Chapter Text
It’s not a good call. Most of the recent calls hadn’t been great, but there were still positives:
Nate was late to the birth, but he made it.
There were complications, but she was back at home now.
Shaun was a bit underweight, but he’s gaining it quickly.
You knew she was stressed, but pregnancy and birth are stressful. Part of the many reasons why you never wanted to deal with it first-hand. People get wacked out by it. New fathers can be panicky, too. But Nate didn’t panic. He bolted.
Two months. His son was two months old. That man had been your brother-in-law for four years. You’d known him for seven. He knew you before. And he just left her.
“Fuck. No. Hey. You’re alright,” you grip the counter, short nails scratching against the vinyl.
“You’re alright, this is fucked, but just... Let me make a few calls. I’ll get a sub and sort things out…No—I’m coming down there. Look, I haven’t taken leave the entire time I’ve been here, they can excuse me for this…” she’s almost hard to understand through all the tears.
“Breathe. Just breathe. It’s not like I work in a hospital—nobody’s going to die here if I leave… Marty can take care of anything else here. Just. I’ll be there tonight,” she tries to protest.
“I know where the spare key is, and I’ll pay for a cab from the airport.” you squeeze your eyes closed tighter, tighter.
“Don’t you dare fucking try to apologize, you’ve done not one damned thing wrong. I’ll pick up something to eat, too… I love you. See you soon… Bye.”
You click “end call” and shakily put the phone down, then slam your palms down, slapping, slapping, slapping the counter. You squeeze your hands shut and try to inhale deeply, exhale deeply. No, hold it. Hold between inhale. Hold between exhale, FUCK!
You slap against your thighs, hard, harder. Don’t scratch, don’t grab your arms, it leaves marks. You can’t have marks, what if the border agents ask about them and stop you?
You slam yourself onto the couch and smother yourself into the cushions and scream.
Brightside: you can’t be charged for murder if you aren’t caught. And you won’t have to murder Nate if he doesn’t show up, so he better have figured out how to commit to something, and stay gone.
You storm into your bedroom and start grabbing a few changes of clothes, both passports, any relevant papers. Toiletries are next. You throw the small suitcase down on the floor and grab your phone again. You close your eyes and focus on your voice, will it to be friendly and calm, but resolute.
“Hi, Janice. Yes. This is Theo. Yes… Theodor...a Berwick. Yes. I know this is terribly last minute but there’s been a family emergency and I’m informing you that I’m not going to make it in this week. I know, I’m terribly sorry. I have the unit notes all in my desk there, and we've already discussed the holiday project, and I’ll write out an email with a more detailed plan and send that off to the lead teacher so that he can pass it on to the temporary substitute. Thank you, that’s kind to say. Yes, I understand it’s unpaid leave. Yes, I accept this may have negative impacts on my review. No, I’ll take care of it. Thank you. Yes, I’ll keep you posted. Thank you, goodbye.”
One call down.
"Hi, yes, I'm calling for Martin Berwick. Yes, this is his spouse. Yes, I can hold."
. . .
Martin drives you to the airport a few hours later on his lunch break. You’d shilled out more than you wanted to on a last minute flight, but the both of you only have one car, and you can’t take a rental across the annexation line. He parks the car and leans over to give you a hug.
“Send my love to Nora and little Shaun,”
“Always. Thanks for the ride, Mars.”
"Give me a call so I know you got there."
"Of course."
Security is, as always, a trial. You flag the body scanner and have to do the whole explanations game. Dolled yourself up for the occasion to try to grease the wheels, but to no dice, apparently. You even put on mascara. You'd shaved, not that you had much in the way of facial hair—most of it went to longer side burns—but you could manage a slight mustache after a month. Not that it ever got very full. But it’s only been eight months, and you’re on a low-dose. Your voice had dropped a bit, which you normally loved, but did make for a bit of worry, now. Pitch-up. Up-talk. Smile more.
“Oh yes, I thought it would flag the scan. Could I have a female officer, please? Yes, I had a preemptive double mastectomy. My grandmother died of breast cancer, and my father even had a tumor scare, so we all just wanted to be careful. I know, it’s hard, but I couldn’t imagine having to deal with surgeries every five years to replace implants, so it’s just easier without the reconstruction. Yeah, no worries! I know you’re just doing your job. Have a nice day!”
Don't make a face, don't make a face, breathe...
Step one, security, done. Now, border patrol.
