order.”

Joe squirms.

Andy pulls him in for a hug, “Wanna sleep up here tonight?” he asks.

Joe squirms with a little more intent.

Andy kisses him.

“I should probably go and talk to Pete,” Joe says into Andy's sweaty armpit.

Andy, currently rubbing a hand over the fine prickles of Joe's regrowing hair, says, “Hummm?” he doesn't quite sound like he's entirely back in the room - or abandoned caravan - yet, which is quite gratifying.

“Before anything happens,” Joe clarifies, “I should talk to Pete.”

Andy pats vaguely at his head, “Sure,” he agrees dreamily, “Sure.”

“I just want to check,” Joe says, rubbing his face into the deliciously soft skin on the underside of Andy's strong bicep, “Make sure he's good, you know?”

Andy wriggles slightly, “Uh-huh,” he says.

Joe sticks his tongue out and licks him. It's one of the few currently accessible areas of him that isn't tattooed, and Joe imagines that he's experiencing the salty taste of the real Andy.

“What are you doing?” Andy asks.

Joe shrugs, “Loving you, I guess,” he offers.

“Thanks?” Andy replies, confused, “I love you too. I'd probably love you even more if you loved me a shade less ticklishly though.”

That makes Joe laugh and sit up, stretching and looking down at the pleasant sight of Andy’s lean, naked body. “God,” he says, suddenly unable to believe his luck, “Even if someone had told me when I caught sight of you in that bar in ‘Haven I wouldn't have believed we'd end up here.”

“Naked in a caravan?” Andy questions with a smile.

“In love,” Joe corrects, leaning down to kiss him again.

“You know one of the first things I thought when I saw you in ‘Haven?” Andy asks after Joe has managed to pull away.

“No?” Joe says, gleefully, “Tell me?”

“I wanted to know absolutely everything about you,” Andy sighs, as though he’s admitting to a terrible crime, dragging a hand down Joe’s thigh, “And then I thought you’d probably be trouble.”

Joe barks out a sudden laugh, “And what do you think now?”

“Now I know you’re trouble,” Andy says, with what Joe easily recognizes as a fond smile.

“Not too much, I hope!” Joe replies, only faintly alarmed. He feels pretty secure in his relationship with Andy, who has always done his absolute best to let Joe know that he’s loved, but that’s not precisely something anybody wants to hear from a romantic partner.

Andy closes his eyes and smiles up at the ceiling, hand still caressing Joe’s leg. “I grew up wanting to leave Diamond City,” he says calmly, “I went out on trading runs, but that wasn’t quite what I was looking for. Then I discovered the Railroad and started working with them. I took refugees out to ‘Haven and walked back to the Commonwealth all on my own, and that was good, that was important, and useful - but still not quite what I was looking for. And then I met you. And I suddenly realized what I had been looking for. You, Joseph Trohman, are the exact, perfect amount of trouble for me, okay? Remember - I’m a secret agent.” Andy cracks open his eyes and smiles over at Joe, “I love trouble.”

Joe thinks he feels his heart double in size.

Out of the three people in the house, Deacon gives them a very familiar look when they finally pull their clothes back on and climb back down from the caravan. It's the exact look Joe has on his face whenever Patrick and Pete stumble back from wherever they've been with amusingly rumpled hair and incorrectly buttoned clothes. It's not quite as funny from this direction. The other two are Tom, who doesn't even seem to notice their return, and Hancock whose expression is a whole lot more perverted.

“All sorted?” Deacon asks after a few overly judgemental moments.

“Yup,” Joe replies, unashamed, “We'll stay up there tonight.”

“I'm sure you will,” Deacon replies.

“Is Pete on watch?” he asks, ignoring the undertone.

“Yeah,” Hancock says, “Up on the roof.”

“I'll go and join him,” Joe tells them, “How long for dinner?”

Deacon shrugs, “Hour or so?” he offers, “We need some wood collecting.”

“I'll go,” Andy says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Joe sighs and grabs half-heartedly at his ass, “I'll keep Pete company, I suppose.”

Andy swats him away just as unconcerned, “I'll give you both a shout when it's ready.”

Joe turns and climbs the stairs. Whoever has been on watch since last night has fortified his precarious pile of furniture with a few more chairs and a set of drawers, making a decent set of steps, but he hesitates at the foot of it, listening. From up on the roof he can hear the sound of Pete talking quietly. There's nobody else up there with him - everybody is downstairs.

It makes him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment with guilt, desperately swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat.

Above him, Pete says “...I hope you know how much I miss you,” and sniffs.

Churning with guilt, Joe takes a deep breath and climbs up to join Pete.

Pete is lying back on the pitched roof of the house, arms crossed behind his head and staring up at the sky. He’s talking to Patrick almost idly, still vaguely aware that he’s not really there, but he doesn’t really care - there’s nobody here that he feels like he needs to hide from.

“I wish these Brotherhood guys would turn up,” he tells him, “We really should get going to the Castle.”

A cloud scoots past his eyeline, a wispy shape that looks like a dog if he squints.

“I wish I knew where Patrick is,” he sighs, “I’d go straight there if I did, you know I would. But, I guess the Castle is the best place to wait for him. If that’s where all the Minutemen are, then he’ll have to go back there eventually… Won’t he?”

“I suppose we could always ask George to announce something on the radio too,” he adds, “We could probably ask him for a favor by now.”

“I mean, we probably don’t have to stay there, no… We could leave a message for him there instead if you don’t want to hang out with all those Minutemen.”

“Yes, I can see why you’d be a little nervous about it - I can’t imagine we’ll have too many friends there either, but George should be able to vouch for us, wouldn’t he? Major Garvey too, maybe?”

“Yeah, so that’s why we should wait until after the Brotherhood gets here so at least Hancock will be alongside us when we turn up.”

Pete turns his head to the side, looking out towards the Castle across the sloped tiles. In his thoughts, Patrick had been lying there beside him, so desperately wanted that Pete could picture him - hands folded over his stomach, legs crossed at the ankle, beloved leather Minuteman hat resting on the roof beside him. He turns to his side, tucking a hand under his cheek and pretending Patrick is with him.

‘You’re supposed to be on watch,’ Patrick reminds him gently as he closes his eyes.

“Everyone is awake downstairs,” Pete points out, “They’ll hear anyone coming.”

Inside Pete’s head, Patrick laughs - a warm, lovely low chuckle that brings tears to Pete’s eyes.

“I love you,” Pete tells him, “I love you so much.”

Patrick doesn’t reply.

“I hope you’re safe,” he says quietly, “I hope you’re not alone.”

The sun is shining on his side and he pulls his knees up, curling into a ball. If he tries - if he pretends - he can imagine Patrick behind him - his arms around him, legs molding around his own. He digs his free hand inside his shirt collar and pulls out the nail, still securely wrapped with wire and string. It's warm from his body heat and a perfect fit for his palm when he folds his fingers over it protectively.

“I hope you know how much I miss you,” he tells Patrick, imagining him beside him, his own promise in his hand. The picture makes him feel a little better, but still emotional, and he sniffs back tears.

“Pete?” a voice says. For a heart clenching second, Pete thinks he’s conjured Patrick through sheer willpower, but then he recognizes Joe.

“Mmm,” he mumbles in reply.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks. Pete can hear the rough scrape of fabric rubbing against the edge of the hole onto the roof and a faint ‘oof’ of exertion.

“Mmm,” Pete says again, cracking open his eyes slightly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Joe says, climbing onto the roof to join him. He sits down beside Pete, crossing his legs and resting his chin on cupped hands propped on his knees.

Pete frowns, “What for?” he asks.

Joe pinches the bridge of his nose. “For my stupid plan,” he says, “For making you go back.”

“It wasn’t a stupid plan,” Pete protests, “It worked. You knew it would work. We got rid of the Gunners, didn’t we?”

Joe makes a thoughtful, unsure noise, and then asks, “Are you really alright?”

Pete smiles slightly. It feels a little delicate on his face, but it’s real enough. “I am now,” he says, “I'm here with you guys, how could I be anything but?”

Joe sighs. “Andy said that Jake said that you were… Uh, well. He said you were talking to people who weren't there. To Patrick who wasn't there.”

“Yup,” Pete agrees easily, feeling no real need to hide it anymore. Not-Patrick might have spent his time in the Plaza trying to convince Pete that people would be horrified by his insanity and would leave him abandoned and alone, but in the face of his actual flesh and blood friends, he finds it difficult to believe a figment of his imagination. It might not be the greatest news Joe will ever receive, but he's like, ninety-nine percent sure he'll still want to be part of Pete's life.

“I went absolutely mad,” he adds cheerfully, “Hallucinations and everything.”

“Fuck,” Joe mutters, covering his face with his hands, “Fuck…”

Pete pushes himself upright and launches himself over to him, wrapping Joe up in his arms, as the nail thumps lightly against his sternum.

“I'm fine now,” he tells Joe, “I promise. Look at me?”

Pete gently pulls Joe's face up, with a hand around each ear, “Look,” he says again, “Look, I'm fine. Open your eyes, Joe.”

Slowly, Joe pulls his hands away from his face. He looks damply miserable, but meets Pete’s eyes anyway.

“I've been dreaming about someone who isn't Patrick,” he tries to explain, “I was dreaming of him before you ever even told me about your plan - before the farm even, back at Concord that first time, alright?”

Joe looks a little wobbly, so, using his grip on Joe's head Pete makes him nod, “Yes?” he asks, smiling weakly.

“Okay,” Joe agrees.

“So, I think I was a bit stressed…” Pete continues, “And he came back.”

Joe rubs at his nose with his sleeve, “Was that all?” he asks, “What else happened? Tell me so I know exactly what I should feel guilty for. You know what I'm thinking, don't you?”

“Joe,” Pete says, leaning forward and pressing a gentle, friendly kiss to his forehead, “The Gunners are all assholes, I'm not gonna argue against that, but they didn't do what you're thinking right now, okay? Have they before? Yes. But not… shit, not this time. Not since I left the fucking Commonwealth, years before I met you. You cannot blame yourself for that. So, if you want to blame yourself for something that happened this past month, you can blame yourself for the Gunners taking my pistols and generally being mean, horrible people. They said some awful things about me, threatened me. Someone punched me in the face, too, if you wanna take the fall for that as well?”

Joe laughs shakily, “Don't,” he says, “Don't make fun of me.”

“I hallucinated someone who wasn't Patrick,” Pete explains as calmly as he can, “I was scared and alone and I hated every single moment I spent with them. Not-Patrick kept telling me terrible lies about you guys. But I made it. I got out. I'm here. I'm okay. I'm fine. I don't blame you for a single fucking thing. Do you understand me? Do you get that? We won. I'd do it all again to get rid of the fucking Gunners. I don't want to hear another thing about it. Not from you,” he tries smiling, “I'm already going to have to deal with Patrick when I see him again - I can't possibly deal with this stress from you too.”

