Fallout 1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So… I had an idea and I rolled with it. I've changed the timeline of the game to suit my purposes, along with some events that happened. I played the main missions of the game a loooong time ago, closer to when it first released, so I might be a little rusty. The POV will eventually bounce around to different characters as this thing gets rolling. Anyway, this is a story about the Courier and Boone, and since Boone is Boone, it might be a long while before there's any actual romance. Thanks for reading and (hopefully) reviewing. **

**I don't own Fallout: New Vegas or any of its characters. **

Exhausted, she pulled Freeside's gate open with her good hand, her left, which had not been crushed when her powerfist malfunctioned. She hated traveling alone, not that she would ever admit that aloud. Charlie especially missed Rex, who would playfully nip at her heels as they walked and growled at the earliest sign of danger. Boone, who spoke scarcely a word despite all the time they'd spent together, Charlie didn't mind leaving behind. She was grateful for his steady aim, but he was not what one would consider an emotionally supportive travel companion. She was not proud of any of the series of lies she used in order to leave without attracting suspicion, but she wasn't sure if she could depend on him. The Brotherhood of Steel was technically a NCR enemy, and Boone still bore the First Recon beret. Charlie didn't want to burn any bridges before figuring out what was what. She could've explained that she was trying to earn more enemies for the Legion, but she doubted that he would've followed that line of logic. Not that Boone wasn't smart, he was quite intelligent, but Charlie knew that he didn't trust her whatsoever.

So she left on her own, searching for days before finding the exact bunker, just to be paraded around in her underwear and then forced to wear an explosive collar. So maybe Charlie was secretly glad that Boone wasn't around to witness her embarrassment. It was easy enough to talk the NCR Ranger into leaving; speech craft had always been her specialty. The Elder took notice, and after a few other assignments that had more or less left Charlie in their favor, she asked for their alliance to the NCR-or rather, to Charlie, since Moore had ordered her to just blow the Brotherhood to smithereens. Feeling rather invincible, Charlie had made the journey towards New Vegas quickly, managing to dodge some fiends along the way. Sure, she might able to handle them on her own, but she'd wait for her companions. Rex loved chasing the drug-addled far into the Mojave, just so that Boone would have an opportunity to carefully assemble his rifle, curl his finger about the trigger, press his sunglasses against the scope, and shoot. They'd bonded. Boone and Charlie had not. Perhaps if she captured a criminal and brought him back so that Boone could fire a round from a thousand yards away, they would become fast friends.

Honestly, Charlie was jealous of his precise aim, Boone's ability to hit any target from any distance, with any gun. She could shoot, yes, not with the cocky surefire precision that Boone possessed. No, she preferred to get up close to her attackers, swing her powerfist or maybe a club, if she were feeling merciful. She was not sure where the inclination to position death so closely had come from, but Charlie always felt more comfortable with her fists clenched against the powerfist instead of around the barrel of a firearm. Boone, of course, despised her preference. He had asked her once, one of the few times he deigned to speak to her, where she learned to fight like a Legionary. Charlie had responded by childishly calling him asshole. Boone had shrugged and finished the conversation by reminding her that if she weren't a woman, Caesar probably would've summoned her to fight on his behalf. She didn't tell him that he already had.

It had been within a mile of the Freeside gate that she'd encountered a fucking Cazador. Three swings into the scuffle, she'd felt a strange locking sensation on her right hand, before something sharp pierced through her palm, distracting Charlie just long enough for the insect to sting her hard in the hip before she managed to wrangle the combat knife out of her sleeve. At least she still had vial of antivenom, she'd thought, right before the powerfist sputtered again. It wasn't the first time Charlie had heard a bone break inside of her hand, but it was the first time she'd heard it more than once. Groaning at the fact that she'd decided to sell most of her excess supplies to a trader the day before, including the super stimpak that she'd found in one of the vaults, Charlie managed to make what should've been a quick trip back into a long hike of agony, all because she was too stupid to check the condition of her weapon.

It could've been worse, she reminded herself, she could've been using a gun, which could've backfired, which considering her luck with getting shot, would not have been so surprising.

Arcade Gannon had almost laughed when Charlie entered the Old Mormon Fort, her old friend amazed that she'd let herself get into such a clumsy sort trouble. Mumbling a few threats, she sat as calmly as she could manage as he pried the weapon off her, handing her a stimpak in the process.

"I don't know how you manage to do things like this sometimes, Char." Arcade commented, straightening his glasses. "And I don't know how Boone didn't notice that your fist-y thing was in such disrepair. Damn, even I can see that, and I haven't fought anything worse that your oddball injuries."

"Boone did not accompany me on this excursion." Charlie replied, gritting her teeth as he examined her hand, "And I didn't need him to."

"So that means what? You were fighting bunny rabbits in the Mojave Desert? You know that it's dangerous to travel alone, no matter where you're going. I swear, if you ever come back here and tell me that you were doing something so stupid, I will refuse to treat you. Understand me?" His bespectacled gaze was hard and even, all traces of his trademark humor erased. "Well, Charlie? Do you agree or not? It's a long way to the New Vegas Medical Clinic. Think you could've made it today? What if you had gotten yourself shot? Poisoned?"

"Damn it, Arcade, I get it." She answered, irritated, leaving out the minor detail that she had in fact been poisoned, but actually prepared for that. "But contrary to popular opinion, I can handle myself."

He jerked her hand away, the pain jutting all the way to her shoulder. "Oh really? Because you've done such a bang up job this time, right?" He sighed, "I know you're smarter than this. Why didn't you take the dog at least? Or Cass? I completely understand leaving that zombie, the sniper, but why them?"

"I had to do something that I wasn't sure he'd approve of, and it was just easier to lie to everyone and avoid it, rather than trying to explain myself and hope he'd listen. I should've taken Rex, but Boone would've known that something was wrong. I won't do it again."

"You're fucking right, you won't. I need you here. Who else can bring me stories about Dr. Alex Richards?" He grinned, bandaging her hand. "He was here again, while you were gone. Picking up some supplies, without the NCR's knowledge, you know, since the Followers are sort of their enemies. It's all very romantic, don't you think?"

"Arcade," She groaned, "It would be romantic, if you were at least able to speak to him. Silence does not make a man fall in love."

She could be very wise when she knew absolutely nothing about the subject of which she spoke.

"What am I supposed to say, Char? Oh, sir, you're very good looking. I was wondering if you'd like to come to my tent for some fun even though you have no idea who I am because we've only technically met one time. Do you remember that? No? Okay, excuse me while I go kill myself. Yeah, that would totally work."

She laughed. Arcade was one of the few Mojave citizens with that ability. They'd traveled together to Camp Forlorn Hope, where he'd met the good doctor Richards, and developed a crush. It was true, maybe they had only exchanged a sentence or two, but he didn't know that Richards asked about Arcade every time Charlie went to him for medical help when she was near Forlorn Hope. If she could only convince Arcade to leave the Followers again, for a quick excursion, Charlie could reunite the pair. She hadn't been able to get him to leave since they went to the Ultra Luxe, where they'd discovered that the White Glove Society were cannibals. Not she blamed him. If she weren't so used to getting into dangerous situations, Charlie would probably never leave the Lucky 38, where she had set up base.

"You're so right, Arc." She teased, accepting another stimpak from him.

"Well, despite my complete depression because of a lack of romance, I managed to fix your injuries. Lay low for a few weeks, won't you? You actually didn't break any bones, the popping you heard might've been your tendons being squeezed by that vice grip."

"So I'm fine?"

"No, Charlie, that is _not_ what I said. If you use your right hand without waiting for it to heal, you run the risk of completely tearing the tendons and ligaments from the muscles. Which means you will not be able to form a fist, let alone hold a weapon. It means surgery, which is sketchy at best, so therefore, retirement. Understand?"

"Yes, Arc. I get it. Stay home. Be bored. Whatever."

"Come back in a few days so I can examine it again, when the swelling goes down. Maybe- and that is a strict maybe, Charlie- you'll be able to make small journeys. But I don't promise anything."

"Thanks, Arcade. I owe you one."

She stood and placed a small kiss on his cheek, pressing a few caps into his fingers. He deserved payment for the stimpaks at least, which judging by the roll of his eyes, he did not want. They were close friends, yes, but Charlie did not want him to get into trouble with Followers for giving free medical exams. She promised to return by Thursday, and to stay on the Strip, where she'd be most safe. Charlie knew that Arcade did not really believe her, and she wasn't sure if she did either.

Feeling better after seeing Arcade, Charlie was not sure what would await her at the Lucky 38. Should she just tell Boone where she'd gone? Then she'd have to explain about her hand. Not telling him would mean another lie, which would lead to more. Fuck it. She wouldn't tell him outright, but she wouldn't deny him the truth if he requested it. That was really the best option, considering that he spoke never willingly spoke to Charlie, not unless she asked him something first. Fine. Two could play at that.

Cass was standing by the entrance to the Lucky 38, bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. She flashed Charlie a nervous smile, which made her instantly anxious as well.

"What is it?" Charlie asked.

"It's nice to see you too."

"Sorry, Cass." There was no reason to make another enemy in her party.

"It's okay. One question though, have you heard about this _alliance_ between the Brotherhood and the NCR? I mean, it's just rumors that the Brotherhood has been seen above ground for the first time in I don't know how long, right? Especially people that say that a woman was involved with the deal, they must have no idea what they're talking about."

"Damn it," Charlie cursed, pissed off because she hadn't even told Moore what she'd done yet. "Where did you hear it?"

"Every-fucking-where. The whole desert is talking about it. Even Boone asked me what I knew about. Word is, he's asked a lot of us about what we know."

It was a clear warning, and Charlie nodded warily before walking inside. Empty. Even the securitrons were someplace else. She grabbed a bottle of vodka from the overflowing bar before heading straight to the elevator. Charlie went up to the presidential suite, glad that she hadn't found Boone's disapproving face on her way to the elevator. Rex was waiting inside her room, the dog bounding forward as she entered, excited to see her.

At least somebody was happy that Charlie was back.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: New chapter! Thanks for reading! **

**I don't own Fallout: New Vegas and any of its characters. **

Her bed was even softer than she remembered, Charlie thought as she pressed herself underneath the green satin covers. Rex was already asleep near her feet, his legs twitching every few minutes, probably running though someplace much more comfortable than the Mojave in his dream. Charlie smiled and fluffed her pillows. Normally, she hated to sleep, considered it a waste of time, but today, with nothing else better to do, she was almost excited to shut her eyes and drift away. She could never remember her dreams, only the hazy feelings when she awoke. Perhaps this would be different.

The illusion of a healthy doze vanished when a heavy fist hit her door. It was Boone, Charlie had no doubts about that, and cursed aloud as she pulled an old Pre-War terry robe over her nightdress to answer the knocking.

"One second," She called; stumbling over the dust-ridden shoes she'd left on the floor.

"Charlotte." He greeted with his usual flatness, his eyes hidden behind those aviators despite their being indoors.

"Boone." She replied, ushering him inside.

He'd been calling her Charlotte since they'd first met and she'd made the mistake of telling him her whole first name, or what she vaguely remembered it being. It could've been completely wrong for all she knew. Charlie couldn't completely recall her last name, only knew a few syllables, but that was the least of her memory loss. Her family, her friends, her real home, it was all gone. Maybe it was a blessing, but Charlie never could really fool herself into believing it.

He looked around her room, the act making her nervous. Boone was judging her based upon a place that she hardly ever used, a bedroom wasn't even her own, a place she'd stolen from Mr. House. How long it'd been since anybody had used it, she didn't know. The space didn't represent Charlie in any way. She didn't know how to say that without sounding like a complete lunatic.

"The dog sleeps. I have never seen him do that." Boone pointed, and Rex perked his ears for a brief moment.

"He'll only sleep when he feels safe. This place is armed to the teeth. Yes-Man has us covered."

"I do not trust the computer."

Another thing to add to the ever-growing list, Charlie thought. "What brings you up here? Checking out the defenses?"

"Charlotte, where did you go?"

"Hidden Valley."

Boone seemed almost frustrated. "So you didn't take the monorail back to Camp McCarran for a few days."

"Not a bit."

"The old bunkers at Hidden Valley, that's where you found them then? Alone?"

"Yeah, this idiot found them all by herself. What a fucking miracle, huh? It just came to me, like in a daydream. It didn't involve carefully watching the whole compound from a ridge to the east and spotting a power suit through a sandstorm. Nope. Sheer dumb luck." She didn't mean it to sound so juvenile.

"I didn't say anything like that. Calm down." He gave her a reproachful glance. "When I was conscripted into your service, you said that it was because snipers work in teams. To fight Caesar, we needed to fight together. You said that."

"I did."

"Just to earn my favor or because you genuinely meant it?"

"I did mean it, Boone. I didn't think you'd approve of the Brotherhood. Moore just wanted me to blow them up. I couldn't do it. How could I just annihilate a group of people I know next to nothing about? That makes us just as bad as Caesar. Worse."

"You think before you act, mostly. Talk before you shoot. I understand that. I do not understand your compulsion to elude me with you every action. You promised that we'd destroy the Legion together, and I realize there are many roads we must pass before we march towards Caesar's death. The NCR's old enemies are our allies. We need anyone who will to fight the Legion. Great Kahns, Powder Gangers, fuck, even some willing Fiends will do. If they pledge allegiance to you, to the NCR, who am I to judge? Is there any way to convince you of that, Charlie?"

She'd never heard her name like that, the careful way that he pronounced it, the gentle tone of his voice. Charlie thought for a second that it was the first time the seven letters felt like they truly belonged to her. It was also the first time that Boone had said anything beyond a sentence to her, words with inflection and meaning. She wasn't quite sure how to interpret all of it. A strange feeling pinned itself between her shoulder blades, impossible to move but not altogether uncomfortable.

"You never talk to me," Charlie started, looking up at him but then retracting her gaze, "I don't know how to respond to that. I have no idea what you're thinking. Damn it, Rex is more communicative than you, Boone."

"This is all you need to know: I have your back. I said it when we left Novac and I still mean it."

"Thank you."

He nodded, turning to leave, but stopped. Charlie wasn't sure whether to escort him out or just stand there, her dirty shirt sticking to the sweat that was collecting on her chest. She'd have to ask Yes-Man to adjust the air conditioning.

"Where are your weapons? Normally you leave them within ten feet of the front door. Nothing's there."

"My power fist is in pieces in Arcade's tent at Old Mormon Fort. My combat knife is stuck in some Cazador outside Freeside. I didn't have the time or state of mind to take it back. I didn't bring a gun."

"Charlotte." He growled her whole name, shaking his head.

"I know, I know. Arc already gave me the whole 'stop being such a giant fuck-up' speech already. When I left, I didn't think a pistol was worth it. I can't shoot worth a shit anyhow. The only place I ever manage to put bullets is the dirt. And my head, although _I_ didn't do that, actually."

Benny's suit was hung over the arm of the couch, the checkered coat almost touching the floor. She wasn't sure why she took it, but it was there afterwards, still crumpled on the floor where Benny stripped and crawled into his bed. Charlie had already unclothed, wearing just her underwear, feeling nauseous. It had been the easiest way to get what she wanted, the best way to get him someplace isolated. Christ, her mouth had frozen when they met in the hallway, the black and white of his jacket making her eyes spin. Charlie imagined confronting the man that shot her dozens of times, dreamt of clasping her hands around his neck until he no longer lived, hitting him so hard that his brains scrambled, even Boone's rifle placing a single bullet hole between his eyes. But no, all she could think to do was lead with her weakest foot, her sexuality, and Benny had actually accepted. She asked Boone to wait in the lobby, and she followed Benny to the presidential suite on the thirteenth floor.

It was when Benny kissed her that Charlie knew she couldn't go through with it. The man tried to kill her and she was going to fuck him to get what she needed. No, she wouldn't do it. Couldn't. Her every muscle locked, the painful tension blooming into fury. Benny's dry lips scraping her skin, kissing her shoulders and traveling ever lower, she asked to freshen up in the bathroom for a moment, picking up her bag on the way. In the mirror, she couldn't recognize herself, the disheveled hair and gaunt cheekbones. Charlie shivered, her skin too bare for where she was. There were only two ways out of the room, and she wasn't sure which was the right one. Fuck him or kill him. Maybe a third, a combination, fuck him and then kill him. Trying not to dry heave, Charlie pulled the silenced .22 from her canvas backpack, which Boone had pressed into her hands as soon as they first stood outside the Tops.

_"Take it. Hide it inside your jacket. They're going to take our guns when we enter, but hide it and they won't know." Boone commanded, his mouth tugged into a serious line._

_ "I don't know that I'll need it. Maybe Benny will just give the platinum chip back."_

_ "He meant to murder you to obtain it, so I don't think he will have any doubts in trying a second time." _

Boone was right. Benny tried to place a bullet in her brain but didn't succeed. This was his casino, he had weapons everywhere, Benny nearly brandished the engraved silver pistol when Charlie entered the room. It was a warning. I'll put you in your grave again, the gun said without words, and this time I'll make sure you stay. She couldn't reason with Benny, and she certainly couldn't bring herself to sleep with him. It was the only way. It was all she could do. Tears welled in her eyes, the emotion completely irrational, and Charlie exited the bathroom, hiding the gun behind her pack.

Four shots. One embedded itself in the wall, one caught his shoulder, and two stuck themselves in his chest. Benny fell, not dead yet, but close. He wouldn't survive, Charlie was sure of that. Blood pooled at her bare feet as she stood above his body, angry with herself for being so soft, for nearly failing to pull the trigger. Charlie wasn't weeping for Benny, no; she cried for the girl that he had killed in Goodsprings, the one that she couldn't remember. Tears running down her cheeks, Charlie bent down to pry the chip from his fingers.

"You stupid bitch. I should've dug that grave a little deeper. I should've shot you a little harder. You should be the one lying on the ground bleeding to death, Courier. This should be you." He sputtered, blood running down the corner of his mouth, breathing becoming raspy.

"But you didn't. I'm still here. The fucking Courier that you tried to execute, she killed you. Let me ask you one thing; was it worth it, Benny? Was it worth it? Maybe I'll kill Mr. House; maybe I'll work with him. But you'll never know. You'll be dead. You'll rot in this room and nobody will ever know what really happened to you."

"You stupid bitch," He repeated so very slowly, and Charlie knew that the effort to try to wound her finally killed him. His chest stopped rising.

She collected her clothes, making sure to smooth her hair and wipe her eyes. Platinum chip safe, Charlie looked across the room, Benny's gun and his suit catching her eye. The gun, which had the name _Maria_ etched on the barrel, got thrown into her bag. Balling up his clothing, she added it to her items and left the room, locking the door behind her and snapping her cardkey in half. After tossing it into the garbage, she took the elevator back downstairs, collecting Boone on her way out.

It seemed so long ago now, the ensemble just collecting dust in her room. She'd never touch it again, Charlie thought, and noticed Boone following her stare. He didn't know what happened in the Tops, and never asked. Maybe he did have an idea, and it was the one time Charlie was relieved by his silence.

"Once Gannon gives you the okay, I'll teach you to hit your target."

She was ready to protest, but something reminded to her agree. "Fine. I'll do it."

Boone didn't say anything else as he left her. Charlie felt something shift between them. Maybe life would be easier. Maybe it wouldn't, but she tried not to believe that.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: New chapter! This one is a little longer than the past two. Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy!**

After a long nap and a decent meal, Charlie decided that a quick trip to Freeside would be in order. Her hand didn't hurt, Arcade had given her enough Med-X to numb a small army, and she had promised to pay a visit to the King with Rex by her side. One of his friends- or rather gang members, she was never sure what to call the men that patrolled Freeside- had passed that message along when she'd first arrived back in town after her excursion to Hidden Valley.