You hate crying in front of people. God you hate crying in front of people. You always cry. But in this instance, explaining to the jaded agent why you are suddenly traveling back to the states, it’s a stay-out-of-jail card you don't mind having in your deck.
They stamp your passport and you shakily thank the agent as you move along.
Each crossing got harder and harder since the annexation. It’s been nearly a year since you last visited in person. You’re not sure if the double citizenship makes it easier or harder. Anyone passing through the northern border is suspicious, whether it’s coming or going. Hell, it was half of why Marty took your last name instead of keeping Pushkin.
Not that your own actions have done anything to ease your passage. The gender marker on your passport gets harder and harder to pass as with each month, even on such a low dose. You manage to keep your hair nearly down to your shoulders in a short shag style, barely long enough to tie it back, but still longer than the average man's. Thank god that black nail polish doesn’t set off your dysphoria. A little styling and a lot more smiling, and you’re still passable, but the margin feels thinner than ever, both for you, and the growing discord between nations.
You’d moved to Montreal six years ago, freshly diploma’d and began working as a teacher in a bilingual school. You were hoping to escape the US and it’s policies. Foolish. You’d put off transitioning as long as possible back home, and thought that once you finished your probational first year there, you could schedule an appointment to finally, actually, start the process. You spoke French whenever you weren’t at work, trying to hide your American identity to avoid some of the understandable bad blood, but with the next year ending with the states officially annexing Canada, it was bleak. Your timeline had been shattered. Again.
Two years and a few new friends later, you were signing the license on your lavender marriage and looking at partial Canadian healthcare thanks to it. Two years more of fighting the system and you got top surgery, half covered due to a high risk family history. Just add the medical bill to your other debts.
It was a short flight, a bumpy cab ride, and a long embrace as you arrived.
The first week there with Nora passed quicker than you'd expected. There was so much to do. It was exhausting. It was a cycle of bouncing from crib to bath to carpet to lap to car to store to shower to kitchen to bed. You finally started feeling like you had a bit of a rhythm going on night 6. Shaun was laid in his crib, mercifully asleep, and your sister was seated on the floor in front of you on the couch. You were braiding her hair as she stared out blankly, not watching the television. You rubbed her shoulders, and she cried.
The next day, while your sister took a shower and Shaun was momentarily out for a nap, Codsworth approached you as you were pulling a Nuka from the fridge.
“Sir, do you mind me asking if…” he hesitated.
“What, Cods? Spit it out,”
“If Mister Nate—” you dropped the Nuka and the cap hit the ground, spinning and spraying on the floor. And you tried to not howl in rage as the robot continued, warily watching the emptying bottle as you remained stock-still, “—if he will be coming back sometime soon?”
“I appreciate that you asked me and not Nors about this, Codsworth, as I don’t want you ever talking about that man around my sister or Shaun ever again. He’s dead to us. If he does show up here, I’m liable to take a swing at strangling him, so while I can’t tell you how to feel about him, if you still care about him at all, you’ll hope he never steps foot in my line of sight, or range of throw, ever again,” you seethe, eyes watering.
The robot flinches backward.
“I… I read his note. The one he left mum. But, he told me he was just stepping out. I… a part of me was still hoping that the lies were on the paper, and not to me.” His eyestalks drooped, and your anger abated.
“He’s let us all down, Codsworth. Every single one of us here. I’m sorry he hurt you, too.”
Codsworth looked at you and flittered for a moment.
“Let me get this cleaned up for you sir. I’m sure you’d like to change into a new pair of socks,”
You look down at your soda-damp socks and sigh.
“Yeah. Thanks, Codsy.”
. . .
While it’s a shit circumstance in any case, you’re lucky that this happened a week before your school's holiday break, but you were starting to stress about what to do afterwards. It was the Saturday of your second week with Nora. She was doing better, but... well what was she going to do when you left? She was taking unpaid leave the same as you. You’d been working at this school for a few years now, but nothing was a given; secondary schools don't have tenure. Besides, you were starting to feel the cold-shoulder at work, hear the whispers as you entered the staff room.
You’ll deal with that when you deal with that. Just focus on this week, and squeeze another week of unpaid leave out of Janice, and if they fire you, then you don’t have to make a decision, anyway. Your parents would visit after that, but that wouldn’t make things any easier. Both of their health had been going downhill. Your mom was needing more and more help, so while she could still hold Shaun, you didn’t trust her to take care of him overnight.
You tried to get them out of the house at least once a day during weekdays. Maybe you could take Nora to the movies next week if Codsworth helped your dad keep an eye on the baby. Otherwise, most of your outings had been chauffeuring the three of you around town. There was the occasional grocery trip and walk in the park, but most times, it was just driving. It was something, at least.