“He misses you so much,” Joe says, “He can't wait to see you again - he's worried. He heard about your… problem too.”

“Fabulous,” Pete sighs.

Joe laughs again, slightly more steadily, “He's gonna kill you when he finds out you got shot again,” he points out.

“Yeah, probably…” Pete replies, “But, you know, I hope he'll be too happy to care, really. I know I will.”

They walk back towards the same small high-rise that Patrick and Mac had stayed in before, a strange little stub of a building surrounded by rubble.

Levi guides them closer to the Raider base at the mouth of the tunnel than Patrick would personally like, but once he explains that the Minutemen have seen Brotherhood Vertibirds flying and occasionally landing close to the old scrapyard they all agree to give it a wide berth. Patrick is in absolutely no mood to tangle with those particular assholes right now.

They make it to the office building overlooking the blackened, burnt checkpoint and stumble back up the stairs to the exact same room as last time. Levi looks around approvingly, “Nice,” he says.

Mac points to the window where the fire escape is attached, “You can get up to the roof as well,” he says, “Good views.”

“I should probably tell Major Garvey about this place,” Levi muses, nodding thoughtfully, “It’d be a good place for another Minuteman base - plenty of room, good access, defensible…”

“The neighbors are pretty quiet now, too,” Macready jokes as he rummages around in his bag.

“I'm gonna go up on watch,” Patrick announces.

Mac and Levi peer at him, “You okay?” Mac asks eventually, “We're pretty safe in here for now - we'll hear anyone coming up the stairs long before they get to us.”

Patrick shakes his head, “I know,” he says, “Just… I want to clear my head a bit, I guess.”

“Alright,” Macready agrees, “I'll bring you up something to eat later if you like?”

Patrick climbs out of the window onto the fire escape and ducks his head back in to reply, “That would be great, thanks.”

He finds himself a spot up on the roof next to a piece of industrial looking metal with a big fan and folds himself down, sitting cross-legged and looking out across the Wasteland with his rifle across his lap. The ruins of the Gunner base he exploded are just off to the left.

In the distance he can see a messy pile of containers and scrap, and he knows that if he uses his scope he’ll be able to see the top of the Gunners Plaza.

He closes his eyes instead, shifting to pull his knees up. Nobody can see him from the ground up here and he’ll hear anyone fighting through Mac and Levi before they get to him. He’s as safe as he possibly can be.

He takes a few deep breaths, pushing his glasses up onto the top of his head and covering his face with his hands.

Pete will be waiting for him in the Castle, he tells himself, picturing it. He’ll walk up to the gate, and Pete will be there, grinning his wide, beautiful smile. Patrick will run towards him across the parade ground, throwing his arms wide and catching him up in a tight embrace. He will kiss him all over his impossibly handsome face. He will probably cry. He definitely won’t let him go for at least a whole day.

At this moment, he misses Pete so much it’s physically painful - a stab of something in his stomach. Pete’s fine. Nick said so - Arturo said so - and neither of them would have lied. Patrick could have lost him, but he didn’t. Pete will be at the Castle, whole and happy. He’ll welcome Patrick back into his life, still in love. They’ll go to Diamond City and get married in front of all their friends and Pete’s newly discovered cousin.

He digs around in his pocket for the nail, pulling it out and clutching it tightly, their promise to each other.

Pete will be waiting for him in the Castle. Patrick absolutely cannot allow himself to think of anything else.

Patrick eventually stumbles back down into the building just as the final rays of the setting sun vanish below the horizon. Mac and Levi both look up as he climbs back in through the window.

“I was just about to come up,” Mac says, nodding at a little pile of dried jerky, “That's the best we've got cold at the moment, but we'll have something hot tomorrow.”

“And some booze!” Levi says happily, tossing a chunk of meat up in the air and catching it in his mouth.

“Sure,” Patrick agrees, picking through the pile of food they've left him, “I will personally stand you both to an entire night's drinking for all your help these last few days.”

Levi laughs, “It's been my pleasure,” he says, “This has been much more interesting than hanging around the estate and going on patrols - and I bet this is gonna put me right in Major Garvey’s good books too. I mean, a favor for the famous Mister Stump? They might as well hand me my Lieutenant’s commission right as I walk in the gates!”

Patrick pauses mid chew. “Uh, what?” he asks.

“Well, I mean, this has got to score me some serious points, hasn't it? It's been, like, humanitarian, this mission?” Levi says, grinning proudly.

Next to him, Mac is grinning in a slightly more shit-eating way. Patrick ignores him for now.

“I meant the famous Mister Stump bit,” Patrick explains, feeling a little lost, “What the hell does that mean?”

Levi's smile gets wider, “Well, obviously my whole squad were seething with jealousy when I told them I was heading out on a mission with you,” he says.

“What?” Patrick asks, baffled. Mac just starts sniggering unhelpfully.

“And when I told them about working with you on the Battle Of The Castle…” Levi continues, somehow managing to pronounce the capital letters.

“I mean, what?” Patrick tries, “Why would they care?”

“He means that you're famous,” Mac interjects.

“Famous?” Patrick repeats, “No I'm not!”

Levi throws another mouthful of dried meat into his mouth, “Sure you are,” he says, “Mister Stump, the greatest sniper in the Commonwealth? The guy who single handedly took out a Mirelurk Queen to secure the Castle?”

Patrick stares at him. “I didn't take it out single handedly,” he protests weakly, “You know that. You were there! You shot it with a fucking Mini-Nuke before I even got my rifle out!”

Levi shrugs, “That's not how the legend is going,” he explains.

“Legend!? I'm not dead!”

“I heard you're the reason the Minutemen weren't wiped out entirely at Quincy,” Levi tells him, “They're calling you a hero.”

This is too much. He can't let this stand. “Fucking Quincy? Jesus, I ran out of bullets,” he says, “And then I ran away. I left my uniform at the bottom of my snipers blind and literally ran out of the Commonwealth. I am so far away from a fucking hero it's not even funny.”

“I heard you took out an entire Brotherhood squad and a whole Gunner encampment at the same time, with just two shots,” Macready adds innocently, nodding towards the open window and obviously enjoying himself immensely.

Levi nods enthusiastically and points at Mac, “Yeah!”

Patrick frowns, “Well, I mean, yes, I did do that.”

“Patrick Stump: Hero of the Commonwealth,” Levi announces, waving his hand as though pointing out the words painted on a banner.

“Please stop saying that,” he begs, “It's not true.”

“I bet you anything you like that right now, some little baby Minutemen are sitting around a campfire, being told the story of Deadeye Stump, scourge of the Gunners,” Levi tells him smugly.

Patrick is horrified, “Fuck, that's definitely not true,” he protests, “None of this is true! You can't go around lying to recruits like this!”

Macready scoffs, “Uh, yeah it is,” he points out, “You've been wiping out their encampments all over the place.”

“Not alone!” Patrick yelps, “Christ, Mac, you did half of it!”

Mac waves dismissively, “Some merc doing it isn't nearly as interesting a story,” he says, “A mysterious Minuteman on a revenge mission? Now that's something to tell your kids.”

“I don't have any kids,” Patrick protests limply, “I'm not going to have any kids.”

“Well, I do,” Macready says fondly, “And as soon as I see him again, this is gonna be his bedtime story for years.”

Patrick blinks, and then decides to shelve the surprise over that particular tidbit for now, “This is ridiculous,” he argues, “I'm not any kind of hero. It's stupid, that's what this is.”

“It's romantic, apparently,” Levi says, “According to the ladies.” He sleazily pronounces it ‘lay-deees’ in a move that would probably get him rightfully slapped by any female Minuteman that Patrick has had the fortune to work with.

“Romantic?” Patrick repeats doubtfully.

Levi nudges him with an elbow, “Word is you were doing all of it for the love of your life,” he says, “Real star-crossed lovers type shit.”

“I heard your partner was kidnapped by Gunners and you went to rescue him by storming a whole base,” Mac adds slyly, “Shot the Commander in the head from half a mile out, seconds before the Gunners were about to execute him…”

Patrick opens and closes his mouth silently.

“Ooh, that's a good one!” Levi says.

“That one's true,” Macready tells him in a mock whisper.

“It wasn't half a mile,” Patrick says, flustered, “It was more like five hundred yards.”

“Oh, well then,” Mac says, rolling his eyes, “Sure, I bet nobody would find that impressive at all.”

“You don't,” Patrick tells him, “And Joe and Andy were both there.”

Levi shakes his head sadly, “Face it, Patrick, you're legendary. You won't be able to talk anyone out of it. Give it a few months and you'll be a Raider boogeyman too. Don't make Stump angry, they'll say, or one day, with no warning, you'll drop with a .308 to the brain, just like that.” He snaps his fingers in demonstration.

Patrick covers his face with his hands, “Fuck,” he says, muffled, “Why isn't Major Garvey doing anything to stop this nonsense?”

“Are you kidding me?” Levi crows, “Have you got any idea what you're doing for our recruitment? We've had kids from all over the Commonwealth wanting to join up because they, and I quote, ‘Want to be a badass sniper like Mister Stump’.”

Patrick groans helplessly and topples to his side, “Oh God,” he mumbles, “This is a nightmare.”

“If you think this is a nightmare,” Macready laughs, poking at him with the toe of his boot, “Just you wait until Joe finds out.”

“Oh fuck…” Patrick moans, curling into a protective ball, “I'll never hear the end of it.”

Macready pats him consolingly, “There, there,” he tells him, “If he's really annoying, you could probably set a whole pack of baby Minutemen on him if you told them it was for the good of the Commonwealth. I bet they'd love it… Have you practiced your signature recently, by the way?”

“Shut up,” Patrick grumbles, “You're not helping.”

The walk the next morning is awful. It's raining again, looking likely to tip into another radstorm and all three of them dutifully swallow the last handful of Rad-X pills before leaving the building. They squelch their way through south Boston towards the Castle, the only bright side of the entire trip being the three Mirelurk that they spot splashing around in the ruins of a flooded building.

Patrick shoots them alongside Macready, refusing to be distracted by Levi's sarcastically impressed whistling.

“Deadeye,” he says once the 'Lurks are all dead, “Told you.”

Patrick flaps a hand at the corpses, “Then I'm sure you won't mind butchering them for me, since I'm such a Minuteman legend,” he says.

Levi cackles at that, but to Patrick’s surprise, he wades out into the water with a disturbingly large knife anyway.

“He's not kidding,” Macready says as they watch him set about the mutated crabs from a safe distance, “The Minutemen really are talking about you. Gemma was telling me about it - you're a hero alright.”

Patrick shifts uneasily, “I just don't think they're right,” he says, aware that complaining about being feted as some kind of savior of the Wasteland probably makes him sound like a jerk.

Mac shrugs, “They're not lying about any of it though,” he says.

“None of it is exactly true either,” Patrick points out meekly, “Especially the bits about fucking Quincy.”