Changing into a pre-war dress she found inside an abandoned home outside Novac, Charlie searched her room for an appropriate weapon to stash inside her canvas pack. A simple combat knife would do, she didn't plan to be on the streets long, and Rex would be with her.

It was on her way out that Boone stopped her, suspicion obvious through his sunglasses.

"Where are you going?"

"The King's School of Impersonation. We have business to conduct and he wanted to see his dog. Is that okay?"

"How do I know you won't sneak out again?" He left the words, 'without me,' unsaid, but very evident within the depth of his tone of voice.

"Does it look like I'm dressed for a journey in the Mojave? Besides, you can use your scope to track me. If it looks like I'm making a run for it, you can ask Yes-Man to order the Securitrons to stop me."

"I suppose." He answered, in his usual monotone.

Rex scurried after her as she left the Lucky 38, excitedly running in circles as they entered Freeside. He might've known where they were going, but Charlie supposed it was because it was the first time in days since he'd been outside. She felt guilty at that realization, and ran a hand through Rex's fur in apology.

After she'd gotten Rex a fresh brain, when the King first insisted that Rex accompany her from that point on, Charlie was sure that the robotic dog would only get in her way, but he'd proved himself within just a few hours, bringing her the head of a Legion Recruit he'd attacked on their way to Camp McCarran. Boone got along well with Rex, as did most of her travel companions, except Cass. She told Charlie on multiple occasions that she just wasn't a dog person, especially when the canine in question was mostly metal.

One of the younger Kings greeted her warmly as Charlie entered the School, pointing behind him towards the door to the auditorium. She knew where the King was; he always sat at the same table in the front and center, calling directions to men on stage. So did Rex apparently, who jumped out before her, running towards the King.

"Rex! My boy! How I've missed you!" He shouted, his familiar drawl filling the room. "Where's your new master, huh? Where is she?"

Charlie waved from the entrance to the room, watching the pair play for a moment. She wasn't sure why the King let his dog continually leave with her, but was glad that he had allowed it. Survival wouldn't have been easy without Rex.

"Miss Charlie! Take a seat, take a seat! I've got a lesson to finish up, but after that we can go back to my office and discuss this NCR business." The King said cheerfully, sitting down with Rex by his side.

She didn't understand why they all wanted to be like the original King, the one that the King-the one petting Rex's head, the one currently responsible for cleaning up the streets of Freeside- showed her all the holotapes of. He sang some sort of music; the tapes were so old that the audio was garbled up. The man from the past was handsome and he danced very conservatively, but she didn't think that the religious ferocity with which the men studied him made much sense. Charlie didn't dare say that to the King. Often, she wondered what his real name was, all the gang members were Kings, they all worshipped the King, and their leader was also called the King. How did they ever keep things straight?

"Okay, darlin'. Let's figure things out. My office?" The King placed a hand on her shoulder, and she nodded, standing and following him.

"Stay here, Rex. I'll be back shortly."

Rex whined lowly, but lay down. Maybe he'd sleep. This was one of the few places that Charlie felt moderately safe, and was sure that the dog felt the same. The Kings were more police force than gang. It felt good to have them on her side.

"What happened to your hand, baby?" The King asked her as they entered the room, which was secluded from the rest of the building.

"Stupid mistake."

He smiled, "Seems like you make a few of those. But who hasn't, really?"

"According to most people I talk to, just me. But that's not why I'm here. You know that."

The King sat back in his leather desk chair, which was all but destroyed with age. "I suppose Crocker wants his reports on Freeside's safety. Haven't gotten to 'em yet. I will try to, tell him that."

"King, he may work behind a desk, but he's not a man to screw with. The reports that you fill out for him every month, they're the difference between a constant, hostile NCR presence in Freeside that watches your every move and one that is completely ambivalent. You want your freedom? Fill out the fucking papers."

"You want the truth?" He leaned in. "Talk to Pacer. He'll tell you, sweetheart."

"I don't speak to Pacer anymore."

"Then I won't fill out the reports."

Charlie bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself from saying something vicious and irreparable. Once the fury subsided, she answered, "This deal isn't for my sake. I did _you_ a favor. You want the NCR up your asshole?"

"I talked to Crocker about the situation. He said there were alternatives, but you chose not explore them."

"I don't kill if there are peaceful alternatives. It wasn't because Pacer was the target in question." She remembered what Boone had said, and added, "I talk before I shoot. I could've eliminated the asshole, I should've, but I didn't."

"Pacer is my friend."

"Pacer is not only your friend, he's your problem. He's dangerous, King, and I won't have anything to do with him."

The King frowned and shook his head. "I guess I'm not as persuasive as you, Charlie. You have a talent, you know. Shame you won't use it with Pacer."

He handed her a folder nearly an inch thick with documents filled with the King's neat cursive. Charlie bowed a little in return, because she wanted to be just a little insolent and also was actually grateful she'd talked her way out of the situation. Crocker had left a message at the Lucky 38 while she was attending to the Brotherhood, informing her that the King had not turned in his reports in more than a month and that if she did not intervene, a few troopers would need to. Her title, courier, was oft abused by the NCR.

"I tried with Pacer. It didn't work." She replied. "I'll give these to Crocker and please, for the love of the King, don't make me come back and visit for such a petty reason. I enjoy this place, but not when I'm being dicked around for Pacer's personal gain."

"I know. It was a cheap trick. I won't try it again." He winked, walking her back to the auditorium.

"Better not. I'll keep Rex away for as long as I live."

"According to some reports, you're constantly being executed by mercenaries. Not true, I guess?"

Charlie laughed. "I'll make sure you're the first to know when it happens. You'll have to draw up your own treaties with the NCR, though. I won't be able to help."

"Dually noted."

She left the same way she came in, this time waking Rex and waving good-bye to some of the men she'd come to recognize around Freeside. They treated her with the same respect the paid to the King, not that they were especially cruel to anybody. She'd have to have a talk with Crocker about giving Freeside a little more government funding. It wasn't as treacherous as when she'd first arrived, the few thugs that got out of line were put down in seconds. The children had caught that rat they'd been chasing for days, and Charlie gave them a few caps on her way home.

"I always said you had a heart of gold." The voice didn't startle her, but she was not ecstatic to hear it, either.

"Did the King send you after me?" Charlie asked, taking a few steps back. She was nearly on the Strip now, where she was in control, alongside the NCR. She didn't have to take his shit.

"No. I saw you leaving. Was sad that I missed you. I never see you anymore."

"Did you ever think that it was intentional, Pacer?"

"You might not love me anymore, but I still love you. Always will, Charlie."

He looked so much thinner than he once had, all the muscles underneath his black jacket gone, replaced by sharp lines of bone. It almost made her feel sorry for him-almost being the pertinent word. Jet had reduced him to nothing; he killed himself for a high that lasted only a few hours. She didn't understand. Once, she desperately wanted to, but now that comprehension wasn't nearly as important as it once was. She tried to train her brain to forget him, along with all the things she'd forgotten in the grave at Goodsprings, but it didn't take. Some nights, he was there, behind her eyelids. He waited until she was too weak to resist, and played upon her mind as she drifted to sleep.

Her first trip to Freeside was not nearly as idyllic as the one she currently took, and some thugs had ambushed her and taken the few caps she'd earned. On the street, somebody told Charlie that the School of Impersonation was a good place to go for a few well-paying jobs, and Pacer had been the first person she'd spoken to. In exchange for a date, he'd let her visit the King. A date or some caps, but he'd much prefer the date, Pacer said, and since she was broke, Charlie agreed. It wasn't the only reason. Pacer was so handsome, and Charlie was nearly charmed to hear that he found _her_ attractive.

She was alone, she hadn't met any of the people that currently resided inside of the Lucky 38, and Charlie was eager for an escape from the Wasteland as she met Pacer at the Atomic Wrangler that night. She cleaned herself up at the Followers' Fort, also meeting Arcade Gannon for the first time. They hadn't exchanged many words that day, but he helped her zip her dress and wished her good luck as Charlie ventured off.

Pacer was so kind, he opened doors and he bought her drinks, and kept complimenting her. Their next dates were at the Tops, but never the Gomorrah or the Ultra Luxe. He said he didn't like those as much, but she knew that he was no longer admitted in those establishments. For a moment, time had frozen, and Charlie thought that she just might stop tracking the man who tried to kill her and maybe stay in Freeside with Pacer and the Kings for the rest of her life. She would still die happy. It felt right, somehow, falling in love and forgetting about what had originally called her to Freeside. The gunshot wound had no meaning when she was with Pacer.

It was a month after they'd been together that he invited Charlie inside his room at the School, it wasn't the first time that she slept with him but she knew that something was different, and not in a good way. After, when Pacer went to the bathroom for forty-five minutes, Charlie gave herself permission to search his room. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but something was off, and she needed to know what it was.

By accident, she kicked the carton of cigarettes further underneath his bed, hearing the clatter of metal against metal, instead of the gentle shuffle of tobacco. Empty inhalers of jet filled the box. She always thought that Pacer's behaviors were a little frantic, at worst, irregular. He claimed to be sick an awful lot. Withdrawal. That made sense. It hadn't been the first time that Charlie felt like an idiot, but it certainly made her feel the most awful. Leaving that instant and not bothering to return her evidence to its rightful place, Charlie confronted the King about Pacer's addiction.

_"The jet... It's just always been there. He uses so much that I don't even think about it anymore. The Pacer you know, that's Pacer on jet. There's no Pacer without it. He just doesn't exist." _

Pacer didn't make excuses about it. He answered her questions, told Charlie just how much he used on a daily basis. He promised to stop. He tried to so hard, even used the fixer that the Followers gave to the addicts in Freeside. Farkas was in charge of the addicts at that time, and she was too gentle with Pacer, always giving him what he wanted, what she decided Pacer needed. He was tricking her, of course, because the need for fixer was worse than his desire for the jet. It only took him six days to relapse. Pacer figured that if he was going to need something to make himself feel well it might as well be the jet. He couldn't hide it from Charlie anymore, observing more than she let on.

She'd left Pacer that night. It wasn't worth it, and she had real problems that she needed to fix. A life with him would never exist, not in the way that she thought it would. Charlie left only a note.

_Pace, _

_ I can't do it. I won't do it. There is no choice for you to make, there's no more longwinded speeches about choosing me over the drugs. I'm just leaving. You can destroy yourself, but you can do it without me. _

_ Charlie_

It was maybe half a year ago now. She took her things and took off, taking Rex with her. She only returned to Freeside when she did not see Pacer loitering outside the School. No reminder was needed to keep Charlie away from him at all costs. She loved him, it was beyond the truth, but he'd broken her heart. The jet was important. Charlie was not. And she'd remember that for the rest of her life. It stuck, inside her chest, pinned to the list of things that made Charlie inadequate. She still hated herself because of it. Always would, she figured. Unless, of course, someone else decided to shoot her in the head, making her forget about the whole situation. That might even be favorable, really.

"Good-bye, Pacer." She whispered, "Let me be."

"I need to talk to you. I need it, Char. Please."

"No. Not here, not now. I can't do it."

He got so close to her that she was afraid that he might kiss her, and she wouldn't be able to do anything at all. Pacer made her weak again, and she'd spent so much time training herself to be anything but. What a waste. A cazador had attacked her_- _who was she trying to fool?

"You wrote that, in the letter. I memorized it. It's the first line. Please, Charlie. Let me speak."

She closed her eyes, needing to shut him out just to think. "Tomorrow. Maybe."

"Wrangler?"

It needed to be on her terms, on her turf. The 38 was filled with her people, her allies, and it was on the Strip, which was controlled by her securitrons. She needed to intimidate him, just a little, to prove that she wasn't the timid girl who'd left him six months ago.

"The Lucky 38 isn't open to the public, but if you come at seven tomorrow evening, maybe the door will be open. It might be open for a scant five minutes, after which, it will be locked and I will never hold another conversation with you. Do you understand me, Pacer?"

"Yes."

"Until then."

She turned to leave, finally closing the gate to Freeside behind her, the Strip firmly beneath her feet. Sighing, Charlie wished that she had the guts to just leave him there on the street without the promise of tomorrow night. Burying her head in her hands, she crossed the empty street towards the 38. She didn't want to talk to anyone though, because the tears were pressing against the corners of her eyes, and she did not want to explain why.

Rex's growl made her turn back towards the sidewalk. A man, dressed in an old business suit, stood about ten feet away from them, watching her closely. She didn't know him, but he said her name so quietly and with such disgust that she pulled her pack around. The combat knife gripped comfortably in her hand. Rex closed the gap, baring his teeth, the man standing so still that it made her breath catch. Damn it, where were the securitrons when she needed them? Why hadn't she stayed to figure out what Pacer wanted? Why didn't she visit Arcade for a little while? She'd chosen this moment to go home, and was confronted by this vicious stranger only yards from her front door.

"What do you want?" She tried to keep the fear from creeping up the back of her throat, but didn't fare well.

His movement was faster than she anticipated, the machete dropping from his sleeve and catching her torso so swiftly that Charlie couldn't fight back at first. The blow was followed with another, glancing off her shoulder and connecting with her jaw. Rex leapt forward, but the attacker hit him as well, his body dropping to the ground. He killed her dog, Charlie thought, clumsily wielding her knife. She got him good just once, before he struck her again, in her right arm. Her fingers lost their feeling, and Charlie dropped her weapon. The stench of blood lit the air, and Charlie knew exactly where it originated. Her muscles stopped obeying, her knees losing their rigidity. The asphalt caught her, Charlie still struggling to defend herself. For a moment, she felt the knife in her palm, felt her arm lift in the air, but she was stagnant. She couldn't move. Charlie was dying.

This assassin meant to kill her, and he would finish the job. He wasn't sloppy like Benny. He was trained to carry out Caesar's orders to eliminate their enemies, and she was at the top of the list because she refused to work with the Legion. Damn it. There was more she needed to do, more that she needed to see, and she would die lying in the grime of New Vegas.

He bent down to see whether she was dead yet, his machete striking her body once again, but she was so numb and close to death that Charlie barely noticed, just looked up into the dark eyes of the Legionary, cringing at his victorious smile. His face and the sky behind it were fading away. Charlie's blood coated the ground. This was the last breath she'd ever inhale. It was sweet.

The shot ringing out above was the last thing she heard before the Reaper took her by the hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So… this is the first of Boone's chapters. I spent a loooong time retooling it, but I'm still not sure if I like it. Oh well, read and (hopefully!) enjoy! Please review!**

**I don't own Fallout: New Vegas or any of its characters. **

Boone watched Charlotte- Charlie- leave through the scope of his rifle, her flowered dress catching the harsh sunlight of New Vegas, the door to the Lucky 38 slamming shut. She did look pretty, but Boone was suspicious. It was the first time that Charlie did any 'business' dressed in anything other than her trusty leather armor. It worried him, because it was awfully hard to hide a weapon in a dress. And if there was thing at which she was terrible, it was protecting herself. A combat knife wielded in her neglected left hand could not be considered adequate self-defense, not that Charlie would ever admit it.

To be safe, Yes-Man reassigned most of the securitrons to Freeside, on Boone's command. They clustered around the gate, maybe three hundred yards from the School. Any further away and they'd lose communication with Yes-Man.

Charlotte- Charlie! He could never remember- had nerve walking up the tower of Dinky the Dinosaur, talking to Boone in the first place. He was supposed to be keeping guard, he insisted as she tried to ask him about Novac. She was not pushy, just curious. If he had known better, he wouldn't have been tricked by those upturned green eyes of Charlie's, a tactic she used whenever she wanted more information from a male. It didn't work so well on woman, well, straight women, at least. Against his good sense, Boone found himself asking for her help in finding Carla's killer. He didn't want to do it, but the request crawled out of him without his permission. She had that unique talent, to make people say more than they intended. Smiling sadly, she nodded, whispered that she would investigate. He didn't expect her help, since she was just a stranger wandering the Wastes. It was quite a thing to agree to, organizing another person's imminent execution, but Charlie didn't argue. She just explained that she wouldn't damn anybody without proof, before taking his beret, wringing it softly in her hands. He shrugged at that, not knowing what to think.

When he watched her question the entire town of Novac with a sort of quiet benevolence, Boone thought he picked the wrong person. Charlie didn't threaten anyone, just sort of persuaded them to tell their side of the situation. Yes, she might make the citizens feel safe by talking in those smiling, hushed tones, but there were quicker ways to get information. A wrist wrenched behind a back, a fistful of shirt pulled violently forward, that was how practiced NCR troopers collected intelligence. Boone had seen that plenty of times, which yielded continual results. Damn it, Charlie was tracking down who orchestrated his wife's kidnapping, not searching for missing Brahmin. Three days passed, and Boone figured that Charlie left town, leaving him in the lurch. Fuck it, he'd thought; he'd do it himself one day.

One night, between midnight and one, he spotted the burgundy beret wandering down the road, Jeannie May Crawford by her side. Jeannie May was irritated, hands stuck on her hips, clucking about being forced to get out of bed. Charlie gestured towards the dinosaur, and Boone wasn't sure if the look of concern she wore was scripted or natural. They stopped walking, looking up at the thermometer, and Boone lined up the shot. Charlie caught his gaze, and nodded, before squeezing her eyes shut. It was clean and easy.

Charlie fell to her knees after the deed was done, holding her face in her hands. That fragility he did not expect, the slope of Charlie's spine as she caved in upon herself.

She was still bawling when she went up into the Dinosaur afterwards, her face magenta.

"How- how'd you know?" He whispered, uncomfortable.

She hiccupped and shook her head. Charlie didn't want to tell him, but at the same time, he knew that she had proof of some kind. The careful interviews she'd conducted, they were for a reason. This woman would not send Jeannie May to be slaughtered if she weren't guilty.

"I found... The bill of sale." She held it out to him.

He didn't know why she was crying. Boone couldn't understand it. Was it for Jeannie May? Sure, she'd given the Courier a free room in the hotel, but that couldn't possibly be it. Should he ask? Why did he find her so damn confusing?

"Are you okay?"

Charlie looked at him, ashamed. Again he was bewildered. Who was her expression directed towards? "I don't know how a human being could condemn another, just for their own foolish personal gain."

A rage filled him. If she didn't want to find Carla's murderer, Charlie could've just given him the beret back. He would've found somebody else without her reservations. Maybe not any time soon, but eventually. Or he would've done it himself.

"I see." It was all he could do to not to choke her.

"It's disgusting. I didn't know Carla, but damn it, how could Jeannie May do it? How could she send Carla to those horrendous people when she knew exactly how she would be treated? Who could do that to another person? I don't understand it, Boone. Carla didn't deserve it. Damn it, I wish there was some way to bring her back here, to you. But thanks to Jeannie May, it's impossible. I'm so fucking sorry, Boone. I wish that I could do more." She said it all at once, the words rushing out from her lips, like she couldn't control it.

"You helped. That's more than I can say for this whole town."

He gave her a hundred caps, which jingled in her shaking palm. She dropped them, leaning out the window, Jeannie May still splayed across the ground below. Charlie vomited, hard, and Boone was sure that the carnage had nothing to do with her nausea. Her empathy, it was almost hard to believe. Carla was gone for years, and a stranger avenged her. The Wasteland didn't breed people like Charlie, a woman with feelings and compassion. She was some kind of alien, she had to be. There was no other explanation for what she displayed that night. Nobody else helped Boone. And yet, he was sure he'd never see her again. The thought made him a little more morose than usual.

