Crossfire - Fallout 4 - [R J MacCready x Sole Survivor]

Chapter 1

The liquor was watered down – a taste that MacCready has already long grown accustomed to in the Third Rail. He swilled a large mouthful of whiskey before swallowing, watching the remainder amber liquid swirl in his glass as he lazily rotated his wrist. The VIP lounge was empty this time, and the young gun for hire was alone in a room tinged in red light. When he first came here, the Goodneighbor ladies of the night used to always saunter towards him, languidly offering their services on cold nights. After discovering that MacCready was – for lack of a better word – flat broke, they ignored him. 

Not like he wanted their company anyway. 

Magnolia's sultry voice echoed from the main bar, her velvet tones reflecting another one of her sad stories of heartbreak. Sometimes he would hum along to a few songs, but tonight he was too inebriated to register what song is actually playing. Also, tonight he just doesn't care. 

Another mouthful of whiskey later, and it burned away the ache in his chest. When the clock hits midnight it's Duncan's fourth birthday. Usually it's an occasion to celebrate, but tonight is no night for MacCready to do such a thing. He should be with his son, teaching him how to throw a ball and telling him ridiculous stories as he tucks him away in bed. 

"No..." He breathed as he quickly downed the rest of his whiskey. He's here to forget, not to remember. 

Some footsteps echoed down the corridor before entering the VIP room. He looked up, seeing someone in an oversized hazmat suit sit haphazardly on the couch opposite him. An assault mask obscured the head, hiding the newcomer's visage underneath. An exasperated sigh rattled through the breathing vents of the mask as the helmeted head reclined to the wall behind it with an audible bump, and an uncomfortable series of fidgets later the stranger eventually settled. 

MacCready eyed the 10mm pistol holstered on the stranger's thigh, noting that the safety catch was off. Based on past experiences within the Third Rail, the last thing you want is a firearm going off in a notorious bar, whether or not the shot was accidental. Deciding to prevent the situation rather than diffuse it, MacCready sat up straight and clicked his fingers a few times to draw attention. 

"Hey," he slurred as he pointed at the pistol. "Your safety is off." 

The head cocked in response, the mask giving nothing away in regards to whether or not the person paid attention. They just sat there, much to MacCready's ire, with their chest rising and falling the only indication that the person wasn't just a dead body slumped on the couch. 

"I love these one-sided conversations..." He drawled, sitting back in his chair. It's not his problem anyway. Let the idiot be an idiot. 

Eventually a lazy hand crept down to their pistol, the gloved hand clicking the safety catch into place, before flopping their arm loosely across their lap. Another sigh rattled through the mask's rebreather. 

MacCready smirked at the lethargic compliance, feeling a tiny victory at such a stupidly mundane action. He raised his glass to his lips before remembering that his glass was empty. He huffed in annoyance at his predicament, and reached into his pocket for some caps. The mercenary made a move to stand up, but was stopped when he saw the person opposite him raise their hand, palms facing him in a stop motion. It was then that MacCready noticed a bottle of whiskey beside the stranger, who promptly unscrewed the cap before hobbling over to him and refilling his glass. 

"Uh, thanks." He took a tentative sip after raising his glass slightly, pocketing his caps back into the recesses of his duster. The stranger said nothing but raised a lazy thumbs up at him before huffing again. 

There was an awkward silence between the two; the stranger huffing away while MacCready gulped his problems away, but neither of them decided to fill that silence between the two.