“You're not gonna be able to stop it now,” Mac tells him, “In fact, I imagine that anything you try to say to stop the stories will just make people talk more.”

“Ugh, probably,” Patrick agrees, folding his arms.

“Your Pete is gonna be famous too after all this,” Mac says kindly, “The Ex-Gunner who brought down the Gunners? Heck, they won't stop talking about the pair of you. They'll raise a statue of you both right in the middle of the Castle.”

Like most things involving Pete, Patrick has complicated thoughts about this idea. Obviously, Pete is a hero. Obviously, Pete deserves a statue in the middle of the Castle. Pete is the one that risked his life by infiltrating the Gunners and passing them information for months - all Patrick has really done is what he's always done: shoot people from a long way away. He shifts uneasily and Macready pats him on the shoulder, “Cheer up, Mister Stump,”he says, “You'll see him soon.”

“He better be at the Castle,” Patrick replies, as Levi starts splashing his way back towards them, loaded with an armful of Mirelurk meat, “The Minutemen can say whatever they like about us as long as I get him back…”

Pete isn’t at the Castle.

They head up to the gate, Patrick practically running with Mac and Levi trailing behind him, and he shouts up to the Minuteman on guard, “Is Pete here?”

The guard peers down at him, “Um,” he says. Patrick doesn't recognize him.

Levi pants up next to him and waves, “It's alright, Corporal,” he calls up, “This is Mister Stump.”

The Minuteman looks embarrassingly starstruck. Patrick wishes he still had his hat. It had always been very useful to hide behind.

“Open the gate!” he shouts behind him, “Mister Stump is back! Someone go and tell Major Garvey!”

“What is going on!?” Patrick asks, “They weren’t like this last week!”

“Faaa-mous!” Macready sing-songs into his ear.

Well, alright then. Patrick got himself into this mess, maybe he'll be able to get something out of this. “Is Pete Wentz here?” he says again to the Minuteman who is still staring down at him hungrily, like he's planning on eating him as soon as Patrick gets close enough.

“Sorry, Mister Stump, I don't know who that is,” the Minuteman replies, saluting, “Is he an officer?”

“No,” Patrick says grumpily as the gate opens.

Ferguson, thank Christ, is there to meet them, “Patrick!” he greets, presumably scoring several points with the assembled Minutemen behind him for being on first name terms, “Macready… Oh, and Sergeant Horowitz… Hello?”

Levi gives him a lazy salute, “Captain,” he says, “Lieutenant Turner instructed me to give Mister Stump and Mister Macready whatever help they needed with their mission.”

“Ah, of course,” Ferguson says, “How is everything, Patrick?”

“Is Pete here?” Patrick just says for what feels like the hundredth time.

Ferguson shakes his head, “No,” he says, “Is he meant to be?”

“Honestly? I have no fucking clue right now,” Patrick sighs, feeling awfully close to tears in sheer disappointment.

“Well, I’m very sorry we can’t help you with that,” Ferguson tells him, “But, um, Major Garvey has been waiting for you to get back. He said he wanted to see you immediately, as soon as you returned - you too, Mister Macready.”

“Me?” Mac says, startled, “Uh, sure, I guess.”

Ferguson sighs, and puts his hands on his hips, “Actually, you might have some input we’d like to hear about too, Sergeant. You should probably come along as well.”

Levi looks just as surprised as Mac at that, “Yessir,” he says, “I’d just like to deliver this ‘Lurk meat to the kitchens, if that’s alright? Are you meeting in Major Garvey’s office?”

“The conference room in the north east corner,” Ferguson corrects, “We’ll see you there, Sergeant.”

“Give us ten minutes too?” Macready asks, “It was a bit of a thirsty walk, if you catch my drift?”

The conference room has a long table, surrounded by a variety of scavenged chairs. Preston is already sitting at the head, with Captains McDonald and Juarez at each elbow and a stack of paper in front of him. Practically every single Minuteman officer is also crowded into the room, standing around the table. Patrick squeezes through the throng and Preston looks up.

“Mister Stump,” he proclaims, making the chatter from the assembled Minutemen stop temporarily before restarting as a round of hissed whispering, “Please, have a seat.”

There's one chair free, wedged in between Ferguson and Corporal May, so Patrick sits in it, Mac and Levi taking up the space behind him like some kind of embarrassing guard of honor.

“Alright,” Preston announces loudly, making everyone turn, “I was hoping to have our Gunner expert here for this, but we simply can't wait any longer - unless you know something we don't, Mister Stump?”

Patrick realizes with a jolt that the expert he's talking about is Pete. He shakes his head, “Honestly, we thought he'd be here,” he tells Preston with a twinge of painful disappointment, “All the intel we gathered on our patrol pointed to him heading to the Castle.” He's dropping back into his Captain headspace, he knows.

Preston nods, “I'll instruct the gate guards to keep an eye out for him,” he says, “When he arrives he'll be given all the help the Minutemen can provide for him.”

“Thank you,” Patrick says, “We'll appreciate it.”

“So, ladies and gentlemen, we have one more Gunner encampment left in the Commonwealth, and it's time to dig them out. I know that this will be difficult for some of you. I know that this might feel like a step too far - believe me, nobody in this room knows that more than me - but we must get rid of the Gunners for good. They cannot be allowed to rebuild their forces. They have no back-up now, thanks to the efforts of our man on the inside and Mister Stump, so now is the time to strike. We rebuilt the Minutemen. We have built ourselves squads and bases from nothing. We're bringing the Commonwealth together. We retook the Castle. We have taken on the Gunners…” he takes a deep breath and the anticipation makes Patrick hold his own.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Preston says, “It's time to retake Quincy.”

Chapter Text

The weather the next morning is revolting. Andy wakes while it's still dark to the sound of thunder. He shivers, glancing around the caravan. A flash of lightning illuminates the bare interior. Beside him, Joe is sleeping on his stomach and snoring gently. Whatever he'd said to Pete the day before seemed to have helped his worry.

He stands up, clutching his blanket around himself and careful not to disturb Joe and peers out of the open door. The sky is threatening to turn green with a radioactive storm, and Andy runs through his mental list of chems in his bag. He knows he has some Rad-X, but isn't quite sure how many. At least they won't have to worry about Hancock - for a Ghoul, a radstorm is about as concerning as a warm, purified bath.

“N'dy?” Joe mumbles sleepily.

“There's a storm,” he tells him, “We should get some Rad-X.”

“Buh,” Joe agrees.

“We probably won't see any Brotherhood squads until the weather turns,” Andy replies, “I doubt they'll want to fly in this.”

Joe pats the floor beside him, “Stop bi’ng sowake…” he says, “Come back?”

Andy can't help but chuckle, but he heads back to him anyway, flipping his blanket back over his legs. He snuggles back into Joe's side, listening to the rain rattling on the metal roof.

“Is Pete okay?” Andy asks quietly.

“I suppose,” Joe yawns, “We talked.”

They're both quiet for a while until they hear footsteps on the rough wooden walkway up to the caravan door.

“Heyyy…” Hancock says, and then, “Dammit, did I miss the fun?”

Joe laughs, “Sorry,” he tells him, “It's not your morning.”

“One day,” Hancock sighs, “Anyway, I've got some Rad-X for you both - compliments of Deacon.”

“Thanks,” Andy tells him, sitting up and accepting the handful of pills.

“Your Pete cooked breakfast,” Hancock tells them, leaning against the doorframe, “You wanna come down to the house?”

“Oh,” Andy says delicately.

“No larvae - I checked,” Hancock grins. “It’s just Tato mash and the rest of the can of lunchmeat.”

“Oh,” Joe says, happier, “Alright then, we’ll come down in a bit.”

Hancock doesn’t move from his spot by the door.

“Dude,” Joe continues, gesturing down at their blanket covered legs, “Do you mind?”

Hancock leers at them, “Not at all,” he says.

“Fuck off, Hancock,” Andy says, “Please go away.”

“Darn,” Hancock replies, “It really isn’t my lucky day, is it?”

“Nope,” Joe tells him.

The Ghoul raps thoughtfully several times on the outside of the caravan, “Fine,” he sighs dramatically, “I’m going…” he turns, deliberately making his ridiculous coat flare out.

Andy very deliberately waits until the obviously fake footsteps trail off before shouting, “Awesome - now actually go away!”

Hancock’s wrinkled face pops around the door and he grins. “Couldn’t resist,” he says, “See you down there, boys!”

This time, Hancock actually leaves.

Joe shakes his head, “He’s hilarious,” he says fondly, “But I guess I know why you never wanted to introduce us before now.”

Andy casts about for Joe’s pants and tosses them at his head, “I knew the pair of you would get on like some kind of fire,” he says, “You’ll be dangerous.”

“The best kind of danger,” Joe replies, tugging on his clothes, “Sexy danger!”

Andy shakes his head, amused against his will, and swallows some of the Rad-X pills, “Here,” he says, passing over Joe’s dose, “Take these, I’ll see you down for breakfast. You remember where all Tom’s booby traps are?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Joe tells him with a twitch of his mouth.

Andy chuckles all the way back down to the old house.

It seems to Patrick that every single person in the conference room inhales sharply at the exact same time following Preston’s announcement. Patrick himself feels cold, and it’s nothing to do with the stone-lined room they’re sitting in. He’d known this had been coming, of course he had - they’ve taken out the rest of the Gunners from the Commonwealth, only fucking Quincy remains as a stronghold.

Next to him, Corporal May shuffles through a small pile of papers. “The final reports from our Mister Wentz before the Brotherhood attacked the Plaza indicate that Quincy is being held by around twenty Gunners led by a Lieutenant. They have a significant amount of weaponry at their disposal, including several suits of scavenged Power Armor. Unfortunately for us, they know that they’re the only remaining squad so we've been unable to overhear any further communications.”

“They won’t hesitate to throw everything they have into a fight,” Captain Juarez adds, voicing Patrick’s own thoughts, “They’ll be desperate to hold on to their last base.”

“We need to throw as much as we can at them,” Preston says, “They’ll be dug into Quincy as far as they possibly can and it will take an effort on our part to get them out. All our spare troops have been called to the Castle with as many supplies as they can bring…” He indicates an older, grumpy looking woman a few seats away from Patrick who he vaguely remembers from the few weeks he’d spent helping to rebuild the Castle.

“Ms Shaw has been working hard on refitting the artillery cannons here and has volunteered to stay here and take command of them under the leadership of Captain McDonald,” Preston continues, “However, in order to fire them correctly, we’ll need to get a targeting smoke grenade into the location, so I’m glad you’re here, Sergeant Horowitz - I know you have a particular talent in that area, so if we could leave the grenade launcher in your very capable hands, that would be very useful.”

“Of course, Sir,” Levi says, sounding proud, “You can count on me.”

“Thank you,” Preston replies, before taking a deep breath, “The other thing we’ll need of course, are snipers.”