The next morning, promptly at nine, Manny wordlessly took over the job as spotter, and Boone had just started to make his way home when Charlie shouted his name. She had a dog with her, a strange robotic thing that he'd never seen before, and against his better judgment, Boone waited for her.

"Come with me."

"No."

Carla was still everywhere in Novac. Her coffee cup still sat on his counter, forever empty. Her clothes still hung in the closet. Her stitches were still in the mends of their bedspread. Every street sign, every pothole in the street, they were filled with memories that he couldn't bear to forget. He hated this place, but he needed it. Boone couldn't bring himself to leave it all behind. But he couldn't tell Charlie.

Revenge had been his sole purpose for so long that Boone was ready to sacrifice himself. There were Legionaries that he planned to hunt. He'd kill as many as he could, before they came for him. The world didn't need Craig Boone. The NCR had forgotten about him, this town would forget as well. So would Charlie, which her cautious grin and wide eyes. She was too young to know better.

"I will end Caesar's reign in the Mojave. You can help me. We'll kill him, together. The Legion will fall by our hands." She was saying this because she knew that there was no way he could disagree.

"You do no believe they are owed your passive ear? Perhaps you can convince them to leave without more violence."

"Their evil will not bend to my speech. It will only end with a gunshot."

Their strangely formal conversation was almost reassuring. She meant what she said. Maybe, traveling with her would be more dangerous than exploring on his own. Charlie had some purpose for being in the Wastes, the deep scar on her face evidence of that fact. The powerfist engaged on her hand meant that she intended to battle for survival. Boone could easily fight to die.

He agreed, seeing the tight line in her mouth. Her hatred for the Legion was never explained, not during the many months that they traveled together. Boone wondered if maybe that was a trait from her former life, whether she recognized it or not. He never brought it up, however. Charlie had long grown used to his silence, preferring to speak to the dog instead, even though he could not answer her back.

Down below the 38, Charlie looked back over her bare shoulder as she pulled open the gate to Freeside. Boone knew that she was looking for him. The Lucky 38's windows were tinted, and even though his was opened just a small crack, she couldn't find him. A small part of Boone was glad that she did turn back to seek him at the last second, but he couldn't explain why. Somewhere, Boone struck an unlikely friendship with Charlie. He didn't know how it happened.

In that dress, with her long curls free, Carla's face was suddenly the one turned upwards towards him. Falling backwards, away from his spot, Boone's face felt suddenly warm. Often, he saw Carla, but he was never prepared for her ghost. It was more burden than anything else, because it was just another reminder that he was losing his mind. It was another secret he wished to keep.

Charlie looked nothing like his late wife, who had straight but short pale blonde hair that she always wore in a ponytail tied with a cornflower blue ribbon. Carla was gorgeous, much too beautiful for Boone, he'd always thought. Charlie was attractive as well, albeit in a different way, with dark brown hair that turned copper in the sun, her pale skin freckled and but never tanned like Carla's. Sometimes, when they camped at night, he wanted to tell Charlie things about Carla, little things that he missed. He couldn't though. The phrases didn't make it past his lips.

He'd met Carla in New Vegas. It was all he could think when they were here. It was all he could think when they were anywhere. She haunted his every move, and it still wasn't enough. She should still be here with him. They should be raising babies and Carla should be strutting down the Strip in her finest clothing. She loved it here. Boone had brought her to Novac. He convinced her. He'd never forgive himself. Maybe if Boone kept at it, God would bring them together sooner or later. If he deemed Boone fit. God or whomever decided the fates of man.

After smoothing the embarrassment from his face, Boone approached the window once again. The floral pattern of her dress appeared within the gate again, but she was talking to someone, a tall man with dark hair. It was easy to spot the discomfort upon her face. He was from Freeside, not the Strip, maybe a down-on-his-luck gambler, proclaimed by his dirty clothing and gaunt frame. Charlie nodded and looked cross for a moment, then shut the gate, the man left in Freeside, without her.

She stopped moving. Who did she see? There was another gambler below, standing stiffly maybe fifteen feet away from her and Rex, but he'd been standing there since she left, swilling from the bottle of whiskey in his hand. Boone tightened his gaze and observed the bottle more closely. It was full. He'd been there for at least and hour constantly drinking, Boone was sure of it.

The fucking machete dropped from the man's sleeve and the world fell away from Boone. He should've spotted it sooner, and fought to control his self-directed fury. Damn it, he cursed, watching as Charlie spun away from the Legionary's- it had to be one of Caesar's followers, they were so fucking fond of machetes- strikes, her back now facing Boone. Her dress caught the air in the momentum, distracting him with a memory of Carla dancing during their wedding. Pushing her aside, he focused on the attack below. He couldn't take the shot. Charlie was too close to her assailant, still trying to fight back, still blocking the worst of his stabs. If she had an adequate weapon, Charlie might've been able to wound him in return. The machete caught her a few more times, weakening her with each blow. She bobbled in and out of his scope as Boone lined up his shot, and then fell to the pavement. Boone squeezed a single round, but he knew it was too late.

The elevator did not reach the ground floor quickly enough, and Boone shouted at Raul to follow him outside. He'd have to take care of Rex, while Boone would try to get Charlie to the Old Mormon Fort, as swiftly as he could. There was so much blood, more than he'd ever seen up close. Gore was easy to adjust to at five hundred yards away. Even at Bittersprings Boone never saw his victims firsthand.

"Boone?" Charlie asked, as he scooped her into his arms. He'd never noticed how sweet and clear her voice sounded.

"It's okay, you're okay. I promise you."

She'd already closed her eyes and Boone knew that she was yet another person that his carelessness had killed.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Another chapter, another character's point of view. I actually really liked this one, compared to the last. I might have made some things up about buffout that are probably not true, but you'll see. It works for the situation. Thanks for reading and please review!**

Arcade hated the Followers sometimes. He'd given Pacer a three-month supply of fixer today, but knew that he'd be back by next week. If there was one thing that Pacer was, it was predictable. Not reliable, that was different. Few people in the world were reliable, Arcade had come to believe, and nobody in Freeside fit that description. At least not his patients anyway, which were mostly druggies and small time criminals. He much preferred researching, but Julie Farkas thought it unfair for him to hide from Freeside's finest. Which was all well and good when one didn't consider that Farkas kept all the safe cases to herself, curing all the kids with colds and tourists without enough caps for New Vegas Medical Clinic.

Charlie's injury was the most exciting thing that'd happened for weeks. It'd been so long since he'd seen her sheepish smile. Charlie was the first person that he considered a friend for such a long time, but she so busy running errands for the NCR and arranging alliances that there was barely enough time for Arcade anymore. Oh sure, he was often 'invited' to accompany her in the Mojave, but that was just too much for him sometimes. At least it was somewhat safe with the Followers. He also didn't think it too much to ask for a quick visit every now and then when Charlie was in town.

A huge shipment of medical supplies sat in front of him, too much for their post. He was supposed to take inventory and then sort them for the different doctors to take back to their tents. Another task that Farkas assigned because she didn't agree with all of Arcade's proclivities. And well, because maybe he once 'borrowed' a man that she had been flirting with at the Atomic Wrangler. He'd been on her bad side for a while now, and his best friend's affiliation with the NCR wasn't helping matters much. Lately, he'd been hiding the extra meds and then sending them under Charlie's name to Camp Forlorn Hope, for Dr. Richards. It was Charlie's idea, like everything else, because if there was one thing she knew how to do well, it was how to solve other people's problems. Plus, doing things behind Farkas' back always made Arcade a little giddy.

Damn it, Arcade did have the biggest crush on Dr. Richards. Alex. When he daydreamed about him, Arcade called him Alex, and they had their own medical practice in a small town. Alex and Arcade would operate on a woman who had gotten stung by radscorpion while she was pregnant- no, in labor, that was so much more dramatic-and they had to work together to save the baby and the mother. Afterwards, they'd go home and enjoy a passionate session of love making, which is the perfect way to follow up a major surgery, at least in his mind. However, the closest person Arcade had to a boyfriend was Charlie, who despite her name, was not a man and did not have any desire to sleep with him.

Alex had brown eyes, well, Arcade wasn't sure, but it was probably true. He'd only 'met' him one time, and hadn't been very adept at speaking. Christ, he wished there was some way to jumpstart a romance with that man- without coming off as a complete jackass whilst trying. So far, he hadn't thought of a way.

An alarmed shout brought him from his thoughts, and he looked up just long enough to realize that his night was ruined. The First Recon held someone within his arms. Arcade prayed, even though he did not believe in any god, that it wasn't Charlie lying slack. His gut knew better. Another man followed him, the ghoul, Raul, Arcade realized, as they came into the light. He was holding her dog, Rex. Drawing in a deep breath, he prepared himself for the worst.

They came into his tent, Julie Farkas not far behind them, and the sniper carefully placed Charlie onto a cot, so tenderly that Arcade could not keep his eyebrows from furrowing in surprise. That man exuded nothing more dynamic than cautious indifference. Even Charlie would comment upon his silence when she visited the Followers. Shit, he'd been so relieved yesterday that Boone had not come with her, because when he did, he just stood wordlessly, watching the two friends talk. It was nothing less than intimidating. But now, Boone caressed her cheek as he turned towards Arcade, his sunglasses hiding any semblance of emotion.

"Save her." It was not questioning or pleading, it was an order.

He bent over Charlie, to survey her wounds, calling over a younger doctor, Marie, a woman that was timid and would not ask any questions. He told her to get as many stimpaks as she could hold, along with a sterilized needle and surgical thread. Charlie's wounds were deep, and there was a large audience behind him. He needed them out.

"Hand me that purified water, Boone. I need to clean these cuts. The dog, if he needs medical attention, take him to Farkas' tent, Raul. It's too cluttered in here. Boone, do you know if she took any of the medication I gave her?"

"I stuck her with the couple syringes of Med-X she had in her pack. I managed to get her to swallow a few buffout when she was more lucid."

"Fuck me. Buffout? Christ, that's going to make the bleeding worse. How many? Do you remember?"

"No, I don't, I thought it might help-"

"Yeah, it would, if she wasn't bleeding like a stuck pig already. Buffout thins the blood. Christ, Marie, get me a coagulant. Farkas has it, don't listen to her if she protests, tell her that I said to go fuck herself on that high horse of hers." The woman had returned with the stimpaks, but Arcade sent her away again.

"Don't take that tone with me. Soldiers use buffout to keep conscious in battle when they're gravely injured." Boone growled, "It's what we're required to do."

Arcade whipped around, furious. "The NCR tells troopers take buffout so they will die on the field, so the wounded will not overwhelm the doctors. If a man has gotten shot fifteen times, nothing can be done to save him. The buffout makes him bleed out, quickly, painlessly. So that the lucky ones can be saved with real medicine."

Boone went silent after that. Arcade wasn't surprised.

The wounds were as clean as Arcade could get them; he had hooked Charlie to a series of stimpaks and coagulants, so that she would stop bleeding long enough for him to stitch the most aggressive of her lesions. Warning Marie that she'd have to get some blood packs ready for transfusion, Arcade gave a single glance to Boone, who loomed in the corner. He stood completely still, completely unaffected. Arcade was reminded why he disliked the man so intensely.

The first time they'd met, Boone wouldn't even shake his hand. Arcade figured it had something to do with the NCR's hatred of homosexuals, but didn't let it bother him. Plenty of people, unaffiliated with that particular branch of the government, treated Arcade with the same disrespect. He was used to it. It felt silly to think that he'd developed a thick skin, but he supposed that it was the right description. Arcade was comfortable with the person he'd grown to be. He had plenty of lovers, and he had at least one friend. He liked his job, for the most part.

Charlie and Boone's relationship, if one could call it that, was strained at best. He supposed it would be very hard to spend a significant length of time with somebody who just wouldn't speak. The past hour had been unbearable, so Arcade had no idea how Charlie handled the situation. The other problem, he thought, was that he doubted that Boone was completely sane. Charlie had mentioned in an offhand comment that Boone's wife had been kidnapped and sold to Legion slavers, and Arcade had been astonished. Revenge was not a solution for grief, he'd told her, but Charlie shrugged it off.

Boone did look after her out there, Arcade witnessed that firsthand. But it wasn't in an oh-there's-an-enemy-let's-fight-him-together sort of way. His idea of protection was keeping Charlie away from battle and rushing headfirst, alone. Suicidal. Charlie didn't see it that way. Boone was ready to kill himself and she wanted to pretend that everything was fine. Once, when she and Arcade were very drunk on very cheap wine, she admitted that Boone scared the shit out of her, but Arcade could never convince her to explain why.

It'd been simpler to explain Boone's behavior as simple hatred, but Arcade could no longer believe that ruse. Maybe he truly cared for Charlie. Christ, Arcade couldn't forget the way that Boone's thumb ran over the apple of her cheek, so slowly, so tenderly. Did the stoic have true emotions?

"You can go outside if you want. They're all sitting down to supper. You've been in here for a long time." Arcade nodded towards Boone, hoping that he'd take the hint.

"I'm fine."

Marie glanced up at Arcade, she was sitting opposite him, on Charlie's left side, closing her wounds. The discomfort on her face said that she appreciated him trying to rid them of their surveyor.

"Did you see what happened?" Marie asked, her voice quiet like she did not fully expect an answer.

"A Legionary. I didn't have a clean shot until it was too late."

Another hour passed, in a total hush, the silence becoming less awkward. Perhaps this was how Charlie felt when they journeyed together. It was the right environment for this sort of work, even though Arcade didn't like the idea of Boone's eyes boring a hole into his back.

Without warning, there was a series of loud noises, in quick succession, followed by a loud howl. Rex? Maybe Farkas had managed to jump start his robotics? She always had a talent for repairing things; it was the one trait that Arcade actually liked.

Again, louder. Suddenly, it made sense. A fist pounding against corrugated metal- the Old Mormon Fort's gate, which they'd taken to locking at night, due to the large presence of medical supplies. Two weeks ago, there was a robbery, which resulted in an addict getting shot by the Kings, who came to intervene. Now, a guard stood outside, letting in any civilians that actually needed a doctor. That person, whoever was screaming outside, must not meet the criteria. Probably another addict in need of Fixer. They could wait until morning.

Marie looked startled. Things were normally quite calm, this evening being the exception. Listening harder, Arcade realized why.

"_Let me in! I want to see her! You can't stop me from seeing Charlie! Let me see her! Let me in, Farkas! Let me see her!"_ It was a man, but Arcade couldn't place the voice.

Every man that Charlie knew on a personal basis was currently within the walls of the Old Mormon Fort, Boone, Raul, and of course, Arcade. He knew that she and King had a strong platonic relationship, but he would know to contact Farkas and ask her to send word in the morning. He had the sense to keep his distance. The NCR wasn't so stupid to act in such an outlandish fashion. Outside of that, Arcade had no other ideas. Maybe just a lunatic?

"Damn it, Arcade. Are you nearly done? Pacer is outside, causing a ruckus. We don't have enough manpower at night for that. Pete is ready to shoot him and get it over with." Farkas stuck her head inside the flap to the tent, looking irritated.

"I'm trying to save a life here. Tell him to go home. I'll send for him, personally, when I've patched her up. I've already put half a dozen blood packs in her already. She's been torn apart. Tell him that and to keep his fucking voice down. The whole neighborhood doesn't need to know."

"I tried to tell him we'd send word to the King as soon as we could. He doesn't believe me. He wants to wait outside the tent."

"Outside?" Arcade asked. There were already too many non-medical personnel around for his taste. "I want a guarantee. And I want him quiet."

"I promise." She looked at Charlie, who'd helped Farkas many times before. "What's the prognosis?"

"I don't know. She was already unconscious when Boone brought her in. She's lost a lot of blood, like I said."

"Seems like a lot for a knife fight."

Arcade and Boone shared a glance, before Arcade swallowed and replied, "She had a blood condition that I didn't know about. Thinning of the blood. Doesn't know her family, so she didn't know she had it."

If Farkas knew about the Buffout, she would've told him to give up. He couldn't, Arcade was so close to completely finishing all his sutures that it would be just a matter of time before her body accepted the blood they were putting in it instead of just pissing it out through every wound. It didn't help that her heartbeat was almost nonexistent, but he was not going to mention it to the room.

Pacer and Charlie- he didn't remember her ever mentioning that. And Charlie had frequently told Arcade that he was the only man who knew all her secrets, or at least all the ones that she could actively remember. Pacer had a tattoo that read, 'Charlotte- Forever Mine,' but Arcade never put the two things together. Charlotte was a common enough name and Pacer was well, Pacer. Suddenly feeling stupid, Arcade hunkered down, knowing that he'd be there, at Charlie's side for the rest of the night.

Tired, and feeling the last bit of hope draining, Arcade wiped sleep from his eyes, and listened to the sound of Pacer quietly singing of lost love and happiness to keep himself awake. Wondering whether he'd ever see his friend laugh again, Arcade hummed along to the melancholy tunes. It was all he could do not to cry.

Boone did not leave either. But Arcade doubted very much that there was anything more than dust in the corners of his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this up! It wasn't writer's block for a change, but my internet. Whenever I had time to post a chapter, it wouldn't work, but as soon I needed to check my e-mail in a bit of spare time, it chugged along just fine. Argh. Anyway, this chapter is a little shorter than normal, but I promise that the next one is pretty long. Thanks for reading and please review!**

It was so hot. Charlie was sure that she was on fire, her skin blistering, her entire body consumed by the fire surrounding her. Was this place hell? Had her actions earned her a place amongst the damned? In life, Charlie had not believed in God, or heaven or hell, and this was her punishment. She was doomed to spend eternity here, amongst all the vile human beings that she did not have the honor of meeting in her lifetime. Feeling an immense sort of dread, Charlie looked for anything that would tell her where she'd landed, but there was nothing but flames. They weren't composed of the pleasant crimson of a campfire, but the blue that emanated from flamethrowers, as though the Devil himself was roasting her spirit.

Desperate to leave, Charlie tried to sit up, her body splayed upon the floor, all awkward angles, as though her lifeless body had been dropped from the world above. Struggling, she clung further against the ground, which was comprised of not just stone, but coals. Charlie could not move. Was she paralyzed, fated to spend forever baking inside this room? What happened? How had she died? Faintly, she remembered the gleam of metal, the cloying scent of blood, but nothing more. Charlie's mind failed her always, even here.

She needed to get up, move away from the flames, but her struggles only made it worse. Her voice clung to her throat, but she screamed anyway, louder and louder. Someone could help her. Even in hell there had to be an ally.

Looming above, Charlie saw a face, lined with age and smiling callously.

"So, you've found yourself with the rest of us. Might've spent a lifetime making up for your forgotten misdeeds, but I guess it didn't work, huh, sweetie?"

"Jeannie May, please, I can't move. Please help me. I can't breathe here."

Her lungs were tight, filling with smoke. There was nothing else in the room burning, just Charlie. Jeannie May was imperious to it all. How had she fared so well when she'd been a despicable human being in real life?

"You didn't help me. You could've left our town. You could've let me be. I wasn't hurting anybody. You didn't understand, you couldn't have. Carla was a bitch, and she was ruining Novac. I had to get rid of her."

"You killed her. You killed Boone. You left him with nothing."

The woman pulled Charlie to her feet, and for the first time, she felt relief. It was cooler there, her burnt skin soothed by the cooler air. Her charred hands darted upwards to catch the swirling breeze, as thought they'd be healed in such a simple manner.

"I gave our town a second chance. And you killed me, just so the sniper could sleep at night."

"You knew what they were going to do to her, you knew that they would rape her and force her to have their children, just to have her babies taken away as soon as they were born. They'd beat and torture her. You condemned her to that life. You made that choice."