When Shaun gets a little older, it’ll be easier. He’s only just received his first round of vaccinations, so you didn’t want him on public transport until those had time to be effective. You’d feel bad for Codsworth if he had to start taking care of all three if you taken out by a stomach bug. And with the murmurs of a new plague starting to spread in D.C., you had little desire to increase social contact vectors more than absolutely necessary.
It’s a slower start to the morning that most days have been. Shaun’s an early riser, but he'd slept in until 8 today. The doorbell rings and you put your mug of coffee down. Nora steps out into the hallway, cradling Shaun, but you wave at her to ignore it. It’s Saturday. It’s supposed to be a day you don’t have to feel bad for not doing anything, who the hell is knocking at your door?
“I’ve got it,” you tell her.
A man in a trench coat is standing across from you when you swing the door open. You only feel a mote of relief seeing the Vault-Tec van parked by the mailbox. Maybe not a pervert, but not much better.
You’re still in your pajamas: long loose pants, a baggy and crumpled t-shirt, bedhead, and nearly two weeks worth of facial hair growth giving you one step above peach-fuzz and two steps below five-o-clock shadow’s worth of a mustache.
The man gives a brief—and bewildered—smile, and glances down at his paper before ringing out a “Good morning, sir!” and it does wonders for your mood, actually.
“Glad to have finally caught you!” he chirps.
“Ah?”
“Vault-Tec is just looking to confirm some last details for Vault 111's listed future residents,” he chimes.
"Potential. I'm still hoping to avoid nuclear devastation, personally." Maybe you shouldn't mock him. Be nice.
"Surely! Nothing to worry about, just being prepared, you know," he forces out a chuckle, and offers you the clipboard, and you blanch when you read it.
He thinks you’re Nate.
You stare blankly at the form for a moment, heart racing. You can’t correct him. Any hiccups might risk your sister’s… and by extension, your nephew’s place in the vault. Nate was supposed to have settled this ages ago. Did he try to change the registration so they wouldn't get in? Your mouth is dry.
It’s fine. You’ll just fill this out, make it a bit more accurate to you in case the representative has further questions, and you’ll tell Nora later. If anyone can figure out a loophole around anything either that bastard or Vault-Tec would try to do to keep her son out of that shelter, it was Nors. Speaking of, do this quick. If she comes around and says your name, she could ruin the gambit before it even started. Keep it cool.
You scribble in a few more details and hand the board back to him, thanking him and rushing him away as politely as possible.
The man is starting up his van as Nora comes back down the hall, hands free this time.
“What was that about?” she asks, catching the van pulling away.
“Vault-Tec. Just confirming details,” she stiffens. So she didn't know that wasn't handled, either.
“What did you tell them?”
“Well... Attorney-client privilege? Potentially minor fraud. In their eyes, I’m the man of the house.”
She rolls her eyes, but her sigh is one of relief.
“Sure. Well, if that causes issues, it’s a later problem.”
You hear crying from Shaun’s room and nudge her towards the kitchen.
“I’ve got him. Did you get your coffee?”
She smiles, and you go to comfort your nephew.
He's cooing happily as you spin his mobile when you hear a mug shatter on the floor.
“Sir—”
“Theo—GRAB SHAUN,”
You've never heard her like that, and her tone scares you shitless. You scoop Shaun up and run out to the living room.
Ice and lead in your stomach.
It was happening.
“Nor, we have to go,” you wheeze.
You hand off Shaun to your sister, so you throw on your boots, cursing yourself for only having brought one pair of shoes with, and they’re ones you have to lace. You take Shaun back as Nora slides on her sneakers. Codsworth opens the door for you, and you falter, looking at him. The paperwork only listed the three of you.
“Go, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Codsworth,”
Shaun is shoved into your chest as you run, glancing back to make sure your sister is following. It’s the fastest she’s moved since she’d given birth.
You’re gasping as you reach the chain link fence. There’s a crowd there, and the guard is armed. Your sister shoves forward, a death-clawed grip on your bicep as she yanks you towards her.
The guard gives you a once over, but you’re let through and the three of you run onto the giant geared platform. She snatches Shaun up, searching for anything wrong, looking at him like she's trying to memorize every detail, and an explosion hits off in the distance.
It’s so bright.
Like a giant firework.
You’d always loved fireworks.
You tuck your sister to your chest, Shaun cradled between you, and stare into the light.