Patrick closes his eyes. He wishes that Pete was here. He really doesn't want to have to return to fucking Quincy without seeing him once more.

Someone behind him touches his shoulder gently and he’s suddenly aware that he’s shaking.

“Patrick,” Macready says quietly, “It’s okay.”

He clenches his hands under the table. He’s known it was always going to come to this - ever since they took control of the Castle, ever since he heard Joe’s plan for the Gunners - probably since he first walked into Preston’s office in Concord.

“We’ll be ready,” Macready replies for them both, “We know where we can set up.”

Patrick shivers. Fuck. He knows where they can set up alright. He knows exactly where they’ll be able to get a perfect snipers-eye view into the center of fucking Quincy. If he’s very lucky, there might even be a vomit stained Minuteman’s uniform still crumpled at the bottom of it.

He swallows loudly. In the background, Preston is issuing orders to various Lieutenants, and he tries to ignore him. He’s facing his literal nightmare. He wants Pete. He wants Joe and Andy. He wonders where they all are.

He takes a long, deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. If he throws up in the middle of this meeting, he will never hear the end of it.

His palms hurt and he realizes that his fingernails are digging into them - he forces himself to put his hands flat on the table in front of him, thumbs gripping at the edge and spreading his fingers to try and stop the trembling.

“Our best strategy will be to hit them fast and hard with any heavy weaponry and our artillery to get as many of their command as possible, pick off the survivors long distance and then send in some short-range teams to clean up,” Preston is saying as he dials back into the conversation happening around him, “We’ll let you know your specific commands as soon as possible, but for now, please go and inform your squads and expect to move out within the next few days. Sergeant Horowitz, consider yourself seconded to Captain Juarez for now, thank you.”

There’s another general upswell in the muttering, but the assembled Sergeants and Lieutenants start to file out of the room.

“Patrick,” Preston says calmly, “Can I have a word?”

Macready’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, “Do you want me to stay?” he asks in an undertone.

Patrick shakes his head, not quite trusting himself to speak.

Mac squeezes his arm again, “Okay, we’ll see you in the bar, alright?”

Patrick nods and Macready and Levi leave the room, casting a worried glance back at him before the door closes behind them.

Preston leans forward towards him, fingers laced together and a concerned look on his face. “I was at Quincy too,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to pretend that I know exactly what you’re going through, but please consider the idea that I do know what it was like - what you saw. I lost people there too, Patrick. I didn’t take this decision lightly, but this is it - this is our chance. We can do this. We’re ready. We can wipe them out.”

Patrick stares down at the wooden tabletop. He doesn’t understand why he feels like this - it’s not a surprise, it’s the entire fucking point of the last few months, the entire point of all of this, of missing Pete like a limb for so long. It’s just like there’s a giant, gaping space in the middle of his thoughts where fucking Quincy lives - a black hole that he can’t touch, doesn’t go close to, purposefully ignores - it’s probably the place he vanishes to when he goes away.

“I know you want to do that as much as I do,” Preston adds.

His throat feels dry. He wishes he had something to drink. “Yes,” he agrees hoarsely, “I do.”

“Patrick,” Preston sighs, “I know you resigned, but I want to ask you if I could persuade you to change your mind.”

Patrick makes a sort of involuntary choked sound, “I promised,” he whispers, “I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Just for this mission,” Preston says, “You know how important this is - Captain Juarez is an excellent officer, but you have the experience we need right now. We need you to take command. We need Captain Stump…” he swallows and takes a deep breath, “I’m a Major, not a Colonel or General, and there’s nobody left to give me a promotion… Patrick. Please. The Minutemen need you. I need you.”

“Pete…” he manages to say, “I promised him…”

“One mission,” Preston says, “For Pete. This is for Pete. This will keep him safe. This will keep everyone you care about safe. Imagine living in a world without Gunners, Patrick - don’t you think Pete would forgive you for one more mission if we wiped them out?”

Patrick stares at him, mouth slightly open, “Fuck,” he mumbles, “Fuck. Where the hell did you learn to be such a manipulative bastard, Preston?”

Preston huffs out a laugh and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, “It’s the burden of command,” he says.

He sighs and copies Preston, crossing his arms over his chest and staring up at the vaulted stone ceiling. He promised Pete that he wouldn’t rejoin the Minutemen again. He’d sworn that he was Pete’s. He doesn’t want to go back on that promise, especially knowing Pete’s terrible, self-hating worry - the sheer panic he’d had back in Concord.

But.

He unfolds one hand and rubs at his forehead with a knuckle. Pete isn’t here to worry right now, and this is possibly one of the most important missions the Commonwealth has ever seen.

Patrick breathes deeply, sending a heartfelt apology to his fiance, wherever he currently is. Christ, he hopes he’ll be able to explain - that Pete will forgive him…

“I’ll need a new hat,” he tells Preston.

Preston smiles at him sadly, “Thank you,” he says, “I know how difficult this is for you, but thank you, Captain Stump, for your service.”

They spend a very boring day huddled in the house out of the rain. Joe still has his deck of cards and they play innumerable hands of poker using ripped pieces of damp card as chips, watching the downpour. Pete is especially disturbed to discover that for all he acts as though he’s currently living on a different planet to the rest of them, Tom is actually some kind of Poker savant. He wins hand after hand apparently on accident while carrying on a one-sided conversation about what he thinks the controls of the Vertibird will be like. Most of the time he even forgets to collect his winnings.

This doesn’t seem to be news to Deacon or Andy, who just nudge him to remind Tom to pick them up.

Occasionally, Hancock will head outside and scout out the area to save on the need for radiation drugs.

Once they’re bored of cards, Joe and Andy catch him up on everything that’s happened to them since Pete had left, which is by turns rage-inducing, terrifying and hilarious.

“After we spent all that time building too!” he remarks in outrage when Joe tells him about the Brotherhood arriving at the farm, “Tell me they won’t wreck the place too much?!”

Joe shrugs, “I mean, without any settlers living there it’ll be pretty useless to them - they’re not going to waste time farming themselves. I imagine they’ll want to strip anything useful, like the contents of the lockers, but honestly, it all really depends on how angry they are with me personally. Spite is a pretty powerful motivator.”

“I hope Suzie is alright,” Pete says, “Patrick will be so upset if they hurt her.”

“They’ll probably just let her loose,” Joe says, patting at his knee, “She’s clever - she’ll be alright.”

Pete stares out of the window, through the remains of the cracked glass and out at the cloudy, gray Commonwealth. Hancock is right outside, leaning up against a post of the veranda and smoking a cigarette. Deacon is off with Tom, who’s had a brainwave about one of the traps and headed out to fix it.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to deal with them?” he asks, “The Brotherhood, I mean. Tell me you’re both going to come back…”

Neither Joe or Andy say anything for a moment.

Eventually, Andy shifts awkwardly, “We’ll do our best,” he says, “I mean, we’re not planning on this being a suicide mission, you know…”

Pete huffs, “Don’t even fucking joke about that please,” he replies.

Joe pats him again, “Just don’t let Hancock talk you into a threesome with anyone while we’re gone,” he advises.

The rain finally stops sometime around nightfall. Pete volunteers to stay on watch - he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

“They'll be okay, won't they?” he whispers to Patrick once everyone is asleep, “It's one of Joe's plans, so it should be brilliant.”

He rubs a knuckle against his forehead, a patented Patrick-move that somehow helps to calm him down.

“They'll be okay,” he tells Patrick, trying to sound confident, “Everyone's going to be just fine.”

Patrick walks straight to the bar after leaving the meeting room. It’s absolutely heaving with Minutemen, but they embarrassingly clear a path for him almost as soon as he opens the door. Mac and Levi have taken over a small corner table and are working their way through a bottle of whisky. Levi has his feet propped on probably the only spare seat in the room, a shit-eating grin on his face as he shoves it towards him with a foot.

“Patrick,” he greets, “We saved you a seat.”

“He’s been telling everyone it’s yours,” Mac sighs, “And everyone has been staring at us.”

Some protective coating of sarcasm takes over Patrick’s mouth, “Well, I’m famous,” he tells Mac, “I’m not surprised.”

Mac laughs and pours him a shot, “Here you go, Mister Stump,” he says.

Patrick sits down and knocks it back. “Actually,” he says, wiping his mouth, “That’s Captain Stump to you.”

Macready freezes, his own drink halfway to his mouth, “What?” he asks, “You rejoined?”

“Apparently so,” Patrick shrugs, reaching for the bottle, “For this mission only.”

“Ha!” Levi says cheerfully, “The Gunners won’t stand a chance now - not with Deadeye on the case!”

Patrick rolls his eyes, “If they all start calling me that, I’m blaming you.”

“I mean, as far as nicknames go, that’s not a bad one,” Mac points out, “I’ve certainly had worse.”

“Thanks for your support,” Patrick tells him, rubbing his mouth, “Jesus, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell Pete about this.”

“I’m sure he’ll be very proud,” Mac says, “He can’t possibly blame you for wanting to fight.”

Patrick drinks another shot, “I hope so,” he sighs, “I really, really hope so. This is pretty much the one thing I promised him I wouldn’t do.”

The next morning is bright and clear and Joe wakes first, scooting over to sit in the caravan doorway. They've done everything they can, he thinks - there's very little more six Wastelanders can do in order to prepare to take on a Brotherhood squad, even relatively well trained ones like they are. Tom has set traps around the most likely spots they'll want to scavenge, tempting them over with scrappy piles of aluminum and tech. Pete and Hancock are hanging around the house, playacting as settlers, and everyone else knows their ambush locations.

Now all they need is a fucking Vertibird and then Joe can go and do something even more dangerous.

He rubs a hand over the remains of his hair - he still wants to refuse to allow Andy to join him on the Vertibird, but knows that anything he says against the idea will not go down well. The idea of him risking his life alongside him makes him shaky with worry, even as he knows that Andy is thinking the exact same thing. It's a devastating downside to finding the love of your life, Joe realizes - he hasn't had anyone to worry about in so long that he thinks he managed to forget what it’s like.

Behind him, Andy flops over onto his side and says, “Hand me the Mutfruit, Doctor, I'm ready…” which makes Joe laugh so hard that Andy snorts awake.

Christ, but he needs to get this mission right - he'll never forgive himself if the Brotherhood hurt even a single hair on Andy's beloved head.

Patrick walks into the Castle’s Quartermaster's office straight after breakfast the following day to be confronted by Corporal Bennett behind the counter, checking things off a clipboard.

He coughs lightly to catch her attention and Bennett spins around, a wide smile taking over her face, “Mister Stump!” she says brightly, “How can I help?”

Patrick automatically falls into some kind of parade rest, feet apart, hands behind his back, “It’s Captain Stump,” he says. He’s getting a little tired of it, honestly. Hopefully Major Garvey will put out some kind of announcement soon.