The room, if that's what it was, spun, and Jeannie May let go of Charlie's arms, letting her plummet back to the ground. The coals were gone, and instead, heavy snow coated Charlie's bare limbs. She wore only her dress, which was sleeveless and sewn from thin cotton. That was what Charlie wore leaving the Lucky 38- but as soon as she thought about it, the idea made no sense. How had leaving home brought to her to this place? More frightened, her knees knocked together, shivering. She had the barest of movements, though still unable to stand on her own.

"You condemned me to this place when you allowed Boone to put a bullet in my brain."

Jeannie May backed away them, turning her back for a moment. It would never end, Charlie realized. They were stuck together. She'd made her decision in Novac to murder her, and now Charlie couldn't leave the woman's side. Jeannie May would torture her for eternity, and there was nothing that Charlie could do about it.

"Jeannie May, I did what I believed to be right. An eye for an eye. The Mojave Wasteland treats that as scripture." Charlie was desperate.

"It's okay. I understand." The voice that answered her was not Jeannie May's, and when her body whipped back around, it was not hers either.

A young woman stood before Charlie, with pale blonde hair fastened in a ponytail by a cornflower blue ribbon. She might not have noticed that if it had not been the same color as the woman's eyes, which were bright and friendly. Her figure was slender, and she was tall, much taller than Charlie. Bending down, she took Charlie's hand in her own, and smiled.

"Who are you?" Charlie asked, weakly.

"I forgot, we never met in life. I am Carla, Carla Boone."

Boone's wife was more beautiful than Charlie had ever imagined. She was the type of woman that all men worshipped for her fairness, which was rarely found in a place as inhospitable as the Mojave Desert. He'd been lucky. Suddenly, Charlie knew why he fell in love with Carla, why he could not move past her death.

"Where is Jeannie May?"

"I've banished her for now, but we haven't much time. You don't belong in this place."

Charlie nodded, vaguely noticing that the world had changed again, her feet touching the soft floor of a lush forest. It was filled with noise, birds- Christ, that's what birds sounded like. Charlie had never heard such a lovely song in all her life. And the trees! She'd never seen so many healthy trees! Distracted by all the shades of green, Carla's voice barely brought her back.

"This is not your death. This place, it is reserved for those who did terrible things. If you stay long enough, its inhabitants will torture you, one by one. There are other worlds, better than the one in which you began. I can't take you to them in your condition, but I can bring you back to the Mojave, to your body."

"I have never seen a pine tree before." Charlie touched the slick needles, smelling the earthy scent they released. It was marvelous.

"They are trying to trick you to stay here. I will carry you as far as I can, but you will have to walk the hardest parts. You are strong enough, Charlotte. I know you are, but you must promise me one thing first."

"Yes?"

"Craig believes that he will end up here, amongst evil. And he will, if you do not push him away. There are evils that must be destroyed, yes, but there is a whole world worth knowing and discovering. Convince him of that. He can atone for his earthly sins. Tell him, for me."

"I will try, but he doesn't listen to me. He doesn't trust me."

"He does. He may not declare it, Charlotte, but you're the only human being in that whole world that he trusts. Take care of him."

Charlie nodded, not sure of any of it. "Is this place hell?"

"No. It's a kind of in between. There is good and there is evil, always interacting."

"How are you and Jeannie May Crawford in the same place?"

"I was not always a decent person. Boone set me right, whether he knows it or not. I regret many things, but not him. Novac reminded me of the place I'd come from, that I ran from, and I didn't like it. Maybe I should've been grateful that Boone was there with me."

"He still loves you."

"I know." She smiled, so sadly, and Charlie couldn't look. It was just too miserable.

Carla lifted Charlie into her arms, easily lifting her. The world spun, Charlie looking up into a light blue sky that hadn't been there before. Carla spoke to her lowly, her voice so distant that Charlie thought maybe she'd disappeared. The sky turned a strange shade of beige, and Carla set Charlie upon her feet. The forest ended, the lush viridian oasis bordering only an expanse of pure white space. There was nothing further, nothing to show Charlie how far she needed to go in order to escape.

"Take this." Carla reached behind her head, pulling the ribbon holding her hair free. Charlie held it tightly within her fingers. "Good-bye, Charlotte."

"Carla, don't leave. He needs you."

"No, he needs you now, Charlotte."

She turned towards the colorless clearing. "Where do I go?"

"Walk until it hurts and then keep going until it's agony. The pain means you are closer to your human body. It won't be easy. But the pain means you are still alive."

Carla was right. Charlie was barely able to walk, every step becoming more crippling. She had no idea how far she'd come, the trees gone. There was only white, empty space surrounding her. Blankness and terrible pain. Finally, she dragged herself, unable to endure the throbbing in her legs. Charlie looked down, and the ground stopped. A line was drawn, dark and thick. Black and white, with nothing in between. She had no choice but to fall into the pitch, hurtling towards whatever met her at the bottom.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Another chapter! This one is a bit longer than the others, as I promised. I'm almost caught up to the end of what I've already written, so the updates might come a little more slowly after a few days. I'm trying to keep on top of it, I swear! Thanks for reading and please review!**

Charlie shot up, screaming, still feeling the plummet in her stomach. Something was attached to both her wrists and her feet, and for a moment, she thought she was still in the dream, Jeannie May Crawford binding her to a... hospital bed? Slowly, Charlie took in the scene around her, which was inside of a tent that she had spent many days in. A slew of her companions were camped out in chairs, the tiny space full and warm with all the body heat.

Arcade's eyes met hers first, exhausted and panicked, like he wasn't sure who he was looking at. Distantly, she remembered meeting him to fix her hand, which as she flexed, didn't twinge nearly as painfully.

"Why am I tethered to the bed?" It was the first thing that she could manage past her lips, her voice dry.

"You kept flailing, accidentally tearing out stitches. Farkas wanted me to stop you, so I borrowed a few belts." Arcade gently undid the leather around her wrists. "Boys, I don't know which is whose, so fight over them as you wish."

Charlie stretched, feeling the tightness in her muscles. "What happened?"

Boone stood, and for a second, Charlie was sure that he was going to speak. Behind the aviators, he made eye contact with her briefly, mouth pursed. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his dusty khakis, rifle strapped to his back. The shirt he always wore was covered in thick rust-colored stains, and Charlie knew immediately, her blood still clung to him. But he turned away, opening the flap of the tent to reveal a navy blue sky, stars obscured by pollution from the Great War. As he left, the room seemed to deflate, everyone settling. Arcade gave her a grateful glance, and took her hand in his.

"A Legionary attacked you in the street. He got you with a lot of superficial blows. The most dangerous were the ones that slid between your ribs on your right side, and this one," Arcade ran his index finger above her throat, "catching your jaw but barely, just missing your jugular artery. Luckily, there seems to be no internal bleeding, his weapon caught none of your important organs. You lost a lot of blood. That's what would've killed you, but we got a handle on it, very early."

"How much med-x have you given me?"

"Quite a lot. You've got hundreds of stitches, but only few more days before I'll have to take them out."

"A few more days?"

Arcade sighed, looking outwards. "You've been here for three weeks, Char. We were all but planning your funeral, until yesterday, when you started to struggle in your... sleep. We started another vigil, and you decided to join us."

"I was worried. She loves her granddaughter." The Super Mutant cried, "I have been taking care of your doggie. He is very nice."

"Thank you, Lily."

"And I found your papers from the King. I took them over to Crocker for you. I promised that I'd deliver word if you came around, but I'm going to wait until morning. Think I might grab a stiff drink and then get some sleep in a real bed." Cass said, smiling uncharacteristically. "The lack of whiskey and a soft mattress has been killing me."

"Go ahead. I understand."

Rex barked a greeting, while Charlie watched Raul leave with Lily, as Veronica and Cass waving good-bye and heading to the Wrangler. The girls were quite famous for their drinking binges, and if they'd been handing around Old Mormon Fort for a while, the Wrangler was probably missing their business.

Afterwards, Arcade stood, his joints cracking as he did so, before sitting back down.

"Don't give me that look. This _is_ where I live."

"I know. I want you to stay. You're my favorite, Gannon. Don't forget it." Charlie teased, then added, "Boone was only here briefly."

She didn't know why that hurt in a tiny place in her chest. The disappointment that after almost a whole goddamned month, he still didn't have anything to say to her. It burnt in a way that she wasn't sure how to interpret. Weren't they friends at least? Once, he had told her that he had her back, but now, Charlie was sure that those words had no meaning. Once she led him to Caesar, Boone would leave her and she'd never see him again. He'd line up his shot, squeeze off a round, and evaporate into the Mojave. Perhaps, she should just let him wander alone, without her around to guide his hand.

Her real friend, Arcade, pulled off his lab coat, tossing it across his desk, revealing a striped shirt that she had not seen before. Probably something that he'd bought to impress Dr. Richards.

"Boone, my dear, has been here since he brought you in, looming in that corner, not breathing a word to anybody. I don't think he has even slept since, and I'm not actually sure how he is still alive at this point in time. Didn't you see how everyone relaxed when he went off? The notion of small talk commits suicide when Boone is present."

Charlie shrugged. She didn't expect Boone's loyalty, not at all, but decided not to fool herself into believing that's what he intended. Maybe, he was waiting until Arcade pulled the proverbial plug so that Boone could run off as a rogue, destroying the Legion little by little in Carla's honor.

The nightmare, suddenly, came into her mind. She could not remember being so frightened, the conversation with Jeannie May replaying over and over. Had Charlie's actions been too much? Should she have left Novac without murdering Jeannie May? They were questions that Charlie dwelled upon frequently. To gain Boone's confidence, she had to sentence another human to death. There was no right answer, really, but Charlie would not accept that as so. A fiend or a Legionary attacking without thought, Charlie could kill without her conscience leaping up into her throat, but the sound of Boone's bullet striking Jeannie May would live in her mind forever. It was not Charlie's shot, but she had, effectively, pulled the trigger. Another voice, one that miniscule and venomous, reminded Charlie that if she had not killed Jeannie May, a terrible crime would've gone unnoticed. The voice said that Charlie did what she needed. Of course, she did not truly trust it.

"He doesn't sleep. At least, I've never seen him."

"Oh. Listen, I know it's none of my business, but... Pacer's been here too, since the first night. I don't know why. I haven't let him inside. He like, Boone, has not left his post."

Pacer had wanted to talk to her, alone, and she had refused him. She didn't feel guilty exactly, but a strange feeling struck her. Perhaps she should hear him out, not tonight, but eventually. When she was better, Charlie would pay another visit to the School of Impersonation, veiling a visit with Pacer as a trip to see the King. It might work, but there was no way that anybody would ever let go to Freeside alone, not after what happened.

"Pacer and I were in a relationship, a long time ago. If you know Pacer, you can figure out for yourself why it ended."

He nodded, and pulled back the threadbare blanket on the cot beside her bed. "You can get up, if you want to try, but go slow, okay?" Charlie smiled broadly at his comment, and Arcade hastily added, "No more than an hour out of this tent, understand? Then back to sleep. I'll help you up."

Grasping his hands, Charlie let Arcade tug her upwards, settling her feet upon the ground. Her legs held her weight, but walking felt strange and new. She was wearing just a medical gown, and asked Arcade where her clothes had gone.

"Your dress was completely ruined. I threw it away. Borrow something of mine."

Charlie pulled a button down over her shoulders, which was much easier than the t-shirt that she had first attempted to pull over them, her bruises and wounds protesting with every movement. Arcade's pants were a tad too large, so she looped one of the forgotten belts around her waist before venturing towards her canvas pack, which was still packed with the same things she'd brought to Freeside. Digging for a bottle of purified water and her favorite jacket, something soft caught her fingers. She pulled it free, holding it out towards the single lamp that Arcade left on to guide her.

A satin ribbon of cornflower blue. Carla's hair tie, that Charlie received during her dream. Had it been in there the whole time? After all, it was the same bag that had been found with her in Goodsprings, which Charlie had never cleaned. Maybe it'd been stuck to the bottom and she'd never noticed it. There was no way that what she experienced was real in any way- it was just a dream and nothing more. A fantasy her mind had fabricated in order to force her to wake. Of course.

Charlie sighed, rubbing her eyes to force herself to remember just how the ribbon made its way into her pack. Perhaps somebody had found it and placed it there, thinking it was Charlie's.

"Arcade?" She asked, gently, knowing that he might be asleep.

"Yeah?" His response was indeed groggy.

"Has anyone been in my bag?"

"I don't think so. Boone brought it with him when he found you. It's been on the floor since. Something missing?"

"No, never mind. Go back to sleep."

She hastily put the ribbon back inside, the back of her head throbbing for a few moments. It was probably nothing. If it weren't, Charlie was insane, and she wasn't ready for that assumption just yet. For now, she was just going to believe that it originated in her bag, not in her nightmare

Stepping outside, Charlie marveled at the temperature. The night was cool for once, the nightly weather in the Mojave changing at the drop of a hat. Sometimes it still held the swelter of the sun, and others, like tonight, would carry in a breeze. Charlie often dreamed of leaving the desert, seeking greener pastures. In a book, she'd seen a picture of a beach, azure water and sparkling sands. It was beautiful; the most gorgeous thing she'd ever laid eyes upon. But it didn't exist anymore, the coasts muddy and radioactive. The waves the lapped the shores were a sickly green, bringing in garbage and dead bodies. The whole country had gone to shit. It was all the same, one giant Wasteland. Her fantasies of beaches and forests and anything resembling a temperate climate were moronic. There was no place to escape towards. Like her former self, it was all destroyed.

Charlie wasn't sure where to go, after all, all of her friends were gone, only Rex and Arcade remaining. But Arcade slept, and Rex panted by her side, happy to be out of the confined space. No, Charlie was wrong, the cafeteria housed the silhouette of Boone's broad shoulders, which her clumsy feet drew towards. It was only because her stomach growled so, but she could not really convince herself of such. Rex announced their presence first, whining and sitting by Boone's side. Traitor, Charlie thought with a smile, even though she could feel the tension as she stood at the perimeter of the open tent. She wondered whether, for once, he'd be the first to speak. But his calculating gaze proclaimed otherwise.

"Hi." Charlie remarked, sitting across from him.

"Hello."

"You're welcome to go home to the Lucky 38. Everybody else has headed back."

He shook his head. "Gannon and the dog are still here. So are you. I will stay, but thank you for the offer."

"Okay."

He took a tentative bite of the pork'n'beans that had long since gelled on his plate. Her stomach actually growling, Charlie realized that it had been a very long time since she'd last eaten, and an even longer time since she'd last bathed, her skin coated in dust and dried blood. A shard of bone had even fallen from her hair when Charlie reached back to smooth it down earlier, probably leftover from the Legionary's skull. Arcade hadn't said it, but Boone must've shot her attacker, or else she would be dead. Charlie should be more grateful, should fawn at Boone's feet instead of looming above him. But she would never bring herself to do something like that.

Instead of thanking him, Charlie darted towards the kitchen, brushing past him. In the small communal refrigerator there was a small drawer marked 'Gannon- HANDS OFF.' That's where she would find a suitable meal. Charlie pulled out a Brahmin steak, reminding herself to reimburse him later. She lit the stove and plopped the meat into a pan, sprinkling it with a few spices and herbs that sat on a crooked shelf above the oven. She sat across from Boone, waiting for the steak to sizzle.

"I don't know what to say to you." She admitted.

"Then don't."

"Fine." She smiled, even though the action was more for show than anything else, "I guess I owe you what you want."

"You don't owe me anything, Charlotte. And I have never once asked for your silence."

"I suppose." She stood again, to flip her dinner over. "If you want, I can leave you alone."

Boone frowned. "That is up to you."

Charlie looked back at him, "If you wanted to be rid of me, you could've just left me to die in Freeside."

"And yet you live." He dryly remarked, taking a small bite of his food.

"Oh, I see. Very chivalrous."

"I am not as uncomfortable in your presence as you seem to believe."

"I don't believe it because you are not a very good actor. If you leave my tent as soon as I come to, it doesn't seem like you want to be around me."

"I saved you. How else should I prove my allegiance, Charlotte- Charlie?"

"Not leaving me to die doesn't prove your point as succinctly as you would think."

"I asked the gentleman crying your name so very loudly to go away. His name was Pacer, I think."

Charlie fought hard to keep her mouth from twitching as he continued. "You did?"

"He had a tattoo bearing your name, and I assumed that you wouldn't want to deal with him as soon as you woke. He didn't go easily, but he is gone."

It was not the first time that she was left speechless, but it was the first time that it was Boone who had inspired the feeling of astonishment. She left to pull her steak off the fire, slid it onto a plate, sure that when she turned back around, the table would be empty. But no, he still sat, picking at his cold plate. Wondering whether she should leave, Charlie swallowed her pride and sliced the meat in two pieces, one quite larger than the other. She sat down once again, placing the bigger portion on his dish.

"Arcade says I shouldn't be eating large meals yet. Plus, I don't think that pork'n'beans were meant to sustain human life."

"Thank you." He cut it, unsure. "I've never seen you cook before."

"I used to, all the time. My father taught me."

As soon as the phrase left her mouth, she had to put her fork down. It was not what she'd been thinking as she spoke, wanting to say something about learning to eat out of cans. The tentacle of reflection that had lead to the sentence disappeared, leaving her without anyway to explore the sentiment. Her mind led her down a path, then abandoned her as she looked frantically about for it to continue. Her memory would never return, but her hope would never leave. If there was a more depressing situation, she didn't know it.

Tentatively, Charlie met Boone's stare.

"You... remember him?"

"No. Not at all. I don't know how that just happened." She closed her eyes. "I don't even know if that is true or not. It's like some sort of muscle memory kicked in."

Boone chewed and swallowed. Charlie watched him, hoping for some sort of flicker of appreciation to light his face, but there was nothing. She should've let him eat the pork n'beans, saved the leftover steak for Rex.

"Better than Carla's, but she never could cook." He looked at her, narrowing his eyes.

"What?"

"You were talking in your sleep."

"Oh?" Charlie asked, still busy anxiously slicing her steak. This was among the longest conversations they'd ever had.

"Well, you always do. I noticed, when we camp at night." He broke off, and Charlie felt stupid.

"I'm sorry."

"You said her name."

"Whose name?"

"Carla's."

He put his sunglasses down on the table, watching her evenly, and Charlie knew that he was waiting for a response. What was she supposed to do? Tell him about the crazy dream she had as she became conscious, where his late wife handed him a ribbon and made Charlie promise to save his soul? Show him that somehow, some way, there was actually a hair ribbon in her pack, the same color and texture as the one that Carla thrust into her hand? Radiation must be slowly turning Charlie insane, which was the only explanation. That or somehow Carla reached out from the grave. She didn't even know what Carla looked like, and wouldn't it seem suspicious if she asked now? No, it was still just a dream, her subconscious playing with her feelings. The sooner she forgot, the better.

"I... don't remember. I had a strange nightmare, I know that, but I don't remember what happened."

"Yeah." He stood, his plate clean except for the leftover pork n'beans, "Thank you for the meal."

"You're welcome."

"I'm going back to the 38. Want me to take Rex?"

"Yes, please."

"Those aren't your clothes."

"No, Arcade's."

"I'll bring something back."

"Thanks.

"Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Fine." He took a step and then turned back. "Goodnight, Charlie."

"Goodnight, Boone," She replied.

