Fallout 4: AR

15. The Dugout Inn

"Did you say 'showers'?" I was incredulous. Considering the condition of, well, everything up to this point, I had resigned myself to being dirty. "Say it again?" I pleaded.

"They have showers." MacCready repeated with the hint of a smile.

"Hot showers?" I pressed.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hate getting wet, so I never used them."

"MacCreadyyy..." Damn the man, a hot shower would ease a lot of problems right now, or at least make me feel more human.

"Yeah, Boss?" This time there was a gleam of mischief lurking in those angelic blue eyes of his.

"You cannot tell me you've never taken a shower? A bath?"

"Does crossing rivers count?"

"Ew, no!" I pretended to be overwhelmed by the sudden realization of his body odor. "You are nasty!"

"Hey, I have a washcloth, and a spare shirt!" he protested, laughing. Wait, he has spare clothing?

"Soap?" A grumble met that question. "Uh-huh." I stopped at the very next stall. The woman standing there was less than welcoming for some reason, but with MacCready playing 'tough mercenary' behind me I soon walked away with my own set of spare clothes, a couple of towels, and two small packs of toiletries. They wouldn't take up much room in my bag, and would be a welcome change from wearing the same outfit day in and day out until I got home. I firmly handed one of the toiletry packs to MacCready, who took it with a grimace.

"So, I'm guessing this 'Dugout Inn' is in the Dugout?" I hazarded, heading in the general direction of where the teams used to play. Indeed, a hand painted sign posted outside the line of stadium seats pointed us inside. Before entering the inn proper, I noticed a large poster hanging on the wall describing jobs that needed to be done. Without hesitation, I grabbed the flyer to look at later. If I was going to be able to afford help getting home, I needed to work.

As soon as we walked into the main room, MacCready affably called out to the bartender, "Hey, Vadim! How's it going?" I blinked, but tamped down my surprise. He lives in the Commonwealth, why wouldn't he know people? This is part of the reason he was hired, after all. The sniper turned to me, pressing some bottlecaps in my hand. "Go get a room from Yefim over there. I'm going to have a chat with Vadim. Take your time." He handed me his pack, as well. "Would you mind? Thanks, Boss!"

"MacCready!" called Vadim in a heavy Eastern European accent. "Good to see you, my friend!"

The rest of the conversation was lost as I hurried over to Yefim. Ten caps was a pittance for the luxury of a shower and a bed. I strode into room #2, dropping everything on the floor and digging hastily through both packs. Armed with soap and a load of dirty clothes, I practically dove into the old tub, only bothering to remove my leather jacket and combat boots. Those would require a different technique.

The water was blessedly, perfectly hot. Using an old Army trick, I showered with clothes on, shucking them as they got good and soapy. Once done, I made sure to go over the small bundle of MacCready's dirty clothes as well, doesn't take much longer and he might appreciate it. Finally, I tackled the days of sweat and grime on my own body, draping the clean clothing along the tub's edge to rinse. The small bathroom was completely steamed up by the time I finally felt clean enough to towel off. Every available surface had a piece of clothing spread out to dry, but I figured we'd be okay by morning.

Dressed in the new-to-me spare clothes, I exited the bathroom to find MacCready still missing. Giving my hair one last vigorous toweling, I finger-combed the long curly brown strands into some semblance of order before braiding it back into a rough tail, my preferred style. Straightening up the room by the simple method of moving the packs to lean against the wall, I grabbed my pistol holster and headed out to the bar.

The man named Vadim waved as I approached. "Ah, pretty lady!" he called. Obviously trying to flatter me for a better price, I thought, but smiled at him anyway. "What'll it be?"

Spying my companion at the end of the bar with a glass of his own, I replied, "If you don't have purified water, I'll take a beer," and took a seat next to him. MacCready didn't even look up; his whole demeanor had changed from when we walked in. He looked... depressed. Not angry, not complaining, but actual sadness in the set of his shoulders and the fixed stare into his drink. I shot Vadim an inquiring look and he shrugged exaggeratedly with a grimace, tilting his hand back and forth in a confusing manner. Hmm, okay. Maybe the chat didn't go so well. Honoring the sniper's change of mood, I simply sat next to him, sipping on the beer that shortly appeared in front of me and idly watching the patrons through the mirror behind the bar.

We spent the evening this way; MacCready drinking somberly, with none of his usual energy, and I just offering my quiet company. Once, I caught the flash of his troubled blue eyes as he glanced at me, and I gave him what I hoped was an empathetic smile. He raised his eyebrows momentarily, furrowing his brows, then went back to his drink, offering no comment. Whatever's bothering him, he doesn't want to talk about it. I can respect that. I didn't mind sitting quietly, people watching. I was used to being alone, and having so much close contact with people in the last few days was wearing in a different manner than the trek across ruined Boston.

I nursed my beer, not wanting to let my senses get dulled by alcohol. MacCready, however, was making serious inroads on whatever drinks Vadim was giving him. I could practically smell the fumes coming from his glass, it was so strong. He must have had an amazing tolerance for the stuff, but eventually it finally caught up to his mood. One moment he was tracing random patterns in the spilled liquid on the bar, the next his head slumped alarmingly.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Vadim, hurrying over to help me catch the suddenly boneless sniper. "Okay, MacCready, you're cut off." He peered into the drooping face, "too late, am I right?"

"I hope you didn't kill him with that stuff," I warned, concern warring with irritation. I hooked an arm over my shoulder, Vadim taking the other side as we headed back to the rooms. Even as a dead weight, the young man was surprisingly light. Poor guy's just skin and bones under that duster.

"No, no! MacCready is a strong fighter. It takes more than Bobrov's Best moonshine to kill him," Vadim assured me heartily as we burst into the room. I half-dragged us towards the bed, wanting to get MacCready settled and Vadim out of the room as soon as possible. Vadim stepped in at that point, picking up the smaller man and gently setting him on the mattress. MacCready didn't even move.

"What do I owe you?" I asked, walking him to the door.

"Ah-ah, nothing tonight. It was my big mouth that caused the tab, so that's on me." He waggled a finger at me, "but only tonight, yes?"

"Sure." Aha, I was right. "Thanks, Vadim. I'll take it from here," and I shut the door.

"Of course he put you on your back," I muttered, returning to the side of the bed. A few moments and some creative limb arranging later, I had the unconscious mercenary on his side. I couldn't do much about the twisted leather duster, but removed his hat and boots. Tugging on the blankets, I was able to free up enough fabric to at least pretend to cover him. Finally, I grabbed a can of purified water from our supplies and placed it on the end table within easy reach. Stepping back to survey my handiwork, I again noticed how different he looked at rest; without his habitual scowl, he appeared almost vulnerable.

I wonder what happened? Not that it's any of my business, but it seems like there's more emotional depth to him than he lets on. He's so guarded all the time. That's when I realized I was spending way too long just watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitching of his long calloused fingers. Annoyed with myself, I dug out my dry spare towel, grabbed a free pillow from the bed, and with one last guilty glance at the sleeping form on the bed, I curled up on the couch.