Bennett blinks at him, “Oh, uh, yes, of course, Captain. How can I help, sir?”

“I need kitting out,” he explains, “Uniform and hat. Captain’s insignia too, if you can.”

She nods. “I think I have just what you need,” she tells him.

An hour later, Minuteman Captain Patrick Stump steps out onto the parade ground dressed in as complete a uniform as Corporal Bennett could supply him, a battered new-to-him hat on his head. He adjusts the strap of his rifle over his shoulder. His thick tan canvas coat has new, hand-stitched sets of metal Captain’s bars on the shoulders. He feels a complicated mix of emotions, but as he marches towards Major Garvey’s office and Minutemen salute him as he goes by, the more he feels like as long as Pete can forgive him, he’s made the right decision - now he's here, the idea of returning to fucking Quincy without the metaphorical armor of a Minuteman uniform makes something low in his gut squirm like he's swallowed live bloatfly larvae.

One more mission, he tries to tell himself sternly. One more, and then he'll be happy.

Above the old airport, a single Vertibird detaches from the looming blimp and flies off west.

A little past midday they finally hear what they have been waiting the past two and a half days for.

“Go!” Joe yells as the ‘whup, whup’ of a Vertibird grows closer.

Everyone scatters.

Pete feels incredibly foolish hanging out in the garden of the ruined house with Hancock as the Vertibird containing a heavily armed Brotherhood squad approaches. He's never been the Wasteland’s greatest actor, and this is going to have to be an award-winning performance.

Hancock has dragged two of the surviving chairs out onto the veranda, arranged his crumpled pack of cigarettes and the chipped plate he's been using as an ashtray on the wide ledge of the railing and settled down, feet kicked up and looking for all the world like he's on a relaxing vacation.

Pete, for his part, fusses with the campfire they'd set up just off to the side, arranging and rearranging the firewood nervously. At the very least, fear will be a pretty natural reaction from a dude dressed in a t-shirt and jacket and armed only with a shitty 10mm pistol when confronted by several heavily armed and armored soldiers.

‘They'll be very patronising,’ both Joe and Andy had told him, recalling Andy and Oz’s run in with the squad at the airplane crash. He tries to resist the urge to pat the nail hiding under his shirt.

There's a gust of wind as the Vertibird hovers briefly and finally lands on the road just outside. Pete claps his hand to his head, holding onto Hancock’s borrowed three-pointed hat, keeping it shoved down his forehead, trapping the strands of his too-long messy hair against his Gunner tattoo, hopefully hiding it.

“Here we go,” Hancock murmurs as the Vertibird door swings open, “Cross everything you have, little dude…”

It could, Pete realizes as the soldiers climb out of the Vertibird, be worse. Including the pilot, there are only four people - two soldiers in suits of Power Armor and one mousy looking man in a strange red robe. The soldiers in Armor clank their way closer.

“Wastelanders!” one of them says, “This scrapyard has been claimed by the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Pete is so taken aback that he just stares at them, a lump of charred firewood forgotten in his hand.

“Oh great,” the soldier who had spoken says in what Pete can only assume he thinks is an undertone, “More of them. Why are all these people so stupid?”

“Excuse me?” Pete protests without thinking, “What the fuck does that mean?”

The man in the robe pushes his way forward, “Let me try,” he tells the soldier, and turning to Pete, “Hello,” he says, waving and speaking slowly, “This,” he continues, gesturing widely to the scrapyard, “Is where we,” a big, circular motion, encompassing the squad, “Collect,” he mimes picking up something, “Metal,” this is accompanied by a light ṭap on the closest soldier's Armor.

Pete stares at him, agog. He hadn’t been quite prepared for this level of patronising. Behind him, Hancock bursts out laughing.

The two armored soldiers alongside the man in the robe jerk back at the sound, hands going to their weapons.

“What the hell is that!?” one of them says.

The robed man waves a calming hand, “It's just a Ghoul,” he says.

“It?” Hancock questions testily, “Just? I beg your pardon? I think you'll find that I'm all man, baby…”

Pete stands up, dropping the wood and holding his hands out, showing that they're empty, “We're not interested in the scrapyard,” he says, trying to calm the situation, “We just want a safe place to live… maybe we could work something out?”

“Hummm,” the first soldier says thoughtfully.

“We could use them,” the second soldier points out, “They could keep a watch for us.”

Robe dude scoffs, “Really?” he asks incredulously, “These… people?”

“Hey!” Pete interjects, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Look,” Hancock says, a shade more diplomatically, “We don't want any of the shit out there. If you boys want it, it's all yours. All we want is the house.”

“We could maybe work something out with them,” Soldier one says to robe dude as though they're not standing right in front of them, “We'll need to talk to Elder Maxon.” He turns to Pete and asks, “Are you thinking of starting a farm here? We could do with a steady supply of Razorgrain.”

“Maybe,” Hancock offers lightly. The squad all glance at him briefly, Robe dude giving him a strange look as though he's a Molerat that has learnt to do an odd, but faintly impressive trick.

“Maybe,” Pete repeats deliberately.

“We don't have time for this,” Robe dude says, huffily, “Let's just get what we need. Stay out of our way… civilians.” He pronounces the word ‘civilians’ like Pete would pronounce the words ‘putrid, infected, Brahmin corpse’.

With that, the two soldiers and their friend stomp off towards the scrapyard. Pete glances back at Hancock, now leaning on the railing, hands clasped in front of him, “One more in the ‘bird,” he murmurs under his breath, “I guess he’s ours.”

The shitty 10mm at Pete’s waistband practically burns in anticipation.

Two soldiers and a scribe march into the scrapyard and Joe watches them from his vantage point by the caravan.

“We need aluminum scrap,” the scribe says, “As much as possible.” The sound of his voice makes the hair stand up on Joe's arms. Something in the back of his mind recognizes it.

“What about the settlers?” one of the soldiers asks, “What should we do with them?”

“Ignore them,” the scribe says, “An abomination and an idiot? They won't last long - we'll be able to install a few compliant Wastelanders easily enough. If we leave them alone for now, they might even fully organize the location for us before we take over.”

One of the soldiers laughs in reply, echoing over their Armor mic.

Joe just stares through the tiny gap in between the slats of his dirty Raider cabin hiding place. The scribe is roughly the right age, and looks exactly like Joe would expect after so many years. This, he realizes, has just gotten a hell of a lot more personally complicated.

There aren’t many people that Joe remembers from the Capitol Wasteland, but Samson is one of them. They used to be… Actually, Joe hesitates to call him a friend. They’d worked together, certainly - Samson specialised in water filtration systems, so they occasionally had reasons to work together - and he had definitely been one of the more die-hard believers in the Brotherhood of Steel’s mission to ‘civilize’ the Wasteland.

“I mean,” Samson says, kicking over a piece of wood, “There’s no other use for scum like that. That Ghoul will go feral and eat that other one sooner rather than later. Honestly, the faster we manage to purify this area of dangerous undesirables, the better - I can't understand how these people can live like this - the Ghoul problem around here seems to be rampant, but I suppose that's what happens when you treat them as though they’re real people.”

Well, that pretty much gets rid of any lingering feeling of guilt over what’s about to happen, Joe guesses. He looks over and down the other side of the walkway between the piles of scrap, trying to spot Andy in his hiding place.

The three Brotherhood guys are heading towards one of Tom's traps. Joe charges his laser pistol. This is no time for a reunion.

Scribe Samson points at one of their piles of booby-trapped metal, “There,” he says, “That.”

Joe ducks back behind cover, holding his laser pistol out in front of him, flicking off the safety. Somewhere off to his right, he imagines everyone else hiding in the scrapyard are doing the exact same thing.

He listens as one of the soldiers clanks towards the trap. Joe holds his breath.

The explosion from Tom’s trap is very loud. Andy is very, very pleased that he’s hiding behind a wall and a sturdy cabinet, but even so, shrapnel slams into the wood next to him, making him jump.

It makes his ears ring, and he snaps his shotgun stock back together. He’s not going to be much use at this range, but buckshot usually keeps his enemies busy enough for other people to pick them off.

Andy risks a glance around the edge of the cabinet. The cargo container that Tom had staged his trap in has been blown open, jagged edges peeled back. He stares at the wreck, mouth dropped open. Tom had only used a small handful of the explosives supplied by the Minutemen, and he suddenly feels very thankful that he hadn’t seen this result before he’d been asked to carry the stuff all the way here.

The man in the red robe is sitting on the ground, covered in soot and dirt, legs in front of him, propped up on his hands and staring at the remains of the container and the suit of Power Armor that had, until a few seconds ago, contained a soldier. Said soldier is now very much not contained by anything. A slightly hysterical part of Andy that sounds annoyingly like Deacon thinks that the only thing that the soldier could be contained in now is probably going to have to be some kind of bucket. They'll need a mop first though. He claps a hand over his mouth to prevent the very shameful laugh he can feel climbing up his throat.

“Knight Delecroix?” the man in red asks, sounding shell-shocked. Andy isn't surprised - he's feeling pretty shell-shocked too, and he'd been expecting it.

“I think Delecroix is dead, sir,” the remaining soldier says slowly. His suit of Armor is pock-marked with blackened divots, but he's still standing, clutching his laser rifle. He also can't seem to be able to take his eyes off the remains of the container.

“What the hell was that?” the man demands, edging into panic.

“An explosion, sir,” the soldier explains helpfully.

Andy looks over and up at where Tom and Deacon have been waiting. The lumpy, awkward barrel of Tom's long, homemade gun is poking over the top of the car trunk they're hiding behind. There’s a long handful of seconds where Andy is waiting for someone else to take the opening shot, after which he realizes that it probably should be him. He pushes his shotgun around the corner of the cabinet, sights down at the man in red and shoots, firing an expanding cloud of buckshot down at them.

It’s time to go.

Andy fires his shotgun towards Scribe Samson, who screeches at the sound. Joe swings out into the open doorway of his shack, taking careful aim with his laser pistol, but before he can fire, there's the odd whistling crack of Tom's gun and the soldier’s Power Armor suddenly sprouts a six inch spike right in the chestplate.

“What the hell was that!?” Samson shouts again, “Knight Wagner?”

Wagner looks down at the spike. “Uh,” he says, “I think we might be under attack.”

It’s pretty nice to know that the Brotherhood of Steel’s education practices for its Knights doesn’t seem to have changed since Joe was a kid.

Scribe Samson's head is still in his sights. Joe fires.

The pilot of the Vertibird hops out of the machine and slams the door. To Pete’s knee-weakening relief he’s not in Power Armor, but a thick sweater and vast multi-pocketed vest. Useful and warm, certainly, but not precisely the pinnacle of ballistic protection.

Hancock hops down the stairs next to him, “Wanna wait until something happens in the yard?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth, “We could get closer? Element of surprise and all that?”

Pete nods wordlessly.