Charlie might've been going insane, but she was pretty sure she saw the smallest trace of a smile on his lips.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: New chapter! It's a little shorter, but I think it works. I spent a while retooling it. Anyhow, thanks for reading and please review!**

Pacer slept in his own bed, for the first time in months. Lately, he had taken to staying in Westside, because the militia didn't care about civilians sleeping in the streets. Last timed he'd tried it in Freeside, some younger members of the Kings brought his ass straight back to the School, sat him down in front of the King, and then he was forced to explain- read: lie- about why he was hanging out in the gutters in the first place. The King knew the real reason, and so did the recruits, but they wanted to feel omnipotent, so they made Pacer feel like an idiot.

That asshole First Recon didn't know who he was fucking with when he demanded that Pacer leave the Followers' Fort without even considering who Pacer was affiliated with. Well, he'd see just what Pacer was made of, soon enough, once he got rid of a terrible high. Dixon's jet was getting shittier and shittier; whatever he was cutting it with gave Pacer terrible tremors and made him hallucinate like crazy, which was not a normal side effect of Jet. Ant Nectar, sure, sometimes it gave him visions, but that was much harder to come by. Dixon didn't usually have it in his special little bag. He liked Buffout as well, which made him feel like he could smash things with his bare hands, but made his head swim horribly. He only used it when he couldn't afford the Jet. Mentats, well, they weren't fun at all. If he wanted to be smarter and more charming, he would've gone to finishing school.

Jet had always been there for him. It put pep in his step, kept him awake for days at a time and as long as he kept using, never let him down. Lately, there hadn't been enough caps to string the uses together, and withdrawal set in hard between. Dixon mentioned that he had a new source for Rocket, which supposedly, was just like Jet but better. Rebound was okay, but not as fulfilling.

Yes, the drugs were pretty much all he thought about, they were first when he awoke in the morning and last when he finally fell asleep after days of binging. Occasionally, he would try and get sober, because he knew that he could get the Followers to give him a lot of Fixer, which he could trade for the Jet. Arcade Gannon had not found a way to refuse him. The head doctor there, some dumb lady, kept saying that one day, Pacer would be drug free, and the Fixer was the first stop on that road. What a dumb ass. Arcade knew better, but he had no other alternatives and gave Pacer whatever he wanted. Fixer was the worst, especially when somebody was in the deepest throws of addiction. It made Pacer vomit uncontrollably, sweat until he was drenched, and gave him the worst anxiety. No, he couldn't handle sobriety on his own. Once, Charlie had given him reason, but now she was gone and it was just him in this terrible place with all these people who didn't give a damn about him.

When he woke, his throat was so dry that it took two beers to do the trick before he could speak. Inhaling all the Jet had ruined his lungs and his mucus membranes, whatever they were. Arcade told him that, pretending like it would scare Pacer into giving up his favorite treat. It didn't. The notion of his heart just up and giving out, well, that had scared the shit out of him, just a little bit. Arcade had slipped that bit of information in about two weeks before Charlie came back to town, said that the drug had eaten several holes in his heart, and every time he used, they were getting bigger.

Fuck Arcade Gannon. He didn't know anything. Pacer would have to get a second opinion from the Farkas lady.

And fuck that sniper. Where had he been as Charlie lay on her deathbed? Who did he think he was? Pacer had been in the fort since a King recruit had flippantly remarked that a Legionary had attacked Charlie in the streets of New Vegas. The Legionary was dead; his head was shot clean off, exploded all over the sidewalk. Pacer had been there, had just spoken to her maybe ten yards away from that particular spot, standing in the gate to Freeside. He probably saw her attacker and didn't even know it. It was his fault. He should've stood his ground, made her come with him to the Wrangler so they could talk like normal adults, but let her persuade him to leave her alone. She probably wouldn't have let him in the Lucky 38 the next day anyway, if she'd been healthy enough to do it. But he needed to use, Charlie made his head swim in the most uncomfortable way, like his addled emotions were trying to break free. So he left her all alone. What an asshole.

He hadn't even meant to bump into her, but he saw her leaving the school, not even sure at first that it was Charlie, the first time he'd seen her since the night that she left him alone with his addiction. Pacer didn't forgive her for that, but on his most sober days, didn't blame her either.

She looked exactly the same. The long curly hair she normally kept braided atop her head and then swirled into a bun was free, bouncing upon her freckled shoulders. He saw her sunburned plenty of times, as though she were from a place covered in shade. Most women were so tanned they were brown, but not Charlie. That was the palest skin he'd ever laid eyes upon, ivory and soft, and if he closed his eyes, it was still there, underneath his fingertips. The Jet hadn't stolen that memory from him. No, as much as he used in order to forget, Pacer could never remove Charlie from his mind. Seeing her in Freeside, wearing that dress, the one that she wore on their first date, Pacer knew he couldn't let her go without talking to her. That dress was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen, tiny multi-colored daisies printed on a navy blue background. It was strapless, a Pre-War fashion that one didn't see every day, Charlie's shoulder exposed in the Mojave sun. If there was a more beautiful sight than a woman's bare shoulders, Pacer didn't know it.

Charlie was always nervous about the way that she looked, mostly because of the pale pink scar on the right side of her face. Pacer had told her countless times that it wasn't noticeably unless he looked for it, which she never truly believed. It wasn't that she was vain, just unsure. Perhaps if Pacer had woken up in a ditch with zero memory of the last twenty-something years of his life, he'd be startled every time he looked into a mirror. It couldn't be easy, looking at something she couldn't remember. Of course, she must've looked exactly the same before the shooting, but Charlie always seemed shocked to see her reflection. Pacer still thought it was the strangest thing.

From the first moment he spotted Charlie at the School, Pacer was sure that he would never meet anybody like her again. She wasn't from Freeside, but she wasn't from the Mojave either. Perhaps that's the quality he liked most, the absence of the jaded nature most Wastelanders carry around like chains. It'd taken him a whole date to elicit a true smile from Charlie, but once he earned it, she never withheld it again. Love had weaved its way onto Pacer's tongue very quickly, and maybe a month after he first laid eyes on Charlie, he told her that he'd fallen for her. She'd grinned broadly and kissed him, and they went back to his room at the School. Charlie loved him. It'd been the first and last time that he heard her utter those three crucial words, for it was the same day that she discovered the jet. The look in her green and gold eyes as she confronted him, the sheer disappointment, would be something he'd always remember.

It was her face that Pacer saw as he drifted into sleep, Charlie's freckled cheeks and coral lips leading him away from reality.

Like all nights, Pacer had the dream.

_ She stands on the stage in the School, wearing a floor length emerald green evening dress. Every time Charlie moves, sparkles in the fabric catch the spotlights, her whole body shimmering. The King is there, along with everybody that Pacer knows; they are all wearing tuxes and drinking champagne. There is a whole band behind Charlie, and they begin to play as she cups the microphone in her bejeweled fingers, smiling broadly at the crowd. She sings _Mad About the Boy_, her voice so miserable, and as she finishes, she tells the room that it was in Pacer's honor. He knows that she wants him to meet her up there. They make eye contact for a moment, but Pacer cannot move. He is stuck at the back of the theater, and no matter how many people turn to look at him, he stays. His heart beats so loudly as Charlie leaves the stage, walking down the center of the room to him. She kisses him, her wet cheek pressing against his, and Pacer realizes that she is weeping. _

_ "Rest in peace, Pacer. I hope your next life is better than this." Charlie whispers, standing still until the King shuffles her away, tucking her underneath his arm. _

At that point, no matter how many times Pacer has had this same dream, he wakes completely startled. The realization that it was his body lying in a coffin, that those people were attending his funeral, never ceased to surprise him.

Death didn't scare him. Dying alone in a gutter, forgotten by everyone who Pacer has ever loved, was a more frightening contemplation than he could bear. In some ways though, the dream was kind of reassuring; after all, Charlie did attend his funeral in that alternate universe. And she was heartbroken to see him gone, the only one without a grin. If Charlie would miss Pacer when he died, maybe his life would truly mean something. But she hated him. He understood.

He reached for the Jet, pressing the inhaler hard, before he realized that it was empty. Well, he'd have to figure out this morning somewhat sober, pop a few Fixers just to distract him before he tracked down Dixon. It was so early that Pacer wasn't sure where he'd be, but he'd find him eventually.

However, he should really see Charlie. Maybe that First Recon would be gone, and Pacer could have a real conversation with her. It was probably too far fetched to hope to convince her to fall for him again, but that little bit of faith didn't hurt.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry it took two days to update! I wanted to finish a chapter before I posted a new one and with the weekend it just kind of got out of hand. I wanted to stay ahead of the game, so that I wouldn't catch up to myself. Anyway, thanks for reading and please review!**

Charlie's room in the presidential suite was eerie without her presence. Rex slept at the foot of her bed, only raising his head to observe Boone entering and then lowering it again. Arcade had to bring the dog back here on a special trip a few days ago, because Julie Farkas thought that Rex was distracting for some of the Followers. It wasn't the dog's fault that a few men wanting to play catch had terrible aim- the ball they'd thrown crashed through Farkas' tent and landed in her dinner. As she left to scold the Followers, Rex came in and fetched the baseball, along with the bighorner steak that it had landed in. If Charlie hadn't been sleeping, Boone had no doubt that she would've persuaded Farkas to let Rex stay in the camp. After all, Rex hardly ever left her side.

Charlie loved all her companions, save for Boone. Veronica and Cass would take her out, usually first to the Atomic Wrangler, where the drinks were cheaper, then to the Tops, where they'd take in a show early in the morning, before dawn broke. On the one occasion that Boone glimpsed Charlie drunk, she pulled him aside in the suite, outside of her bedroom. She was wearing a long men's shirt as pajamas, which barely touched the very top of her fair thighs. Charlie had smiled, touched his arm, not his skin but the fabric of his t-shirt, and told him that she liked having him around because she always knew what to expect. Then she bade him goodnight and went back inside. Boone didn't understand, but tried to forget, since she was quite the worse for wear that night.

Raul would show Charlie how to repair Rex's mechanical body, how to rotate his joints so that she could oil them. He told her colorful stories about Mexico and other places she'd never visited, long tales full of characters and adventure. He and Lily served as surrogate parents to Charlie, Lily constantly busy in the kitchen of the Lucky 38, cooking up something warm and delicious to whoever needed it. True, sometimes she'd get sidetracked and confuse where she was, always scorching something in the process. They hardly ever traveled with Charlie, as she preferred to keep them safe at home. It was okay, though, because Raul would go to Gomorrah whenever he got bored, and Lily would occasionally take in an early show at the Aces Theater.

And Arcade, well, Boone wasn't sure if there was another person in the Wasteland that Charlie loved and trusted more. Arcade had a self-deprecating humor that always made her smile, after which she'd brush the pale blonde hair from his forehead and adjust his eyeglasses. She liked his skittishness, because that meant that she could also keep him away from fighting, but she would not say as much. The ex-Enclave Remnant's son- well, Boone was technically not supposed to know that, but one overhears many things while lying silent- provided emotional support. If anybody knew anything about that Pacer character, it would be Arcade, so Boone vowed to ask him, just to educate himself if the subject arose again.

That left just Boone. It was his own fault, he knew. He had always been quiet, even as a kid, and was quite inclined to let others fill the void of speech with their own. Charlie hadn't said it yet, but she spoke more to ED-E, who was a robot. Carla would fill in the voids with her own voice, always talking even if she did not expect him to always reply. He'd told that to Charlie, hoping that she would take the hint, but she didn't even recognize it. The sound of Carla's name coming from Charlie's mouth as she slept- he didn't know if that was the right, technical term for what it was, but didn't know what else to call it- still reverberated through his thoughts. Before, whenever Charlie mentioned Carla, she said her name awkwardly, as if she weren't quite sure how to wield it so as not to catch Boone the wrong way. In the tent however, in her dream, she called Carla. He was so sure of it. The scream, the pure terror in Charlie's tone, it was real. A part of him, a miniscule group of ideas that he never indulged, wanted to wipe the sweat and tears from her face, in a way that he never could for Carla.

He hadn't told Charlie that he killed his own wife. Not about Bitter Springs either. Bitter Springs never left his lips, ever, Carla didn't even know about it, and Christ, he'd tried so hard to tell her, to explain why he was how he was, but he never could, no matter how hard he'd force. Some days he'd be filled with a deep dark rage, and Carla would ask and ask and ask what bothered him, and he just couldn't do it. Why should he expose her to the evils of the world? She still believed in the NCR, and who was he to ruin that? He regretted so much of what he'd done in this world. Nobody would ever understand.

"Hey." The voice at door jarred him, and in turning to face the speaker, Boone felt his jaw clench.

Gannon stood before him, looking concerned. Boone nodded at him, gesturing for him to come into the room.

"I, uh, well, Charlie asked me to come by. Said you'd left a few days ago to pick up a few things. She thought you'd left town instead when you never came back. Sorry." He said it quickly, not able to bring his eyes up to Boone's.

"I shouldn't have stayed so long."

"No, I think she just... I don't know. Charlie is odd, sometimes. She might not say it very often, but she worries about you, just like everyone else."

"She distrusts me."

Gannon wrinkled his eyebrows, and opened his mouth slowly, as though thinking about the best way to articulate what he wanted to say. "Wouldn't you feel the same way though? If you were shot by a stranger and found in a ditch without your memory, wouldn't you distance yourself from the world? How could you rely on anybody?"

"I don't know how to earn her trust. I haven't done anything to make her think that I am dishonest."

"Tell her."

Boone narrowed his eyes. "Tell her what, exactly? How I will not disappear?"

"No. Tell her that you carried her from the Strip to the Old Mormon Fort. How you shot her attacker from however many stories up in the Lucky 38." He looked down at his feet again, "I only know what you did because of the gamblers that witnessed the whole thing. One woman called you a hero when I told her that Charlie lived. Tell Charlie that you saved her life. She knows you did something."

"I did what anybody would've done."

Gannon shook his head and smiled bitterly, "So there were plenty other military-trained snipers keeping watch from tall buildings? On Charlie, specifically? Because it seems to me that you would've had to be at the window, watching her come and go. Couldn't hear the commotion from that far up, and would've had to be far because the Legionary's brain was scattered all over the street, from what I heard."

Boone didn't answer him, just sighed. What Gannon didn't know was how long it had taken him to kill her assailant. His hands shook, remembering the face of his wife as he pointed the same gun at her, to save her from the misery that life would hold. He killed Carla to save her. He killed the Legionary to save Charlie. The tangents crossed in his brain and for a moment, Charlie's curls had centered in his crosshairs. The hesitation nearly cost her life. How should he explain that to Charlie? It had been several weeks since the incident and Boone could barely admit it to himself. At the time, he'd blamed it on her being in his line of sight, but really, he saw Carla there instead.

"If you want her confidence, tell her. She sees you as an unsteady liability. It's not my place to say it, but she needs somebody like you when she's out there. You need to be there so she won't die in the desert, alone."

"She needs to learn how to shoot a damned gun."

"Teach her, then, Boone. Teach her and show her that you will not leave her single-handed in the Wasteland. She thinks that as soon as Caesar is dead and the Legion falls, you will go. All Charlie has in the world is the eight of us. You, Cass, Veronica, Rex, Raul, Lily, Ed-E, and me. That is it."

"What about Pacer?" It leaves his mouth before he has time to consider it.

"I don't know what he wants from her and I do not intend to let him get it while she is recuperating."

"Good."

"So, will you speak to her?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, that's fine." He turned to leave, putting his hands into his pockets. "If she asks about you again I'll lie."

"She's asked about me often?"

"I thought I made that clear before. Charlie believes you've skipped town because you despise her. There isn't a lot that you have done to make me think that you don't. You're terrifying, Boone. I would rather have tea with an evolved Centaur than be here with you. But I love that girl, and I will do anything to help her. So if it means that I cower in a doorway and sort out her problems, I will. Because I know she'd do the same for me."

"Just because I do not gossip and laugh and because I am not frivolous, does not mean I am threatening."

"Believe what you will. I'm going back. You don't have to. I will find her another NCR trooper to travel with her. Someone who is not mute and emotionally devoid. She talks about Novac very often, about the people who live there. Manny Vargas is one, maybe he will help her."

Did she tell Gannon about what she did for Boone? About how he suspected Vargas, whom he'd served with, who hated Carla? Jeannie May Crawford? Did Charlie tell Arcade Gannon about Jeannie May Crawford? No, the stare that they shared was much too casual. If Gannon knew about what she'd done in Novac, he would show it. There wasn't enough bristle in his gaze. Vargas must be just another name that he remembered from a vault of Wasteland characters.

"I have a bag of things for her." Boone said slowly, handing them out to him. "I meant to bring it."

"I'll take it. Thank you."

"I'll consider what you said. Do you know how long-"

"Friday. Farkas wants Charlie out by Friday. I'm going to set her up here, give Raul her medications and instructions on how to administer them. Maybe see if Lily can make something sweet. Have a welcome home party or something fun like that, because the must fun Charlie has had in the past few weeks is watching the addicts get their weekly prescriptions of Fixer by day and being bored out of her skull at night."

"I can take care of her medications. A long time ago, I worked in the infirmary at one of the camps in California while I was just a trooper. Before First Recon. Will you allow me to do it?"

He looked at him in surprise, maybe suspicion. "Sure. I guess so."

Gannon threw the pack over her shoulder and left Boone's line of sight. He could hear the sound of the elevator opening and closing, the mechanics straining with age. Raul should take a look at it. Boone thought about going back to the room that was his own, next door, smaller and with fewer windows, but it felt good to be in Charlie's bedroom. Strange without her, but good. He'd only been inside it a few times, but it was familiar. Just like his home in Novac but without the terrible reminders of Carla. Boone walked over to her bed, ruffling the fur on Rex's head good-naturedly. Boone really was tired, and this seemed a place as good as any to sleep.

The army had taught Boone to rest while awake, a tactic that served well in small stretches, but in the weeks after Charlie's attack left him stripped of any real energy. He only had enough to shut and lock her door and walk back to the bed, his clothes tight and uncomfortable. They were the same that he'd worn as he held Charlie in his arms on the way to Arcade, still covered in blood. He peeled off his shirt, noting the bloody handprint on the back of one shoulder. Her hand.

Boone considered throwing it away, but kept it. It would serve as good evidence that he saved Charlie from death that day.

He slept hard, and dreamt of Carla and Bittersprings, mostly. Once or twice, Charlie crept along.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Soo… I hope nobody else is angry that this female Courier is named Charlie, because one reviewer was quite annoyed with that. Oh well, can't make everyone happy. Plus it's way too late to change her name now. But thanks to the rest of you for the kind reviews! **

Her bed in the 38 was neatly made, the sheets tucked perfectly, and it unsettled Charlie. She had not left it this way, she was sure of it. Looking around her bedroom, she began to notice little things out of place- or rather _in_ place, as she was never one to organize her belongings- one wardrobe full of neatly hanging Pre-War clothes, the other full with more practical garments. A footlocker along one wall now had the word** Armor**__stenciled across its lid, while the others bore **Weapons **and** Ammunition**. She didn't need to look inside to know that they would be perfectly orderly, sorted and separated. Charlie didn't like that somebody else had taken the time and effort to go through her things, especially when she didn't know who it was. Her bedroom was the kind of messy where she knew where everything was, and now it was all upset.

Sighing, she lay across her bed, which felt all smooth and awkward, her pillows fluffed so well that she was sure that they were not the ones she'd left here a month ago. It was her place, her room in the casino that she'd inherited through murder, as awful as that sounded. Annoyed, she opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand. Empty. That drawer was important. It held all the reminders of the life she'd fashioned in the Wasteland. In the off chance that Charlie lost her memory again, there was a small patch sewn into the inside seam of her backpack, with a prompt to head to the Lucky 38 so that she could reassemble. This time, Charlie was prepared for the worst.

