Mmmm, love me some angst anon. Thanks, hope you like it!
Codsworth: His terror overshadows even his grief, black ink that drenches him, and he collapses by their side. A loud, metal clang and he rights himself only to be able to look at their face. “Please. Please, don’t do this again,” he stutters out, past tears that didn’t exist, “please. I can’t- I’m so sorry, not without you, not anymore, please mum/sir I…”
Preston: He sucks a deep breath in, resisting the urge to scream, to yell, because this isn’t fair. Not now, not ever. It didn’t, doesn’t, won’t, but it did; it did, and their eyes are glassy and so incredibly still and his lips taste of blood when he kisses them.
Piper: “Blue..?” She grits it out between clenched teeth, her fingers flexing, trying to keep out the frightened instinct to run, “Blue. Stop it.” And suddenly she understands it, the look of disgust, horror, of eyes in lost moments when she questioned someone about dead husbands and wives.
Danse: Danse sits beside them, ice in his veins, and this feels like his punishment. For being wrong, for being cruel, for being harsh; this is it, and god, nothing on this fucking scorched earth would be worth merit this, but maybe he comes close. It’s the only thing that he can think of to make sense of it.
Hancock: Hancock screams. He screams, when the battle is over, tearing his way through strewn bodies, to the one that matter -his fault his fault his fault- and his hands rest on their wounds, because pressure is supposed to help the bleeding (the bleeding has already slowed to a trickle), and -his fault his fault- and when it registers all he does is sob, their hand clutched between his own, kissing the fingers repeatedly and apologizing because it’s his fucking fault.
Nick Valentine: There’s something inherently wrong with dead bodies, all of them, but this one is the worst. Nick can’t think of anything to do but sit beside them, the corpse, his skin crawling with horror when their blood soaks into his coat, staring up at the sky. He starts to speak, and he can only think of the first time they met, of a flash of eyes and skin in the small round window. He doesn’t know when he started to shake with heaving, impossible sobs, and he doesn’t know when he’ll stop.
Curie: Too much blood, oh my, too much of it. Curie knows, before she even touches them, what she’ll find. But there are some things you can’t accept, and this is one of them. Her hands are mechanical where her tears aren’t, and eventually one of them lands on their face, making a clear spot amongst blood and dust and she collapses on them, cuddling against them like they did when they were alive, and she cries until her entire face hurts.
Deacon: “You’re alive,” Deacon says blankly, staring down at the body. Lies don’t become truth, he knows that, but maybe if he pretends, maybe if- His whole body jerks as he sobs, shallow breaths clawed through his mouth, and he tells them the truth. Every word.
MacCready: “No,” it’s said shaking, with watering eyes, and his knees are practically torn to pieces as he thumps down beside them, urgent hands ghosting over their face. “God fucking damn it, please, please not you, I- I-” He bursts out with every curse he knows, in rapid repeat of absolute overtaking horror. Soon they become so garbled with tears he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.
Cait: Cait tries to lift them, regardless of their weight, pulling them up with wirey muscles, stumbling forward. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she clutched them to her until she can’t walk any more, and they both tumble down and it isn’t pretty or scenic or nice, her covered in blood, screaming, almost hoping it attracts something.
X6-88: He’s practical. He doesn’t really think as he finds a patch to dig in, just deep enough so that nothing will dig them up. He places them with their weapon in one hand and that old holotape they listen to in the other. And piles the dirt back over them, and pretends his face isn’t wet when he walks away.
Strong: He roars, at the top of his lungs, and picks up the corpse of what killed them, and slams it again and again against the floor, tearing it apart, the sound growing until he has to stop from exhaustion.
Dogmeat: He snuffles against his human, a low whine escaping him, trying to push their hand up, trying to get them to move, to wake up. He howls when they don’t, sorrow so strong anyone listening can tell, and then he sits by their still side, crying until the next morning.