Hancock strides forward, heading down the garden and hopping the fallen fence. Pete stumbles after him. “Hey man,” Hancock calls to the pilot, “Wow, what the heck is that thing?”

The pilot turns to them, glancing between Pete and Hancock, looking a little panicked. “What?” he says, backing up away from them, “Uh,” he calls out to Pete, “Could you call your… uh, Ghoul off please?”

“I beg your pardon?” Pete demands, frowning.

The pilot gestures, “Your Ghoul,” he repeats, “Um, could you make it back up? It’s getting a little close.”

Hancock crosses his arms, obviously unimpressed but depressingly unsurprised.

“It!?” Pete says, outraged on his behalf. Not even the Gunners had gone this far, generally viewing regular Ghouls with the exact same disdain that they'd viewed everyone else in the Commonwealth.

Hancock just sighs.

“Look man, I just don’t want it to damage my Vertibird,” the pilot says, digging himself even deeper, “I’ll get in so much trouble if it messes it up.”

“Stop calling him it,” Pete protests, “He has a name.”

The pilot blinks at him, “It does?” he says, “Why?” which pretty much seals his fate as far as Pete is concerned.

“So your Momma has something she can scream in bed,” Hancock snaps back before Pete can reply.

The look on the pilot’s face is one that Pete will personally remember for a very long time - it seems to be made up of anger, disgust and a sort of reluctant, horrified amusement. He tries to fix the moment in his mind so that he’ll be able to accurately describe it around campfires for the rest of his life. Joe will find it especially funny.

“It can’t speak to me like that!” the pilot sputters, “Make it stop!”

Pete is done. He shrugs, “Sorry,” he says, “I think he might be going feral. Not much I can do, to be honest.”

Hancock leers at the pilot, showing his teeth and making him take another step back to bump into the side of the Vertibird, “Oh yeah,” he agrees, “In fact, I…”

But Pete never gets to find out what brilliant thing Hancock was about to tell the pilot as right at that moment, something in the scrapyard explodes.

The pilot yells in wordless surprise, and in a move that would have Pete seriously reconsidering the threesome if he'd been single, Hancock smoothly pulls Pete’s gun out of the back of his waistband, takes off the safety one handed and shoots the pilot point blank in the head.

“Asshole,” he mutters as the body falls to the floor. Pete can’t help but agree.

Chapter Text

Hancock and Pete approach the scrapyard very slowly. The sounds of gunfire have stopped - and had really only been audible for a short time - which is either good or awful news.

The first thing Pete sees is a suit of Power Armor lying on the ground with approximately a dozen thick spikes sticking out of it. Tom and Deacon are clambering down from their hiding spots a little way off.

“You get yours?” Deacon calls over to them.

“Easy!” Hancock says, “Clean one to the head - so we even managed to save his uniform for you.”

“Excellent,” Deacon beams, “Well done.”

“Pete!” Joe calls from further into the scrapyard, “Are you alright?”

Pete waves back at him. He’s standing over the body of Robe dude with Andy a little way behind him, peering into the destroyed shipping container.

Hancock bends over and picks up a long laser rifle, poking the ammo chamber until it opens so that he can check the fusion cell. “It’s barely drained,” he says, sounding impressed, “You boys did well.”

“We might have gone a little overboard on the explosion,” Andy remarks, wandering closer and taking the rifle out of Hancock’s hands, “There’s barely anything left of the first guy, Tom.”

Tom looks worryingly proud, “Yeah man, yeah…” he says, nodding.

“Could you, uh, go and remove the rest of them safely?” Andy asks, “I don’t want to leave shit like that lying around for innocent Wastelanders to discover while scavenging.”

Tom appears to consider this, “Should be able to,” he offers, “If I can remember where they all are.”

At that, everyone currently milling around the area, poking at things, all stop immediately. Pete feels very grateful that he’s still standing beside the dead soldier in the middle of the scrap clearing.

“You, uh, don’t remember where all your traps are?” Hancock asks, freezing as he’s bent over and examining the inside of a wrecked safe.

Deacon sighs, “I do,” he announces to everyone’s relief. He tugs at Tom’s sleeve, “Come on then, let’s go. You had one over there next to that bus.”

They watch as the two of them head further into the scrapyard, Deacon steering Tom with a hand gripped tightly around his sleeve.

“Well then,” Andy sighs, “Thanks for all your help, I guess.”

Hancock nods, “Are all four of you going?”

Joe scratches awkwardly at the back of his head, but doesn’t say anything.

“Yes,” Andy says decisively after a beat, “Four of them came here, so it’ll look a lot less suspicious if four of us take off.”

Pete nods, “Okay,” he says, “I guess me and Hancock will head for the Castle then.”

“Awesome,” Joe says finally, “I’m pretty sure you’ll know when we’re successful.”

Pete can’t help but laugh shakily, “I’m sure everyone in the Commonwealth will, yeah… Fuck, but you guys better stay safe.”

Andy strides forward and scoops Pete up in a hug, the laser rifle thumping against his back, “We will see you soon,” he tells him, “We’ll find Patrick. We’ll go to Diamond City so you can get married and then we’ll all go home. Everything will be alright.”

Pete rubs his cheek on Andy’s shoulder, “He told you about the wedding then?” he says.

“Wouldn’t shut up about it,” Andy smiles, patting his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Pete suddenly realizes, “I never told you, did I? Turns out your buddy Arturo? From the gun store in Diamond City?”

Andy pulls away slightly so that Pete can see his face, “Uh-huh?”

“He's my cousin,” Pete says.

Andy stares at him, mouth dropping open. “What?”

“His Mom was my Dad's sister,” Pete explains, grinning at Andy's surprise.

Clutching one-handed at Pete's shoulders, Andy holds Pete out in front of him, “You're Faye's nephew?” he demands, “For real?”

Pete nods.

“You're one of the nephews she used to visit out by the coast?” he asks, “She thought you all died! Oh my God, she was so upset when David came through and told her that the farm had been attacked!”

“I was hiding,” Pete tells him, “I ran, and that's when Kingston found me.”

Andy reels him back in for another big hug, “I just wish she could have met you again,” he says a little tearfully, “She was like my Mom, and I know she missed you all so much.”

From a dude holding a large, high-tech gun, this is a little more emotional than Pete thinks is appropriate.

Joe seems to agree, “Alright, put him down, Sport - we need to get everything sorted for our little trip.”

“This is such good news,” Andy tells him as he finally lets go, “I bet Arturo was thrilled.”

Pete nods, “He was,” he agrees, “We’ll all catch up together in Diamond City. I bet he can tell us all sorts of embarrassing stories about you as a kid.”

Andy laughs, “He sure can,” he says, “Ask him about my first job some time.”

Pete grins, “Will do.”

“Right,” Hancock says, sounding amused, “Come on, little dude, let’s pack up the house, get ready for our own trip, yeah?”

Breathing out a long breath, Pete says, “Sure. I’ll cook something too - you should eat something before you go.”

Joe grins and pats his shoulder, “We won’t leave until tonight at the very earliest,” he says, “But that sounds great. No larvae though - that would be a terrible goodbye present.”

“I totally regret telling you about that,” Pete grumbles.

“Your own fault,” Joe tells him cheerfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete agrees, “See you back at the house.”

Hancock strips the pilot while Pete starts a cooking fire, folding his clothes surprisingly neatly before dragging the body off to join the pile of dead Supermutants.

They’ve just got a pan of stew on the go when Joe, Andy, Deacon and Tom all troop back up to the house.

“Oh man,” Tom says appreciatively, staring at the Vertibird parked on the road at the end of the garden. He rubs his hands together and heads over to it, flipping his ever-present goggles down over his eyes and flinging open the door to the cockpit.

“Well,” Deacon says, walking over to the fire and watching the engineer, “That’s part one of this crazy plan sorted, I guess.”

Pete stirs the stew, “Are you absolutely sure he can fly that thing?” he asks under his breath as Tom vaults himself into the pilot's seat and starts flipping switches and grabs hold of the control stick. Any second now, Pete thinks, he’s going to start making pretend engine noises with his mouth.

Deacon shoves his hands into his pockets, “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all my time with my little organization,” he says, “Is that Tom can usually work out pretty much anything he puts his mind to…”

“Well, that’s… reassuring,” Pete says.

“I’m not kidding,” Deacon tells him, “You’ve seen that gun? The one that shoots the spikes? He built that. He made us a set of these machines that I can’t even pretend to understand that we’ve put around the Commonwealth that somehow transmit us data about the atmosphere. He’s probably on the verge of working out how the Institute manages to get around. I know that he looks, sounds and smells like a lunatic, but he’s probably the cleverest person I know.”

It’s honestly disturbing how fast Patrick manages to get back into the swing of being a Minuteman officer again.

He takes a seat in Preston’s office with Ferguson, Juarez and McDonald and they discuss their options around fucking Quincy. Patrick is given command of the long-distance team - all the snipers, Sergeant Horowitz and anyone else trusted with a rocket or Mini-Nuke launcher.

He assembles his new squad with the thrilled help of Horowitz and the amused help of Macready and takes them out onto the beach for a little bit of target practice so that he can get a better idea of what they can all do and every single one of them salute him meticulously and call him Sir.

He’s just helping a young private adjust her rifle when someone shouts from up on the walls of the Castle and looks up to see a large crowd of Minutemen approaching from the west.

“Right,” he announces, “I’m going to check that out,” he tells Horowitz, “Can you continue this for me please, Sergeant? Make sure Private Luang can fire with that adjustment?”

Levi salutes, “Yessir,” he grins.

Patrick flashes him a very unprofessional grin in return and heads back up the beach, trailed by Macready who has spent most of his morning doing almost the exact opposite Patrick has ordered his new squad to do in some kind of half-protest, half-stubborn-headed opposition to authority.

“You’re doing well,” he tells Patrick as they walk, “You’re a good officer. Very… inspiring.”

“Thank you,” Patrick says, startled, “I always tried to be. My first commanding officer was a great man - I always wanted to make him proud of me, you know?”

He’s sort of expecting Mac to make a sarcastic comment, to make a joke of Patrick’s honesty, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets and nods, looking down at the ground as they walk back through the small back gate. “I hear that,” he says quietly, “I just hope I’m not too late.”

Patrick is just about to ask, but then someone shouts, “PATRICK! Oh my gosh!”

He jerks his head around, looking for the source of the noise, but then gets basically tackled around his stomach by a very short, frizzy-haired Minuteman.

“Ooof,” he grunts, “Hello Kizzie. How have you been?”

From behind Kizzie, Emma says, “Hello Patrick. You certainly look like you’ve got some news for us.”

“Oh my gosh!” Kizzie says again, pulling away and tugging at the lapels of Patrick’s uniform coat, smoothing them down, “I'm ever so sorry, Captain,” she takes a few steps back and salutes cheekily.

“I thought you resigned your commission, Captain,” Emma says.

Patrick bites at his lip, “Major Garvey talked me into… unresigning, I guess,” he admits.