She thought for a moment, pressing upon the hidden memories that curled in her mind, always just beyond her reach, beneath the depths of reflection she shook to summon. It was a ritual before she slept, to squeeze her eyes tightly shut and look at the blackness inside her eyelids, hoping for a tendril of recollection. Always nothing but pitch. The person she'd been before the gunshot, before the scar that ripped across the right side of her face, had vanished. Maybe she never really existed at all. Charlie, born in a ditch near Goodsprings, a woman in her twenties. Never a child. Never a daughter. Never a sister. Just herself. Her name was an assembly of syllables that felt right when pushed together, her nickname, Charlie, feeling perfect between her teeth and tongue. Her last name was lost. A few sounds rattled in her brain, an s, another c. Nothing more. Unimportant. She could be Charlie Courier as she was concerned, as long as her first name sat intact.

It was frustrating, to try so hard to figure out what she was, only to be left with the same absence of information, time after time. She existed, but barely. It was like owning an empty home. She knew exactly what it was supposed to hold and what it was promised to hold, but after it all, there's only space. Charlie knew things, like the familiar lines of her palms, the sound of her voice, how her gait felt, all of that lingered. Just as an vacant house still contained a kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms, Charlie wasn't surprised by those recognizable traits when she awoke in Goodsprings. But in a home, the furniture was what made the house personal, what made other people desire it. Memories. Experiences. That made a person different. How often did Charlie listen to her friends speak about their adventures only to have none of own to offer? Who was she, really, beneath all of the things she wore to seem indifferent to the memory lapse? There was a girl inside her that had lived. She was so sure of it. Desperation reminded Charlie that she was almost certainly gone forever, frightened off by a bullet that entered her brain.

Damaged. It was a badge that Charlie wore, not because she particularly enjoyed it, but because it was what she knew. Maybe it was true.

All she had in this inhospitable place was her name, her health, and the few friends she'd found along the way. Charlie forged a family, to spite the one that she almost definitely lost in Goodsprings. Raul and Lily were her aunt and uncle. Veronica and Cass, her older sisters, always ready to tempt her into trouble. Arcade was her brother, her best friend, and she couldn't have wished for anyone better. She truly loved him. Rex, of course, was the family pup, and Ed-E acted as the strange cousin that everyone liked despite. Boone didn't fit in. What was he? The bodyguard? That was no family member that Charlie had ever heard of. He was alone, even within their contained group. Nobody enjoyed being around him. Raul told her once that Boone had cold eyes, and the only men he'd ever known with that same trait had been murderers. Not the kind of killers that made the world a better place, but humans who had slain innocents. It unnerved her, but she retorted that it was impossible to see past those sunglasses. Raul agreed, and they never spoke of it again.

Arcade made her swear to stay inside for the new two weeks, but Charlie wasn't sure how long she was going to keep that promise. Sure, a bloodthirsty Legionary had nearly torn her in many, many pieces, but the solemnity of the casino drove her mad. It was too quiet most days, especially if Veronica and Cass were both out. Charlie missed going out and drinking with them. It'd been a very long time since she'd tasted alcohol, which Arcade had also given her strict orders to avoid. The hour was late, but Charlie wasn't tired. She hardly ever was, because she and sleep did not get on particularly well. Sitting up, she looked at the bookshelf on wall opposite her bed, to the left of the doorway. She was sure that all the Pre-War books she'd scavenged were probably in alphabetical order, maybe sorted into genres. If she had to stay indoors, she might as well read something to pass the time.

Pointing a finger and shutting her eyes, Charlie ran her fingertip along the spines until one volume felt right. _Addiction: What Fixer Can't Fix_. Nope. She would not be reading that. Charlie knew very well what fixer couldn't do, and didn't need a preachy paperback to remind her. _Molly Viper: The Legendary Gang Leader, in a Work of Mostly Non-Fiction_. Mostly non-fiction? That might be just entertaining enough to get through the night, she thought, and sat on her couch, ready to toss Benny's coat upon the floor.

The checkered jacket was gone. Damn it. It wasn't in either wardrobe; she would've noticed it. The pattern wasn't exactly discreet. Groaning, Charlie stood again, her wounds protesting just a tiny bit. Arcade had given her a few syringes of med-x to get through the night, but Charlie didn't want to rely on them. The pain wasn't unbearable, and she limped towards her desk. There was a small safe underneath it, never locked. Maybe the perpetrator had placed some of her precious belongings into there.

The only item inside was a crumpled cotton shirt, which bore an odor of sweat as Charlie pulled it free, laying it smooth across her desk. She recognized it, immediately disgusted and faintly intrigued by the shirt that Boone had worn when she first awoke in the Old Mormon Fort, grungy grey cotton stained with her own blood. Its placement was intentional, and that irked Charlie. Why use the shirt and the obvious fact that he ransacked her room as a tool to force a confrontation? All he needed to do was pull her aside and initiate a conversation, not psychologically manipulate Charlie into doing what he willed.

Charlie had almost gotten to the point where she understood how Boone worked. She even thought about trusting him, until he left the Old Mormon Fort and never returned. He promised to bring her some clothes, but had given them to Arcade instead, who she sent to track him down. Honestly, she figured him to be halfway to Cottonwood Cove by the time Arcade got a free moment to get to the 38. Despite everything, despite the two long talks that Charlie had with Boone, they were back at the beginning. It was exhausting.

Boone's bedroom was next to Charlie's; he was the only other person beside herself who didn't have a roommate, which she completely understood. It was probably awkward to divide up the room when the other person refused to speak to you.

The door was cracked, and he sat inside, cleaning a gun at his desk. Not bothering to knock, Charlie pushed the door open with the heel of her hand, slamming it shut as she entered. Her fingers flicked the lock closed, and damn it, if Boone didn't look at her triumphantly while she fumed.

She threw the shirt at him, "What were you doing in my room?"

"Fixing things."

"I didn't need your help. Everything was fine as it was. You threw things away that were important to me."

"No." He held out a large blue pouch. "This contains all the items from your bedside drawer."

Charlie stepped across the room to take it back, snatching it away. Peering inside, she recognized everything as her own. A single chip each from Gomorrah, Vicky and Vance Casino, the Tops and Ultra Luxe. A gecko hide from helping Sunny Smiles in Goodsprings. Jeannie May's key to the safe in the Dino Dee-lite Motel, which Charlie pick pocketed in order to find evidence. A white feather from a Decanus' headpiece. Little things, unimportant to anybody beside herself. An collection to help her remember in case she lost her mind again.

Boone shook his fist, and a small sound not unlike that of marbles shuffling rang out, Charlie realizing what he held. Four casings, from the silenced .22 she'd used to shoot Benny. Charlie had collected them afterwards, to hide any evidence that could point to her, and kept them.

"You need me. It shouldn't take four shots to kill anything."

"How do you know they're from a single shooting?"

"I gave you that gun, remember? You returned it two days later."

"I did what I had to do. Maybe I didn't have to kill him, but…" Charlie sat on the edge of his bed, feeling drained.

The uncertainty of his murder was the reason why she kept them. She hadn't had enough guts to search for the casing from Jeannie May Crawford's execution, but Charlie would've held onto that one as well. Charlie couldn't undo their deaths, but she could certainly make sure that she remembered that maybe she hadn't done the right thing.

"Benny deserved to die, Charlie. He tried to murder you. He wanted to kill you just so that he could rule this place. His aspirations were dangerous."

"And? I killed him, and I killed House, and now this place is mine. I could've worked with both of them. I could've let them live." She paused, "I'm the same as Benny. I am."

"No. You exacted revenge."

"I don't know. Maybe if I had slept with him, I could've gotten the platinum chip back without killing anybody else." Charlie said it without really thinking, an internal conversation she'd had dozens of times finally spoken aloud.

Boone pulled off his sunglasses, looking her straight in the eye. "No. If he touched you, I would've killed him."

"Boone." She said his name softly, mostly because she wasn't sure what else would suffice.

"If Benny walked out of the elevator after you, I would've shot in him the lobby. People like that, they don't deserve to live. He doesn't get your mercy."

Charlie nodded, knowing that whatever she'd say, he would just keep disagreeing with her. She didn't see things the way he did, always black or white, right and wrong, life or death. Why he thought like he did, she had no idea. Charlie only had the barest understanding of why Boone did anything. Carla, of course, had a lot to do with why Boone was so melancholy, but there had to be more to it. Why hadn't he ever looked for her? He lived to throw himself inside of dire situations. Boone and Charlie hunted the Legion every chance they got, and yet, he never searched for clues to Carla's whereabouts. He knew something that he wasn't eager to share.

"I did what I did and now I can't take it back. That's why I'm unsure, that's why I keep these things. I made choices that can't be undone. I already got a retry, Boone. I received a do-over and I'm afraid that I'm still doing everything wrong."

"You're fighting for the greater good."

She shrugged, falling back onto his covers. The bed was made in the same neat manner as her own. Faintly, she thought it strange that a man was so tidy, but it made sense for Boone. He was so rigid, so structured, that it fit. The sound of his chair creaking made Charlie raise her head, just a little, to watch him as he sat next to her. She'd never been this near to Boone before, his skin only inches away from her own. Quelling the urge to shift away from him, Charlie looked at the shirt in his hands.

No, she'd been closer. He brought her to Arcade, so that he could try and save her life. He wore a shirt covered in her blood for weeks. Boone stood by her bedside, ever vigilant. How did he do it? He was constantly surrounded by death, by tragedy, but he never flinched. If it'd been Boone in the hospital bed… Could she be that loyal? Charlie didn't want to think about it.

Charlie closed her eyes, listening to the silence. She was completely comfortable, even though Boone loomed above her. For once, she didn't instinctively flex away from Boone, Charlie wasn't so unnerved in his presence that she needed to go far, far away. She was sure that she'd made the right decision, asking Boone to leave Novac with her. Charlie wouldn't be alive if she hadn't. She'd done something right for once.

"Why did you keep it?" She asked, rolling onto her side.

"To remind myself of the one good thing I've done since Carla got taken away. To convince you that we're in this together. You need me. I need you." He placed the shirt back into her hand, along with one of the four casings. "Keep it. Add it to the pile of memories."

"What about the other three?"

"I still need them."

It didn't seem to matter anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So… I made a mistake. I realized last night that I accidentally posted the chapter after this instead of this one. I skipped poor Arcade! I would've let it slide except there are little things in this chapter that carry on for a bit. Dumb mistake. I'm sorry. But if you look at it positively, it's kind of like two for one chapter special! Sorry for being super confusing, but thanks for reading and please review!**

Arcade felt good. Refreshed. Surprisingly refreshed, considering that he and Cass and Veronica had absolutely tied one on at Gomorrah. Damn, that cowgirl could drink. Arcade had tried his best to keep up and ended up losing count after his fourth gin fizz. Cass was trying to find a suitable man to shack up with, not one of the prostitutes onstage, but one of the men losing their money on the casino floor. Arcade enjoyed the Brimstone, but none of the gamblers with Dr. Alex Richards, and well, Arcade was on a mission to hold out for the good stuff. He only had a few prime years left and didn't need to waste it getting diseases from men for sale.

Cass's boy- that was a true statement, he couldn't have been more than nineteen- was a NCR trooper on leave. The trio had pooled their money on a suite to share, not wanting to bring anybody back to the 38 so late at night. Plus, the whole reason behind the outing was to escape the reality that their friend had narrowly avoided dying. Charlie might also shoot them for going out while she was stuck in her room. Veronica argued against it, citing the fact that Charlie had such terrible aim that there was no way that she'd hit one or all of them.

The room was not as clean as the ones back at the Lucky 38, but it would do. Cass spent some time with her friend while Arcade and Veronica wasted a little more money at the slots. It was the only game that he was any good at, if one could be 'good' at slots. Arcade was too transparent for blackjack. He watched Veronica at the roulette table, missing Charlie so badly in his drunken stupor that he could barely stand. Charlie and blackjack, well, that was a match made in heaven. Somehow, in that scrambled brain of hers, she knew how to count cards like other people knew their birthdays. It was all instinct, she said, shrugging, as they counted her winnings in his tent one night. Charlie gave him half, citing that she needed his consistently losing presence at the table to offset their suspicions that she was cheating. He still had a large chunk of those caps inside the safe in his room at the 38. Technically Arcade was supposed to share with Boone, but much preferred the mattress he'd occasionally throw on the floor of Charlie's bedroom.

Eventually, Veronica found a companion at the roulette table and took her upstairs to celebrate. Arcade was alone in a casino at four in the morning. Depressing. He decided that he'd rather sleep on the couch in the suite's living room than pine away at the slot machines, wishing for Dr. Richards to magically appear. Sighing, he took out his wallet, fishing out his room key and heading to the stairs. No, Arcade couldn't do that. Veronica took his key when she disappeared with her female gambler, and if Arcade had just followed them, he'd be inside the suite already. Damn it. Maybe the receptionist would have a spare.

The young woman that had been in charge of the desk must've finished her shift, because a tall man with graying brown hair now was in the same spot, his arms crossed over his chest. Damned handsome. And he was bored. Arcade knew that pose, for it was one that he often assumed whenever Farkas spoke to him.

"I'm sorry. This is going to sound completely stupid."

"I doubt that." The man said, his voice a deep, rich, baritone.

"Is it possible to get another key to my room? I would go and knock, but I know for a fact that both my friends are… occupied."

He laughed. "Sure. What number is it?"

Arcade thought for a moment, catching the man's blue eyes. That's what the ocean must look like, he mused. Surfacing from illicit thoughts, Arcade shook his head. "I cannot for the life of me remember. It's a suite. Christ, I had more to drink than I thought."

"No, problem, sir. What's the name of your party?" The man smiled and again, Arcade fought to keep his composure.

"Arcade Gannon. I'm pretty sure it's under my name. I vaguely remember paying for it."

"Okay. Yup, I've got an Arcade right here, suite 416. You've already got two keys out though. It's all we keep for our guests. I can come up and fix the situation for you though."

Oh dear. It was the only thought running through Arcade's mind.

"Sure. Okay. Whatever." And now he sounded like a fucking rocket scientist.

They walked to the elevator together, the man leaving his desk. He even smelled nice, which was really saying something. Most people living in the Wastes didn't think about their body odor.

"Can I ask you an invasive question? I'm Hank, by the way." He stuck out his hand, and Arcade took it in his own, barely able to close his fingers for fear of doing something else idiotic.

"Sure. I love questions." Oh dear. Arcade was proving himself to be quite a catch. He should mention something about being drunk. "I'm really drunk."

Maybe not that.

But Hank just chuckled again. "I saw you at the bar with those girls. I understand."

"Thanks."

"Do you work at Old Mormon Fort? With the Followers of the Apocalypse?"

Arcade nodded. He didn't remember ever treating somebody named Hank though, and Arcade had been with the Followers for a long time now. "Yes. I research mostly. I help with some of patients occasionally."

Luckily, he managed to say 'patients' and not 'addicts,' which was a mistake that he often made in front of Farkas. Okay, maybe it wasn't really a true mistake.

"I thought your name sounded familiar. My brother's name is Deacon. He had a really bad problem with mentats for a long time. My parents sent him to the Followers to get cleaned up. He said that a man named Arcade helped him a lot." He cleared his throat. "Deacon's got a good job now. He's alive. That's more what I'm thankful for. I appreciate you having a part in that."

Deacon. He did remember Deacon, because he was one of the few addicts that came in trying to fix a problem and not just cover it up. It'd been a long time since Arcade saw Deacon anywhere close to the fort. For the first time, somebody acknowledged Arcade's efforts. It felt wonderful. Especially since it was an attractive man who offered the praise.

"I liked him. He was a good guy and truly wanted to get off the drugs. That made the difference. I'm glad he's doing well."

The elevator opened and Arcade followed Hank to the suite. He'd opened the door easily, too quickly, and turned to face Arcade with a smile.

"There you go."

"Thanks a lot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of caps. "This is for you."

"You don't need to pay me, Arcade."

His lips caught Arcade's so forcefully that he couldn't track their movement into the room, and by the time that they settled onto the couch, Arcade was missing his shirt. Hank's hands gently undid his belt, and soon, they made love. He wasn't Dr. Richards, but he was sweet and gentle, and so fucking good looking that Arcade didn't care. Richards was not real, not to Arcade. He couldn't see or touch him. The doctor was just a fantasy.

In the morning, or rather early afternoon, Hank was gone. So were the girls, probably gone back to the 38 in order to leave Arcade the tab. He didn't mind, not after last night. Plus, he was eager to visit Charlie. They had plans to play caravan with Raul, a game that Arcade always enjoyed beating her at. He'd have to tell her about Hank, maybe when Raul wasn't around, because Charlie knew about all the boys in Arcade's life, even if he barely knew about any of hers.

Arcade still didn't know what Pacer wanted. As far as he could tell, Charlie still hadn't seen him. Boone threatened the addict, Arcade pretended not to see that from the mess hall, but it'd been unmistakable from across the yard. It was for the best, because she seemed very uncomfortable when Arcade brought him up. Charlie hadn't kept a secret from Arcade until then. Maybe she wasn't as forthcoming as he'd previously believed. She'd said that if Arcade knew Pacer, then he would know why their relationship had ended. Pacer was hooked on jet, and it was slowly but surely eating away at his heart. He hadn't believed Arcade when he told him the diagnosis, threw things around Arcade's tent, making a scene. Arcade didn't know what he was talking about, he was just trying to trick him into getting clean, Pacer screamed, chucking a coffee mug against the ground.

Arcade wasn't wrong. He'd heard the murmur one morning after examining Pacer, a practice that Arcade was forced to carry out every time the man entered the fort. At first, he was sure that his stethoscope was malfunctioning, after all, he'd only seen Pacer five days ago, and everything was fine then. He borrowed Farkas' since she was too busy bossing people around to actually use her medical knowledge. Nope. It was the same sound, the same inorganic noise thumping over and over again. Pacer and Arcade went to New Vegas Medical, since they were equipped to take x-rays. Usanagi examined Pacer and agreed with Arcade's discovery. There wasn't anyway to fix the problem, Pacer's heart would remain pockmarked for the rest of his life. He could stop the damage though, very easily. Just cut out the jet and the rebound, and the damn rocket, and Pacer could live pretty decently. He wouldn't stop though, and Arcade almost felt bad for him. Pacer ruined all his relationships and all he had left were the drugs. He lost the King, he lost the respect of the rest of the gang, and somewhere along the way, Pacer lost Charlie too. If Pacer didn't change his ways, he'd die within the year, Arcade was sure of it. The heart went first, but Pacer's lungs weren't faring any better. They were filled with scar tissue, which in turn, severely constricted his breathing. He ran the risk of cutting off the oxygen supply to his brain every time he inhaled that shit. Pacer still didn't care. He was going to do what he wanted and nobody else was going to be able to change that.

The Lucky 38 was bustling with activity, besides card playing, there was a party planned for the evening, to celebrate Charlie's return. It was Raul and Arcade's job to keep her in the casino, so that everyone else, excluding Boone, could decorate the penthouse suite for the festivities. They'd found a nice spot, away from Yes-Man, in front of the floor to ceiling windows. The whole strip glittered at night and there was no better place from which to watch it.

A quick knock was all he offered before opening the door to her bedroom, Rex leaping off the floor to greet him. For mostly metal, he had perfect canine manners, and licked Arcade's hand as he entered. For a moment, Arcade was sure that maybe he had the wrong room, Christ, the wrong goddamned building, but the dog sitting at his feet convinced him otherwise. It was so… clean. Charlie was never this organized. She might be meticulous when she explored, but she was not so tidy with what she managed to scavenge. He'd seen her pack, all rumpled up with hair ribbons and stimpaks and whatever else she managed to shove in there. Now, things were clearly labeled and put away. One day back and she accomplished what Arcade had been dying to do for months. But she wasn't home, and she wasn't in the casino. Arcade had already been up to the penthouse suite check out the progress, and Charlie hadn't been there either.

The kitchen and the bathroom were empty. So was the girls' bedroom and the one that Raul and Lily shared. Fuck, maybe Boone would know if Charlie squirreled her way outside. Three days, and she'd already escaped, despite what Arcade told her.

Boone's bedroom was really his too, and he awkwardly opened the door as loudly as he could, as to not surprise the sniper upon entering. Arcade had seen what that rifle could do, and did not relish experiencing the damage first hand. He wasn't there either. Must've gone out, although where, Arcade couldn't imagine. Shopping? Ha! He grinned and turned to leave, forgetting for a moment to be worried about Charlie.

Who, coincidentally, was sleeping a bed that was not his and certainly not her own. A lump within Boone's covers, breathing so quietly that Arcade had not noticed Charlie before. It was quite different from the nights at the Old Mormon Fort where she frequently screamed and flailed whenever she could manage to slumber, which wasn't often. Rarely had Arcade observed Charlie sleep through a whole night. Farkas wanted her continuously strapped to the bed, but Arcade didn't want his best friend treated like a mental patient right after enduring physical trauma.

Even though Cass told him last night that Charlie always slept like that, when they camped in the wilderness, even when she was at home. On bad nights, Charlie could be heard through the walls. But here she was, wrapped up in Boone's covers, dead to the world. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"You'd better have clothes on under there," Arcade whispered, shaking her. "Wake up."

She rolled over and looked at him, confused, then at the room. "Holy mother of… Where the fuck am I?"

"You're in Boone's bed, sweetheart."

"Oh shit. I can't believe that I fell asleep here." She sat up quickly, sliding her feet from under the covers.

"You didn't sleep with him right?"

She cast such a glare at him that she didn't need to answer.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Okay, so this is actually chapter 12, not chapter 11, because last night, when I posted this, I actually skipped another chapter by accident. I'm sorry! My dumb author brain was tired and I completely messed up. But I promise that a **_**real**_** new chapter will be added tonight or tomorrow. I'm sorry for the confusion! But, thanks for reading and please review!**

Pacer had been scared of the Lucky 38 since he came to Freeside with the King so very long ago. It was always completely locked down, devoid of human life, except for Mr. House, and who knew what the fuck that asshole looked like after all these years. The building stood so much taller than all the others, their ruler, their emperor, reigning silently over the whole city, the entire Wasteland. One could see the 38 for miles, especially at night, an emerging metal orb floating above the glowing casinos. New Vegas offered freedom, but Pacer had never looked at it that way. It was a prison. You could enter, but you'd never leave with what you started. Money, happiness, romance, it would vanish once you stepped onto the Strip. And then you were stuck.

Freeside didn't look so bad after spending a few minutes on the Strip, Pacer thought, putting his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and walking up the black and red walkway to the Lucky 38. The sniper had left maybe twenty minutes ago, Pacer hanging back to make sure that he wouldn't return too quickly. A woman, younger, with short red hair and a cowboy hat leaned against the outside wall, a cigarette between her lips. She glanced at Pacer, eyebrows raised. He remembered seeing her at Old Mormon Fort while Charlie was there, she being one of the few allowed inside Charlie's tent.

"You lost, pal? The casino across the street is open for business. We're membership only, here."

"Are you friends with Charlie?" He asked, lighting a cigarette of his own.

"I think the better question is whether you're friends with her. And if you were you'd be inside already. So get lost, King. Your gate back to Freeside is over there."

"So she's inside?"

"Good detective work, King. I'm surprised you figured it out on your own. And don't think I don't recognize you. You're the sad sack that cried outside of her tent for weeks, popping fixer the whole time. Didn't know the King allows his second-in-command to disappear for that long."

"I do what I want, and I want to talk to Charlie, whether you get out of my way or not."

"I'm not the doorman, go ahead and try. It's armed to annihilate intruders. You thought the securitrons on the Strip were bad, these are worse."

He leaned to grab the door handle, and she dropped her cigarette butt to the ground, pushing him hard in the chest with her hands. Pacer stepped backwards, his boots scraping the sidewalk.

"Fucking moron. It's locked. I don't have time for this. I'm getting a drink and you'd better be gone by the time I get back." She scowled at Pacer and knocked into his shoulder as she walked past.

It was what he needed, carefully extracting the cardkey from her back pocket. Pacer had been pick pocketing before his eighth birthday, and had only gotten better since. The woman didn't notice, which Pacer expected, as she was the one who initiated the physical contact. It was the oldest trick in the book, to distract the target with a bump and then reach into a purse or a pocket and take whatever was available. What a stupid bitch, Pacer murmured victoriously as he popped the card through the key-swiper and the door unlatched with a faint buzz from the other side. Even if Charlie wasn't excited to see him, she could at least recognize his ingenuity.

The Lucky 38 looked like most of the other casinos on the Strip, except for the fact that it was absolutely pristine. The counters were smooth, the carpet plush and the couches spotless. Pacer had never seen anything like it, as though the Great War had not touched this place whatsoever. The air pumped through the vents was cool and sterile. A large elevator filled the center of the space, slot games and card tables dotted along its sides. A bar pushed against one wall, empty of customers but filled with booze and other offerings, as though somebody still kept it stocked. The receptionist's desk was equally desolate. Two securitrons flanked either side of the elevator, and Pacer hoped that they would not leave their posts as he walked further into the room. There were voices coming from the VIP lounge, and Pacer intended to see if Charlie's was amongst them.

"No trespassers are allowed within the Lucky 38. We are authorized to use deadly force. We are warning you, intruder." A robot barked at him.

Pacer put up his hands, ready to argue, ready to show him the cardkey. The securitrons must have a retinal or facial scan they used to determine whom was allowed inside, key or not, because it continued speaking.

"You must leave within the next minute or else I am authorized by my mistress to eradicate all trespassers."

"Charlie! Charlie! Tell them that not to kill me! Charlie, call them off!" Pacer cried upwards, trying to will his voice to reach her.

"You have forty-five seconds to leave, sir. I will count down if it will give you an accurate representation of the time that you have left to live."

"Charlie!" Pacer screamed again, louder, more frightened.

There was a flurry of activity from the VIP lounge, three people peering down at Pacer, two men and Charlie. She looked at him, then to the securitrons, as if deciding whether it'd be easier to let him die in the entrance to her casino.

"Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one, you now have thirty seconds to leave. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight-"

"Charlotte, please! Christ, Charlie, please!" The voice that he forced from his chest sounded nothing like him, his lungs tightening.

She frowned and shouted into the air, "Yes-Man, please allow this man entrance to the Lucky 38. He is not a trespasser. Stop the attack, please."

Charlie descended the stairway to the left of the VIP lounge, Arcade Gannon at her side, helping her hobble towards Pacer. For a moment, he smiled, for she still felt like his own. An urge to envelope her in his arms overwhelmed him, but Pacer knew that she might rescind her offer of peace if he attempted that. Charlie crossed her arms over her chest, head tilted, watching him closely. She did not approve of his presence, but he was glad that she stood only a few feet away.

"Miss, this man used a key to enter our establishment, one that he purloined from Miss Cassidy. Should I add him to my facial recognition database as to avoid another accident?" The voice came over the loudspeaker, strange but genial. Pacer wasn't sure whom it belonged to.

"I suppose that's alright." She sighed, "Do not issue him his own key, however, Yes-Man. We'll wrap up our business and he will not return, right?"

"Right," Pacer and the man she called Yes-Man replied at the same time.

Like the last time that Pacer saw her, Charlie wore a dress, a pretty deep green that cinched across her waist and flowed away from her body. Its sleeves reached the middle of her forearms, covering most of her wounds. Perhaps that was intentional, Pacer couldn't be sure. She was probably self-conscious about eventually being covered in scars. He didn't care about that. Charlie already had a few before the attack, and she was the still the most beautiful girl Pacer ever saw. Those wonderful coppery curly tresses were tied in a loose braid that hung over her right shoulder. He wished to pull free the black ribbon that held her hair, allowing it to scatter over her shoulders. Then she would truly be the same girl he'd met in the King's School of Impersonation all that time ago.

A passerby wouldn't have known that Charlie nearly died a month ago. She still looked like an angel that some higher power had sent to the Mojave. Pacer's angel.

"I'm sorry. I needed to talk to you, Char. I didn't know how else to find you." Pacer offered, shrugging. "The sniper ran me off at the Old Mormon Fort, or else I would've waited for you."

"Give me the card key back, Pacer." She stuck her pale hand out, the silver ring on her left middle finger glittering in the fluorescent light.

Charlie turned back to her friends, the ghoul and Gannon, who cast a disgusted look Pacer's way. He didn't care. Arcade was an asshole, one that Charlie shouldn't associate with.

"Arc, can you wait in my room? I'll be up in a little while. Raul, would you mind heading over to Gomorrah to give this back to Cass? She's always at the Brimstone this time of day. Tell her not to worry about losing it, I'm taking care of it. We'll resume the caravan game later."

"Sure, sweetheart." Raul, the ghoul, murmured comfortingly. Arcade nodded and retreated towards the elevator, still glaring at Pacer.

She waited until they were gone before speaking to Pacer again.

"I cannot believe you, Pacer. Are you really so stupid?"

"I guess so."

Charlie pointed towards the lounge, sighing. "Come on, it's more private up there. I'm going to need your arm to climb the stairs though. I'm still a little stiff."

"Sure thing, Char."

Her hand gently clasped his wrist, their skin touching for the first time in many months. Pacer remembered the smooth calluses on her fingers, which were part of traveling the Mojave Wasteland. Trying not to think about how easy it would be to pull her face forward and press his lips against hers, he looked down. Underneath the emerald fabric of the dress, her left shin bore an unruly cut that wrapped around the back of her knee. That must be the source of the limp, Pacer figured, though Charlie was in remarkably good condition, barely needing Pacer's help.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, sitting her down in own of the high-backed leather chairs.

"Not as bad as I would've thought. Arcade says that I should be using three syringes of med-x a day, but I'm trying to heal cold turkey. It's been going well."

"Good to hear."

"But you didn't come to ask about my injuries. You wouldn't have broken in for just that."

"You don't know that, Char. I was worried."

His skin was itching terribly, but Pacer tucked his fingertips around a cap that somebody had left on the table. The only way to stop the side effects was to distract himself. Arcade was always saying that, and now, in Charlie's presence, Pacer was willing to listen. The reason why he always itched so bad on jet was because the drug crystallized under the skin, or at least, that's what Arcade also told him.

"Are you high right now?"

"No, I'm not." He raked his nails across his scalp for some quick relief. There were already scratches underneath his hair from doing just that a few days ago.

"Pacer." Her tone was stern. "Forget it. I don't know why I asked."

"I took a decent amount of fixer. I didn't want to see you off my mind but I couldn't come in the throws of withdrawal, either."

"Okay."

Her hand sat on the table, the left one, with the ring, and he took it in his, expecting Charlie to snatch it back as soon as their fingers linked. She didn't, as if she knew that it was important for her to stay. Pacer's heart leapt, but not in the painful manner he'd become accustomed to.

"Pacer, why are you here?" It was tender, and he smiled as she asked.

"Charlie, would you believe me if I told you that I dream about you every time I sleep?"

"So every three days then? When you come down?" Charlie didn't say it as nastily as she could have, her face still settling into disapproval.

"If you want to be technical, yes. I have the same dream. You're always the star."

"I dream about you sometimes. When it happens, I sit awake until morning." Charlie admitted. "Not that a whole night of sleep occurs very often."

"I remember that."

"You came here to talk about our sleeping habits?"

"No, but it's part of it. In the dream, there's a party at the School and you're onstage, singing. You dedicate the song to me when you're finished, and walk off, towards the back of the room, where I am. I can't move, but I want to meet up in the middle. The band has started to play again, and when you reach me, you're crying. Charlie, you kiss my cheek and wish me peace. I'm dead, in my coffin. It's my funeral that everyone's celebrating, but you're mourning. Everyone else has champagne and they're happy, but you are the only one that is sad."

"You've alienated a lot of people." She frowned, and then shook her head, "But I would be upset if you… well, you know. I wouldn't be the only one though."

"I know." Pacer tightened his grip, squeezing her hand. "I went to the Old Mormon Fort a while ago, to get my regular dose of fixer. Arcade is my doctor. The Followers have a rule, in order for an addict to get a prescription of fixer; they have to be examined first. We both hate the rule, Arcade and me, but he did it, like always, weighing me and measuring me and checking out my lungs and stuff."

"Your lungs are bad. I remember waking up to a cacophony of coughs in the morning." Charlie commented, taking a sip of water from a glass on the table.

"Yeah. Arcade constantly warns me about it. But anyway, something was different that day, and he made me go to New Vegas Medical. They have an x-ray machine there. They showed me pictures of my heart, and he and the doctor there, some lady, they both said that I have holes in my heart from using jet. There's nothing they can do. No surgery, no medicine, nothing."

Charlie withdrew her hand from his and put it to her mouth, closing her eyes. Pacer saw that before, when she first confronted him about his habit. "There must be something. Christ Pacer, what are you saying?"

"I'm dying. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

She pushed her seat back, standing suddenly. The glass of water skidded across the table, falling over, but neither of them reached to fix it. Charlie pointed her right index finger at him, shaking her head. "No, you did not come here to tell me that. You are not dying, Pacer. Tell me you are not dying."

"Charlie, stop."

"No, Pacer, no. I refuse to believe it. What did they say? Tell me exactly what Arcade told you."

"He can't fix it."

"But you can sure as hell stop it from getting worse, right? Fuck you, Pacer, fuck you." She shouted, her eyes filled with tears. "You came here to make me feel guilty for leaving."

"I didn't. I swear it."

"Well, I do, so good for you, Pace. I have always felt terrible for leaving and now I always will. I loved you. I _loved _you and you didn't care. I was never important enough for you, not until I left. The jet is your first love, and I was just pretending otherwise."

She picked up the glass from the table and threw it, shattering it across the carpet. "Charlie, stop." Pacer pleaded, grabbing her wrists and pulling her into his torso. "Stop it."

There was a loud click behind them, and they both turned to look. The sniper stood on the top stair, rifle pointed directly at Pacer's head.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So, I was thinking about posting this tomorrow, but I finished the chapter I was working on… So, I figured why not. That's my policy, complete a chapter, post a chapter. I still haven't caught up to myself, so hopefully I can keep posting a new one everyday or so. Wow. I have written the word 'chapter' about a thousand times now. I will shut up. Thanks for reading and please review!**

"Don't you dare touch her." Boone growled. "Don't you dare fucking touch her."

Pacer dropped one wrist and walked a step forward, furious. "Who do you think you are? You can't kill somebody for having a conversation."

"Having a conversation doesn't involve assault."

"Boone." Charlie said, quietly, catching his gaze

She looked at him, her cheeks still wet. Charlie didn't know why she was so sad, why she felt so responsible for Pacer. The situation, the fact that he waited so long to tell her, the theatrics made her angry. His addiction was finally killing him, and here he was, so surprised by it all. Charlie wasn't shocked; it was the news that she'd been expecting since finding the box of used jet inhalers underneath his bed. She didn't make him use, she didn't enable him in any way while they were together. It was still her fault, though, he didn't say it and neither did she, but Charlie felt that so succinctly in every part of her body that it absolutely burned. She left him and swore that she would never fall in love with somebody like Pacer ever again, but that was easier to say than to do. Charlie still loved Pacer in a way that she never could understand, confused by the swirling emotions in her chest whenever they spoke. She needed to cut him out of her life, but she couldn't. Just like Pacer and his jet.

If Pacer died, Charlie wasn't sure what she'd do. He was the first person that she truly loved out in the Wastes. He still held that card. Life would still have meaning if Pacer passed away, but there wouldn't be anything to tether her to the Mojave after she was done with it all. Pacer held her in place; he was her first real emotional tie to the land that she'd found herself in. There might have been other men, before she got shot, but Charlie had no doubts that Pacer was the first to capture her whole heart. And to break it. She couldn't take him back, but she wouldn't let him just die either. Charlie would talk to Arcade, with Pacer, who seemed so removed from the whole situation, and see what could be done. She didn't expect miracles, after all, it was Pacer, but she could hope. She loved him once, and that was enough.

Charlie opened her mouth, to say something to Boone, but she stopped, watching the two men stare at each other. She'd never seen Boone look that way; his eyes narrowed, his mouth with that peculiar twist, as though he wasn't sure what he was witnessing. He disliked Pacer, Charlie remembered that from their conversation at Old Mormon Fort, but this gesture meant more than that. His rifle was loaded, the safety off. Boone could kill Pacer with one flex of his index finger. He meant to protect her, at all costs, and Charlie wasn't sure how to evaluate that sentiment.

"I'm not going to hurt her. I love her. I would never hurt her." Pacer said, his voice oddly low.

"Let go."

"Put the gun down and I will."

"I don't trust addicts."

Pacer let her other wrist go, and Boone lowered the rifle just enough that Pacer could breath again. "We were talking."

"If you think I am leaving after that little display of affection, you're surely mistaken." Boone murmured, his voice dangerously low.

"Char, tell him that it's okay." Pacer whispered, darting a quick glance towards her.

Charlie looked at him closely for the first time that day, noting how large his scuffed leather jacket sat upon his frame. Pacer was shrinking, disappearing, and she had no idea how long he had left. It'd be easier to see Arcade with Pacer at her side, but Boone would kill him if he tried anything else, Charlie had no doubts about that. The muzzle of the rifle centered at Pacer's chest, still loaded. And Pacer wouldn't speak with Boone there.

"Pacer, go home. We'll talk to Arcade, to see what your options are. You can come back in a few days, when things settle down." Charlie said, walking over to Boone.

She extended her hand, and he narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Let me borrow your cardkey."

"Charlie." Boone's tone was so dangerous that she was sure he'd point the rifle at her next.

Before she could think, Charlie put a hand over his arm, lowering the gun to the floor. It was the first time she'd ever touched Boone, not just tugging on his shirt to get his attention, but really touching him, skin to skin. He was cooler than she would've thought, the hair on his arms fine underneath her fingertips. Perhaps it was not appropriate at all, this contact, but Boone didn't bristle, just inhaled and exhaled. It felt right, somehow, to be this close to him, comforting in a way that Charlie didn't particularly understand.

But she did, though. She'd slept in his bed, truly slept, not closing her eyes for twenty minutes at a time before the dreams woke her. Charlie always dreamt of things she could never remember, bright and detailed, but mostly gone the moment she opened her eyes. The blankets-Boone's blankets- were still smooth when Arcade woke her, another fact that she couldn't ignore. Charlie fought slumber just as it fought her, always thrashing and talking while her eyes were closed. The evenness of the covers were what led Charlie to the discovery of the warm, slightly crumpled spot next to her on the sheets. The pillows were still the slightest bit dented. Somebody else had been there, another person rested beside Charlie. She was damned sure of it.

It'd been Boone. If he hadn't left the faintest bit of heat behind, she wouldn't have believed it. Arcade hadn't noticed, and Charlie didn't tell him. To speak of it would be some kind of betrayal, and she and Boone had so recently made nice. Too nice, apparently.

"I'm not taking his side." She whispered, out of Pacer's earshot.

"Then what are you doing?" Boone inquired, furious.

"He waited until you left, and then he broke in. If you can't leave, then Pacer can't cause any trouble."

"I highly doubt that." He murmured, reluctantly handing over the crimson cardkey. "Mark my words, if he acts this way again, he will no longer be able to visit anyone. Ever."