“Wow,” Kizzie says, “Does Pete know?”

Patrick shakes his head wordlessly. Kizzie squeezes him into another tight hug. “He'll be so proud of you,” she tells him, “Where is he? Is he okay?”

“As far as I know,” Patrick admits, “He managed to escape the Plaza before the Brotherhood attacked - the last I heard he'd left Diamond City. I was hoping he was here, but…” he trails off and shrugs.

“He'll be looking for you,” Kizzie tells him, “I bet you anything you like.”

“I hope so,” Patrick sighs, “And I hope he won't be too upset about all this.” He plucks at the lapel of his uniform in demonstration.

“Darling,” Kizzie says with a kind smile, “That boy loves you so much, he'd forgive you pretty much anything. I wouldn't worry about a single thing.”

Patrick smiles back weakly, “Thank you,” he replies.

“We should report in,” Emma says, “See you in the bar later, Patrick? You can tell us what you've been up to since you left Concord.”

“Sure,” Patrick says gratefully, “See you there.”

He winds up getting three more people for his squad from the new arrivals - two overwhelmed looking Privates and a Sergeant who has hair almost as orange as Captain Ferguson’s but thankfully cut into a much less amusing style - and then Major Garvey surprises him by asking if he would recommend Horowitz for a promotion to Lieutenant.

“Yes, of course,” Patrick tells him quickly, “He'll be an excellent choice.”

“Great,” Garvey replies, shuffling some papers on the desk in front of him, “Great… that's your command structure for the offensive sorted then, now that Sergeant Massey has arrived. Do you want to tell him the good news?”

“Uh, sure, alright. No problem,” Patrick agrees, nonplussed by the offer.

Garvey gives him a wry grin, “If you could maybe at least try to remember that you're back in uniform, Captain, that would be appreciated.”

The sarcasm startles a salute out of him, “Sorry, Major,” he apologizes.

Major Garvey leans forward over his desk and whispers conspiratorially, “It's just that I'll get in such awful trouble with Captain McDonald if I let standards slip any more…”

Patrick huffs out a laugh, “Are we planning on leaving in the morning, Sir?” he asks.

“At dawn, if we can manage it,” Major Garvey agrees, “Please make sure your squad is ready.”

Patrick salutes again, “Yessir,” he says, “We'll be there.”

He walks back down to the beach alongside his new Sergeant, vividly aware that the two Privates are following them and conducting a not-quite-quiet-enough whispered conversation about how nobody back at the Estate will believe them that they're under the command of none other than the famous Captain Stump. Sergeant Massey keeps giving him amused, commiserating glances.

Macready is already back, sitting on the beach, eating a Mutfruit and watching the target practice with the air of someone who knows for a fact that they are already as good as it's possible to get.

“Sergeant Horowitz, a word!” Patrick bellows over the sound of gunfire.

“Carry on,” Horowitz orders the squad, “I'll buy a drink for the first team that manages to hit all their targets!” With that, he ambles over to Patrick and the new Sergeant, “Sir?” he asks.

“Sergeant Horowitz, this is Sergeant Massey from up in Concord. She's joining our squad.”

“Sergeant,” Horowitz greets, holding out a hand for her to shake.

“If you could take over the practice, Sergeant Massey, that would be good,” Patrick orders, “Put one of the Privates in each team.”

“Sir,” she says, saluting, before leading the two soldiers away to where the squad is lined up and taking turns aiming at a ranged set of empty Nuka-Cola bottles set up along the shore.

“Is everything alright, Captain?” Horowitz asks.

“I suppose that entirely depends on your point of view,” Patrick tells him, fishing around in his pocket, “Major Garvey asked me to give you these…”

The two little Lieutenant’s bars have been cut roughly out of some kind of thin scrap metal with two unevenly drilled holes to allow them to be sewn onto a uniform coat. One of them is obviously slightly more silver than the other. He holds them out to Horowitz cupped in his palm, possibly aware that this might not be enough ceremony for the event, but the Ex-Raider doesn't seem like the sort of person who would mind.

Sergeant Horowitz stares down at them. Patrick thinks like he might have a small idea about how Pete was feeling as he held Patrick’s nail out to him, waiting for a response.

“Seriously?” Horowitz says eventually.

“Seriously, Lieutenant,” Patrick replies.

Lieutenant Horowitz’s giant, crack-toothed smile is a thing of, if not beauty, then at least triumph.

Pete and Hancock leave the scrapyard after they have the meal that isn't quite lunch and isn't quite dinner.

There's quite a lot of hugging as he says goodbye to Joe and Andy, which obviously makes the Ghoul pull a series of incredibly entertained faces.

“Please be safe,” Pete pleads to Joe at the edge of the garden, “Don't take any big risks - we'd much rather have you here than no Brotherhood. You can always make another plan.”

Joe glances back at Andy, Deacon and Tom, gently bickering by the dying fire, “No risks,” he agrees, “We'll see you again. If you leave the Castle, tell George where you're going and we'll find you.”

Pete swallows, “We're ours,” he tells Joe.

“We're ours,” Joe nods in return, pulling Pete back in and pressing their foreheads together, “Patrick promised I'd be your best man - I'm not gonna miss giving that speech, you know?”

Pete chuckles, “Oh, damn, I was hoping for Andy. We were gonna flip a cap.”

“So I heard,” Joe replies darkly.

Pete holds his hands out in surrender, “Hey, if I understand everything correctly, Andy's basically my step-cousin. You can't blame me for hoping.”

Joe rolls his eyes, “Alright,” he says peevishly, “You can go now.”

“Stay safe,” Pete says again, “Please.”

“We will see you again soon,” Joe confirms, “Now, be off with you. Go find Patrick - get the first round of reunion sex out of the way before we have to witness it, at least.”

Pete and Hancock walk away from the house together.

“They've set the Castle up nice,” Hancock tells him, “Good bar.”

“Uh-huh,” Pete mumbles vaguely.

“Cheer up, little dude,” Hancock says, “Joe and Andy? They'll be aces.”

“I know,” Pete says, trying to sound confident, “Joe knows what he’s doing. I just hope everyone else does.”

They walk in silence for a little while and then Hancock says, “I can’t wait to see you and your fella together.”

Pete narrows his eyes, “When you say ‘together,’” he asks suspiciously, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Oh, you know - anything I can get, honestly,” Hancock grins, “I don’t know how I managed to get so close to so many excellent opportunities for ogling, but I was obviously very good in a previous life.”

“You’re not going to ogle me and Patrick,” Pete protests, “Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

“Let’s see what your Patrick says about that,” Hancock says airily.

“I think he’ll say the same, actually,” Pete points out, “He's probably mentioned that already.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hancock sighs, “You boys spoil all my fun… Honestly - so many sweet dudes, and none of you are available. It’s depressing.”

“I bet you’ll get over it,” Pete tells him, “I bet there are plenty of Minutemen in the Castle who wanna get their freak on.”

“Bah,” Hancock says, “Whatever.”

Pete grabs at the nail, pulling it out from under his shirt and letting it rest out in the open. He’s not going to be afraid any more. “See this?” he asks, shaking it in Hancock’s direction, “This is our promise. I pulled this out of the wood we’re building our house with and Patrick has one too. This is our future together.”

Hancock smiles at him, “That’s adorable,” he says gently, “You know I’m only kidding, right?”

Pete smiles at him, “I know,” he tells him, “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“No worries, little dude,” Hancock says, “I’ll survive.”

“Hey,” Pete says with a sudden idea, “You wanna be a bride… I mean, groomsmaid?”

“Oh boy, do I!” Hancock says enthusiastically, “Do I get to wear a dress?”

“Sure, why not?” Pete replies, “I bet we could find you one in Diamond City.”

“Ah,” Hancock says delicately, gesturing at his general ghoulishness, “I’m… not exactly welcome in Diamond City, you dig?”

“Oh,” Pete says, slowing down, “Shit, sorry - I hadn’t thought about that.”

Hancock claps him on the back, “I tell you what,” he offers, “You dudes get married without me, and then come to Goodneighbor - I’ll throw you the greatest wedding party the Commonwealth has ever seen.”

“Deal,” Pete agrees, “Patrick likes whiskey, so make sure you have plenty.”

“I’m frankly disgusted by the idea that you think I don’t already have plenty of whiskey back home,” Hancock tuts.

That startles a laugh out of him, “Sorry,” he apologises with a smile, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Hancock waves a hand, “I’ll book out The Third Rail,” he offers, “We’ll drink it dry - invite all your friends.”

“I don’t exactly have many friends,” Pete points out, “I think I have, like, three, and I’m marrying one of them.”

“Wow, you’re not doing a good job at not offending me, little dude - you’re not counting me as a friend now?” Hancock sighs.

“Oh,” Pete blinks, “Oh, yes, I suppose you are…”

“And don’t forget Deacon and Tom,” Hancock reminds him, “And I bet if you think about it, there’ll be all kinds of people who would love to count you as a friend… You’re a good guy, Pete Wentz, you just can’t see it properly.”

The thought makes Pete feel unaccountably itchy and awkward, “Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, trying to change the subject, “Come on - I want to get to the Castle as soon as possible.”

Patrick is very pleased to discover that the cooks have used the Mirelurk that they had brought to the Castle, so he settles in at a table with Macready, Emma, Kizzie and the still beamingly proud new Lieutenant Horowitz and a delicious-looking plate of grilled ‘Lurk.

He smiles down at his dinner. He might not have Pete, Joe and Andy, but this is turning out to be a pretty good day nonetheless.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Mac asks, bringing his mood back down to earth with a thump.

“Moving out at dawn,” he sighs, “We’ll walk down to fucking Quincy and dig in with the guys in that gas station on the coast. Major Garvey wants to get into position under cover of darkness so we can attack at first light.”

Mac nods, “Good idea,” he says.

“Our squad can get up high,” Patrick explains, “There are plenty of good spots - the one I… where I… I mean, last time, I found a place where I could cover the overpass and a decent section of town. I’ll probably set up there again.”

Macready pushes a small pile of corn around his plate, “Are you sure that’ll be a good idea?” he asks.

“Not really,” Patrick admits, “But it’s the best one I’ve got.”

“We’ll be alright this time,” Emma says calmly - and Patrick remembers that both her and Kizzie had also been at fucking Quincy last time too, “We’ve got more troops, more weapons. We won’t be caught on the back foot this time - we’ll be on the attack, not trying to defend against an invasion. The Gunners have no backup coming. It’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” Patrick says weakly, “Sure.”

Horowitz shovels the final mouthful of his dinner into his mouth, “Well,” he says, “I’ve got to go - I’m in command of the watch this evening, so I need to make my rounds with the guards on duty.”

Patrick grabs at the change of subject with both hands, “You’re doing an amazing job,” he tells Horowitz, “I told Major Garvey as much.”

“Thank you, Captain Stump,” Horowitz says, pushing back in his chair and standing up, “That means a lot coming from someone as famous as you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Patrick groans.

“What’s all this about?” Kizzie asks, “Famous?”

“Oh man,” Macready says gleefully, “You don’t know about our local celebrity yet?”

“You can shut up too,” Patrick protests, pointing at the young sniper accusingly.

Macready sniffs theatrically, “You can’t tell me what to do,” he teases, “I’m not in your chain of command, remember?”

Patrick covers his face with his hands and slumps backwards in his seat as Horowitz walks away, chuckling, and Mac says, “Alright then - did you guys hear about the sniper taking out the Gunner squads over the radio?”

“I’m not hanging around here for this,” Patrick says to nobody in particular, “I’m going to find somewhere quieter to eat this.”

“We’ll see you in the bar later,” Emma says vaguely, leaning towards Mac, “Yeah, we heard about that…”

Patrick picks up his plate of Mirelurk and slips out of the canteen before Macready can get any further into his story. After staying here to repair the damage after they retook it, Patrick knows all sorts of little hiding spots where nobody will bother him.

Pete feels incredibly relieved when the thick walls of the Minutemen’s Castle finally appear in the distance.

“There it is,” Hancock points out, “Nearly there, little dude.”

“Thank fuck,” Pete sighs. Regardless of his reception at the Castle, he knows that once he’s found some people to vouch for him, at least he’ll probably be allowed in and given a nice safe corner to sleep in for the rest of the night. Maybe they’ll even know where Patrick is.

Together, they stumble past a ruined diner and up to the closest guard post in front of the large, closed gate. A Minuteman is standing on the raised platform, cradling one of their odd laser rifles.

“Hello!” Hancock calls up to him.

“Hello,” the Minuteman shouts back in reply, “Can I help you?”

“Who’s on duty?” Hancock asks, as Pete tries to strike the perfect balance between hiding behind him and pretending not to.

“Serg… I mean, Lieutenant Horowitz,” the man says, “Do you, um… would you like to talk to him?”

“Yes please,” Hancock asks, “We have some news.”

“Alright,” the Minuteman agrees, turning and looking up at the top of the intimidating walls of the fortress, “Willis?” he shouts, “Could you fetch Lieutenant Horowitz? There’s visitors asking for him.”

The next few minutes are a study in awkwardness as Pete and Hancock hang around outside the Castle on the spit of land between the gate and the scrubby, sandy beach waiting for whoever this Lieutenant is to turn up.

Finally the gate creaks open and a very large man wanders out. He looks surprisingly disreputable for someone wearing a Minuteman uniform, with his hair shaved into a mohican and colorful splash of tattoos at his throat.

“Can I help you?” he asks. He doesn’t sound particularly suspicious, more… cautious.

“Hey man,” Hancock says, “Yeah, we've just come back from…”

“Hold on,” the Lieutenant says, raising a hand, “No, look, sorry, but is that a Gunner tattoo?”

Pete's heart sinks, “Um, yes,” he mumbles, “But uh, is Major Garvey around? He'll know who I…”

His explanation is interrupted by the huge Lieutenant grabbing him around the shoulders and shaking him. “Pete Wentz,” he says happily, showing off a mouthful of chipped and missing teeth, “Pete fucking Wentz, the Ex-fucking-Gunner…”

“Um,” Pete manages as the Lieutenant waggles him back and forth, much to Hancock’s amusement.

“We've been following you all over the fucking Commonwealth,” the Lieutenant says cheerfully, “Thank Christ you're okay…” he turns back and shouts up to presumably the same person the guard had addressed, “Someone go and fetch Captain Stump immediately!”

“What?” Pete can't help but ask, “What?”

“He's been looking for you since the Brotherhood attacked the Plaza,” the Lieutenant tells him, finally letting go.

“What?” Pete asks again, feeling like his brain has stalled out.

“Are you guys hungry?” the Lieutenant asks, ushering Pete towards the open gate, “You need anything? Medical attention? We heard you got shot - are you alright now? Patrick has been worrying about you ever since we found out you were hurt… And I guess I should apologize, since I have a sneaking suspicion that it was my squad who attacked you.”

“What?” Pete says, making Hancock laugh.

The Lieutenant shoves him through the gate and into a wide open space in the middle of the Castle. Just in front of him is a small, wall-less roofed area, protecting both a large radio set-up and the familiar spindly shape of Corporal May from the elements.

“I'm Lieutenant Horowitz,” the Lieutenant says, grabbing Pete's hand and pumping it up and down so hard that his shoulder twinges, “Call me Levi, please! May! Have you seen Captain Stump?”

May turns in his seat, holding his mic up to his mouth, obviously mid-transmission, but his annoyed expression at being interrupted turns to what looks like joy as he spots Pete, and he finishes talking quickly, flipping a switch to play a music track.

“Pete!” he says, pleased and grinning, which looks strange on his thin, usually confused-looking face, “Thank goodness you're alright!”

“Um,” Pete manages, which is at least a change from ‘what’.

“The plan worked perfectly!” George says, standing up and hurrying over to them, “Timmermann!” he shouts over his shoulder, which confuses Pete until a blond man sticks his head around the bulk of the radio equipment and says, “Yes, Corp?”

“Come and meet Pete!” May invites, “He's made it!”

The blond’s eyebrows rocket skywards, “The Pete?!” he replies, sounding excited, “From the radio? Awesome!”

A small crowd of Minutemen come out of a double door into the wall of the ramparts, and someone squeals, “Oh my gosh!”

Within seconds, Pete is surrounded by people, all of whom seem to be desperate to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Through occasional gaps in the throng, Pete spots Hancock leaning up against a wall next to someone who looks like the mercenary that they had met in the back room of the bar in Goodneighbor. They're both smiling at him fondly, and as soon as Pete sees them, the mercenary gives him a lazy salute and sidles off into the interior of the fortress.

It's… not exactly terrifying, or even particularly scary. Pete has certainly been in whole worlds of worse situations than finding himself in the center of a crowd all determined to applaud him, but even so, it's a little overwhelming. He's never been someone that people are this happy to see, Patrick, Joe and Andy excepted.

Pete spends an unknown length of time being congratulated, patted, hugged, shaken and occasionally kissed on the cheek before the crowd parts to reveal Major Garvey, standing with his hands on his hips and grinning hugely.

“Mister Wentz,” he announces, “I'm sure you must have heard this a hundred times by now, but let me thank you officially. You have done a massive service for both the Minutemen and the entire Commonwealth, and if there's ever anything any of us can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask. If we had a medal to give you, you'd have three of them. In fact, we might have to create one just so you can be the first recipient.”

Pete boggles at him. This is… beyond any imagining he'd ever had. He'd been expecting that he'd be allowed into the Castle, hoped that they would be able to tell him where Patrick was, and that they might, maybe, possibly, give him a few supplies for his next journey. He'd been prepared to have to prove who he was, and to endure a few nasty looks, despite how welcome Oz had been in the Minutemen. He'd never, in his wildest dreams, even considered that there would be this many people who were so pleased to see him.

There's only one thing he can possibly say. “Thank you,” he tells Major Garvey, “But, um, does anyone know where Patrick is?”

Patrick ends up tucked behind the counter of the closed commissary, picking at his plate of Mirelurk and sipping from a bottle of Nuka-Cola. It's quiet here, and nobody will think to look for him. He pulls the door shut behind him and curls up on the floor, staring at a small pile of greenish shirts.

The idea of fucking Quincy is weighing on him like a heavy blanket. Memories of the last time he'd been there keep swirling in his thoughts, the good and the bad.

He remembers the last peaceful day, the one before the first attack - the one they'd managed to repel. His squad had been stood down for a few days, enjoying some time off in the settlement under the overpass and he'd taken the opportunity to treat himself to a long, luxurious lie-in with Jamil, thankful for the solid walls of the bunkhouse after several weeks of camping around the Wasteland surrounded by the rest of the squad. It had been a lovely place, half Minuteman base, half settlement, with families and farmers taking advantage of the security of a permanent guard of well armed militia standing guard. They'd had stores and a clinic and a school for the handful of kids that Patrick would sometimes be asked to come and teach basic gun safety at.

Jamil had stretched and asked him what his plans for the day had been, because he'd planned to head out to see some of the guys who lived in the old gas station a little way out of town.

Patrick hadn’t really had any plans apart from a general idea about needing to clean his rifle properly and finally having the time to really take it apart and take his time over it.

Then everything had gone to absolute fucking hell.

Patrick shakes himself out of his thoughts - he’ll be in enough trouble tomorrow, there’s no need to try and bury himself in this when he doesn’t need to.

There’s a folded magazine under the counter, obviously left there by Corporal Bennett for something to read when things were quiet, and Patrick pulls it towards him, trying to get his mind off the whole… situation.

It turns out to be an issue of ‘Guns and Bullets’ that Patrick either hasn’t read yet, or read so long ago that he can’t remember it any more, so he opens it eagerly. This is just the thing he needs to forget all about his problems for however long it takes to read, and he tries to remind himself to thank Corporal Bennett later.

He’s halfway through an article about a new - or rather two hundred year old - method of manufacturing 5mm minigun ammo that he’s thinking about showing Kizzie when he hears the faint sounds of commotion coming from the Castle parade ground. He looks up, listening, but it doesn’t sound like panic or anything bad - more like happy triumph. He considers going to see what’s happening, but he’s comfortable and he still has a few more pieces of Mirelurk to eat and he’s under no illusions that Macready won’t have finished telling everyone his ridiculous stories. Someone has probably just broken the record for the dumb inter-squad cup-balancing competition, or they’ve just worked out that it’s somebody’s birthday.

He turns back to the magazine and shoves another lump of ‘lurk into his mouth, chewing slowly and flipping a page.

There’s the sound of running feet in the corridor and the noise outside gets louder and then quieter as though someone has thrown open a door and let it close behind them.

“Patrick?” Mac’s voice says, “You in here?”

Patrick glances up at the ceiling and sighs, wondering what fresh hell of teasing he’ll let himself in for if he answers, but decides that as one of four Captains in the Minutemen on the eve of one of the biggest pushes the militia has ever seen, hiding behind a cupboard will probably be frowned on.

He peers out from around the corner of the counter, “Yes?” he asks.

Mac breaks into a huge grin, “There you are!” he says triumphantly, “Everyone is looking for you!”

Patrick narrows his eyes, “I’m not going out there to sign people’s shirts, no matter what you say,” he tells Mac.

Macready shakes his head, “It’s not that,” he says, jerking a thumb back towards the door, “It’s good news - your Pete has just walked in through the front gate.”

Patrick frowns at Macready. “Say that again?” he asks - he couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. It’s probably just wishful thinking.

Mac’s grin somehow gets even bigger, “Your. Pete. Is. Here,” he says slowly and deliberately, “He’s out in the parade ground right now being congratulated by every single Minuteman in the Castle.”