"Yes."

Pacer stood by himself, hands in his pockets, searching for something. The movement ceased, and he seemed much more at ease. Charlie knew exactly what he'd found.

"Here is your key. But it isn't free. I am taking something in exchange." Charlie declared.

"Fine."

"Give it to me."

"Give what?" He asked, shrugging, as though she were crazy.

"Whatever's in your hand. Don't be stupid."

"I've got nothing." He held his open palms up, waving them around. "See, nothing."

"Take off your coat."  
>"Char." He moaned, shaking his head.<p>

"I can ask Boone to take it from you, but I don't think you'll like that very much."

Pacer slid it from his shoulders and held it out, Charlie catching it in her right hand. It was heavier than she anticipated, needing to lay it across a table in order to adequately search it. Her injuries were no longer life threatening, but she lost a bit of strength lying in bed for a month. Arcade warned her that traveling the Mojave would be much more difficult than it used to be. It hadn't been easy to begin with, but with a limp that just wouldn't go away, Charlie was afraid that she'd be useless in the desert. It was one thing to be a terrible shot, but needing to use crutches in sand- yeah that would definitely work well. She didn't know what she was going to do, but Arcade said that there was still plenty of hope. If not, he'd quipped, Charlie could always settle down, get married, have some kids. She'd balked at that notion. Marriage and children were fine, in due time. It wasn't like she was some old maid, maybe Charlie didn't know exactly how old she was, but there were still plenty of years left for child bearing.

Shuddering at the thought of a pregnancy when she could barely walk, Charlie pulled out an inhaler of jet, two packets of fixer, and some rocket from Pacer's jacket pocket. She laid them out on the table, reaching inside the lining of the leather to shake out his caps. Pacer had the habit of carrying all his money with him, too paranoid to leave it in his room at the School. It would be his undoing, Charlie thought, shaking the coat to be sure she hadn't missed anything. The coat was empty, and she gave it back to Pacer, taking stock of the items on the table.

"You can't take my stuff." Pacer protested, picking up a cap that had rolled off the table.

"Yes, I can. I hope you enjoyed that high, because it's been your last. You're done, understand that, Pacer?"

"That's not fair. I came here-"

"To make me feel guilty, to show how much power you still wield, to get it off your chest that you plan to keep killing yourself. Guess what, you can't use me as an excuse for using anymore, Pacer. I'm not going anywhere."

He put the jacket back on, and walked over to her, snatching the rocket up. It was by far the most potent drug on the table, and he knew it. The high would get him through tomorrow, even if it would destroy an essential organ. Charlie would no longer stand for that. He came to her to confess his mortality, to get her attention, and he'd attained exactly that. She would no longer stand by and let him destroy himself under her watch. Pacer would not die of anything other than natural causes while Charlie still breathed. The affair with the drugs was over, whether he liked it or not.

"Do you really love me, Pacer?" She asked, reaching inside her sleeve.

She pulled out a switchblade, small but still deadly. It shimmered under the lights, its blade sharp enough to pierce Pacer quite easily.

"That's why your sleeves are so long. I thought you were nervous about the scars."

Charlie smiled, trying to stifle a chuckle. "My vanity is quite less important than my safety. I had plenty scars already."

"And you're still beautiful, Char. But it's not only why I love you."

"Is it enough to hand over the rocket?"

Pacer looked down at his stolen treat, turning it over in his hands. It was more important than Charlie, but she needed him to say so. That was the only thing that would end those lingering feelings, which crippled her worse than the Legionary on the Strip. The Legionary was killed quite easily, while her love for Pacer did nothing but wax and wane. Charlie needed for it to be settled. Either she loved him or she didn't. The in-between was slowly destroying her.

"If you admit that you're willing to help me because you still love me."

"Pacer, I'm willing to help you because I will not watch you die. You are committing suicide, and I will not stand idly by."

"It's only three words, and you don't even have to mean them. I'll accept it anyhow."

"I refuse to play your game."

"Charlotte."

Boone's voice near her ear made her start, forgetting that she still stood so close to him. Originally, it'd been her plan to physically separate the two men, but now, she wasn't sure why she hadn't moved away from Boone. Charlie's thought processes were disturbed, completely turned over. It must be from getting all that sleep, she pondered, as Boone grasped her shoulder. She yielded, following his touch.

"She is willing to help you. Accept that."

Pacer sneered just a little at Boone's words. "I suppose I will. I don't want to lose an arm just because you are a little overzealous."

He set the rocket back with the rest of his items, leaving everything else alone. Charlie felt good as Pacer passed them, walking down the stairs to the front entrance. Boone's hand was still heavy upon her shoulder, and she didn't know whether it would be rude to pull away and follow Pacer. Of course, it wouldn't upset Boone, because he had no emotions to upset, but Charlie stayed put just the same. For herself.

"Boone, will you be joining me and my girl at our little meeting?" Pacer asked, stopping at the bottom stair.

"She is nobody's girl." Boone replied, with the faintest hint of a smirk, adding, "Certainly not yours."

Charlie was sure that she'd never seen Pacer's face such a lively shade of red as he darted out the front door.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Sorry for the delay… I kind of got caught up playing Mass Effect and I literally could not stop until I finished the story. I know what you're thinking, the game came out a billion years ago, how have you not played it yet? I didn't even know we owned it, actually. But now I feel guilty, so I decided to post a chapter! Thanks for all the reviews and for reading!**

Boone followed Charlie into the elevator, still seething. She was learning to push him in little ways that made him so furious that he could barely see. Wasn't she still afraid of him? Hadn't most of their conversations involved Charlie admitting that fact, over and over? He didn't want to invoke fear, just wanted to her to trust him enough that it didn't impair her behavior. And yet, there her hand had been, extended in the space between them, asking for his cardkey. She expected him to agree without a second thought, just hand over his key. Who was Charlie to command him to stay, like a dog? Rex wasn't even treated that way.

She looked up at him as they exited, her green eyes catching his. Biting her bottom lip, Charlie pointed to his bedroom, pushing a stray curl behind her ear as she did so.

"Arcade's waiting in mine."

"Charlotte." He heaved a sigh while saying her name, wanting to be left alone for just a moment. There were things that he needed to do.

"Please." A note of anxiety tinted her plea, and Boone reluctantly nodded.

His room was more or else how he'd left it in the morning, although the bed was still unmade, the sheets tossed about messily. Boone didn't really expect to find it any other way. It was hard to determine whether Charlie was lazy or simply forgetful. No, she branded herself as 'chronically disorganized,' an argument with which Boone couldn't disagree. It'd taken him two days to fix her room, an action that he had not felt truly comfortable with until she confronted him. If Charlie had been more reasonable, she could've found Boone trustworthy from the beginning. But Boone had some difficulty believing that.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, for putting you in the middle. Pacer is my deal from now on, you don't have to be involved." She said it very quickly the moment she locked his door, the words collecting in one big burst. "It was a mistake."

"You have to ask Yes-Man for a new key." He said lowly, watching her sit on the edge of his bed.

"I will, I promise."

Charlie put her face in her hands, ashamed. Did she really care about how Boone's opinion of her? Was that what she was trying to convey by following him in here? Perhaps, she just wanted to talk to him, as she would talk to Arcade or Raul. He was her friend now, as strange and clunky as that phrase seemed.

"He won't see you alone. It simply will not happen."

"Pacer won't speak when you're around. You scare him."

"Why do you want to help him?"

She seemed confused by the question, as though the answer was quite obvious. Boone never understood Charlie. If somebody broke your heart, you break theirs. If somebody tried to kill you, you kill them. All very easy decisions. In all actuality, Charlie spent very little time determining her actions, only worrying about her choices after they were made. Did she really believe it unfair to kill Benny? Boone still had trouble stomaching the idea of Charlie sleeping with Benny in order to obtain the platinum chip. Why did that seem a viable option? He longed to ask her why she wanted to degrade herself in order to avoid the discomfort of morality. Revenge was ethical, especially in the Mojave. Boone recognized that, as did every other citizen. Another reason why Boone believed Charlie was from a place far, far away.

"Because he deserves to live."

"Pacer wants to die. You're just making it worse."

"And how do you know that, exactly?"

"He addicted to jet and moving up to rocket."

"It doesn't mean I can't help."

Boone watched her carefully. She still loved Pacer. That much was obvious, even if she didn't want to admit it. The ring she wore on her middle finger was a gift from him, a dark green stone with a metal K embedded inside of it. All the Kings wore similar jewelry, the color of the gem denoting the rank of the member. It was Pacer's, even though he hardly served a true member of the gang anymore. He had fallen into addiction so hard that even the King could barely be around him anymore. Those words came from the man himself, Boone had visited him while Charlie was still recuperating at the Old Mormon Fort. If Pacer was going to disrupt any semblance of peace, Boone had to figure out what part he played in Charlie's life. She was unwilling to give up that piece of information on her own, and nobody else, not even Arcade, had a true picture of Pacer's relationship with her. The King had enlightened him, explaining as much as he was comfortable with. Perhaps the rifle on Boone's back had kept him talking for a longer amount of time. It had that effect on many people, and all Boone had to do was listen.

Charlie still loved Pacer, and if he died without Charlie intervening, she would never forgive herself. Boone wouldn't be able to convince her otherwise.

"Forget it." Charlie moaned, standing. "It's none of your concern."

"He's a gang member strung out on a drug that makes its users unpredictably violent."

"I don't need your help, Boone. I am fine." She argued, walking towards the door.

"But you do, Charlie. I killed a man that you couldn't, and you're still alive."

"It wasn't a fair fight."

Boone didn't respond, just watched her leave, closing the door quietly behind her. She knew what his answer would be, that she was unable to adequately protect herself. Charlie wouldn't hear it though. She needed a .38 if she was going to hide a weapon inside her dress, not a switchblade. And she needed to know how shoot it with enough confidence to hit somebody. Charlie was too nervous about killing. Boone had to convince her that some people had to die. Jeannie May Crawford in particular. Charlie hadn't mentioned her feelings about that particular murder, but he had to assume that it was in line with the rest of her views. She was just trying to couch his feelings.

He'd forced her to kill Jeannie May. He'd told her about Carla being kidnapped and sold to the Legion, and there was really no way that Charlie could refuse. She was loyal, Boone had to give her that. But if Boone had met her beforehand, before basically hiring her as an investigator, would he have asked her to do what she did? Yes and no. There was no right answer. If he hadn't found Carla's captor, Boone wouldn't have found that tiny sliver of peace. But he damned Charlie. It was a decision much bigger than him.

Determined not to think about Jeannie May, Boone set his rifle across the bed, setting down his pack as well. His errand had gone well enough, he'd made good time on his way to Michael Angelo's studio. Although Charlie made it seem like he'd disappeared for hours, Boone spent maybe an hour traveling back and forth, grabbing lunch at the Tops before heading back to the 38. Nobody in the building expected Boone to come to Charlie's surprise party, not bothering to extend an invitation. He'd only heard Veronica and Arcade talking a few nights before, discussing gifts and all the different foods that Lily was preparing. So Boone got Charlie a present. She probably wouldn't like it, but it was all that Boone could manage on such short notice.

Now, if he should attend the festivities or just give it to her later on, Boone couldn't decide. No one in the building would appreciate his presence at the party, not even Charlie. He probably shouldn't have pushed his luck and made her angry, but she had to realize the likelihood of Pacer's death. Charlie could try to help make it easier for him, but Boone doubted that Pacer had any real incentive to get sober. If he was going to die, then he might as well use. That's how Pacer thought. Boone understood. If he was going to have to wait until he kicked the bucket in order to see Carla again, then he was going to put himself into situations that offered such options. The Mojave was a dangerous place with dangerous people, which Boone exploited to the best of his ability. His only concern was whether Charlie had noticed his reckless behavior. She would only bring it up if it bothered her, and that meant that either she hadn't seen it or didn't care.

Boone wrapped her gift, setting it on his desk. The hallway was silent, but most everyone was upstairs, getting things set up. Charlie was next door, pouting, probably venting to Arcade about how unsympathetic Boone was. Sighing, Boone sat on his bed; sliding his boots off and unfastening the top button of his khakis, so that the quick nap he planned to take would be a bit more comfortable. Charlie had come into his room at about two in the morning yesterday, and she'd fallen asleep maybe forty minutes later.

It took until dawn for Boone get up the courage to wake her, to convince her to move back to her own room. He had sat on the edge of the bed, shifting it slightly, Charlie rolling over, stirring.

"Charlie?" He whispered tentatively, hoping that she heard him.

She had groaned and asked him what he wanted, tucking the covers underneath her chin meanwhile.

"You're in the wrong room."

"Boone, go to sleep." Charlie replied, "We're home. You don't have to wait up for me."

Boone leaned down, to shake her shoulder. Charlie wrinkled her nose and pressed into him, her hand catching his.

"Just go to bed." She said, "I'm tired."

She didn't let go, and before Boone could figure out what to say, her breathing deepened. Charlie was asleep again, still holding his hand. He could leave, sleep upstairs in the penthouse suite, which all the whirring computers and securitrons and giant windows, or he could stay there, making sure to wake before Charlie and leave without a trace of his presence. So he chose the latter, pulling the sheet over his body, as Charlie was tangled within most of his comforter. She had mumbled something quietly; the phrases complete nonsense, and Boone closed his eyes. It wasn't like him to sleep in a bed, but at the Lucky 38 it seemed ungrateful to skip the luxury of a mattress.

When he woke a few hours later, Charlie was still asleep, facing him, her fingertips resting upon his chest. Somehow, his arm had found its way underneath her head, resting in the curve of her neck. Charlie looked peaceful as she slept, all folded in upon herself. He was surprised that she hadn't flailed about during the night, as she normally did. But she was self contained and still deeply slumbering. Successfully escaping, Boone took a quick shower before returning to change into clean clothing. He didn't wake her as he left, and she probably thought that she'd been alone the whole time. Boone wouldn't tell her, because then it would seem to mean something, and not just that he was exhausted.

Trying to figure out what was wrong with him, Boone tucked a hand under his pillow as he remade his bed before he took his nap. A sheet of paper, tightly folded, ricocheted onto the floor, which stooped down to pick up. He unfolded the yellowing parchment, which was to be torn from the title page from, _My Mojave Dreams_, a popular Pre-War novel that Boone had seen in plenty places along his travels.

Loose block letters read,_ It's okay. –C._

It looked strangely familiar, even though he hadn't seen Charlie's handwriting before. Never had the opportunity. But the writing seemed to fit her somehow; printed letters sometimes hooked together, the signature, 'C,' strangely ornate. It meant that Charlie knew what Boone did, and she didn't mind. Would she really be so nonchalant? If it'd been Boone who unknowingly shared his bed- platonically- with Charlie, would he have left a simple note and carried on with his day? No. Boone would've torn out of bed and screamed at her. Had _he_ not executed the physical closeness, it would not have been all right. Charlie didn't mind that Boone was just under her fingertips because she trusted him. Perhaps she had all along and he just didn't notice until now.

Forgetting about getting a few more hours of sleep, Boone went into the corridor. His knuckles rapped against Charlie's door, and within moments, she appeared, a book in her hand.

"I'm sorry." Boone offered.

She parted her lips, narrowed her brows, and then smiled, just a little bit. It wasn't victorious, nor was she rubbing in the fact that he had caved first. Charlie's gaze softened, and she leaned inside the doorframe.

"Don't apologize. You were right. I'd feel better if you were there tomorrow." She said quietly, glancing up and down the hallway to make sure they didn't have an audience.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, I guess." She paused, looking at him more closely. "Are you feeling okay?"

He nodded, pointing to her hands. "What are you reading?"

"Some dumb novel about Molly Viper. It's eh. Why?"

"Nothing about _Mojave Dreams_?"

Her face went white. "You found my note?"

"Yes."

"I meant it. This is going to sound completely dumb, but it felt safer. When I woke up, I don't know, I felt like nothing bad could happen to me. Which is idiotic, because plenty of terrible of things happen to me on a daily basis." Charlie held up her healing arms, sleeves of her dress pushed up. "As anyone can clearly see."

"You're not mad?"

"No." She replied.

Boone adjusted his sunglasses, unsure of what to say in response. "Well."

"Well?" She grinned again. "It's a little past six. Lily's dinner starts at six thirty. You going up?"

"I don't know."

"You should. Let other people get to know you."

"Maybe."

"I won't tell anyone. Arcade knows that I slept in your room, but he doesn't know that you were there. He doesn't suspect anything."

"Good."

"Come to dinner." Charlie invited, "You can leave right after. Don't even have to stay for coffee and conversation."

"Maybe." Boone repeated, shutting her door.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Sorry for taking so long. I got sidetracked by Mass Effect again, and then wouldn't you know it, I had to go out and buy the second one. But I promise to try and keep on top of things. This chapter is a little longer than the last, so I offer it as a gift for my distraction! Thank you for reading and please review!**

The dinner went smoothly enough, although the only people Boone managed to speak with were she and Raul. It was progress though, Charlie thought, gently setting her presents on her bed. Normally, she would leave them on the floor so that they'd be easy to access, but tonight, Charlie was actually going to put everything back into its rightful place. After she changed into pajamas, at least.

The party had surprised her, and so had the gifts. Arcade and Veronica gave her a whole set of a Pre-War crime novel series that Charlie had been dying to get her hands on. Now at least she'd have something to do while lying in bed all day. Cass had given her a hundred chips from the Gomorrah, along with a promise to get Charlie good and drunk when Arcade gave the okay. He made them promise to take him along, as long as it was at night, which meant that he was hoping to see his friend, Hank. As for Dr. Alex Richards, well, Arcade pretended to be deaf as she brought him during their caravan game after dinner. Lily made Charlie's favorite desert, sweet biscuits with a barrel cactus fruit jam, from ingredients that everyone- excluding Boone, of course- helped to scavenge.

Raul probably had one of the best gifts, even if Charlie wasn't the only one who was going to enjoy it. During the week he'd gone into the underbelly of the 38 and repaired the water heater. For the first time, hot _or_ cold water came out of the taps, not just a lukewarm mixture. There wasn't much better than sitting in a bath full of hot water or taking a cold shower after being out in the Mojave all day. Since cleanup of the party started, the bathroom had been occupied with Charlie's companions wanting to try it out. Not Boone though, he was above such things.

He hadn't gotten her anything, which she expected. Well, he didn't have to, really, Charlie reminded herself, because they were allies. Not friends necessarily, but not enemies at least. Even if she slept in his bed yesterday, which she still couldn't figure out. Before, when he came to apologize, an action in itself that surprised the shit out of her, there had been something in his expression that she hadn't seen before. Normally, his face showed either anger or indifference, but they weren't what Charlie saw. Embarrassment, maybe? Perhaps he was afraid that he had offended her in some way by lying next to her without her permission. He didn't, because there was something in his presence that made Charlie feel at ease. It was quite the opposite from where they'd started, which Boone seemed to notice. She should keep a little more distance between them, because it probably made him uncomfortable. Charlie ought to feel just as awkward, but she didn't, and she also didn't know why.

Books carefully alphabetized on her shelf and chips in her safe, she climbed into bed, pushing down her fitted sheet with her feet and using only the comforter. There was a faint glow coming from the windows, from the lighted Strip, but the room was so high up that it didn't bother Charlie. Pillows fluffed and pants on the floor- she never could sleep with pants on, last night being the exception- she clicked off the lamp on her bedside table and laid down, hoping that slumber would come easily. Charlie didn't have high hopes, but closed her eyes and shut out the thoughts whirring through her mind. The air conditioner purred soothingly, and Rex was already snoring softly in a folded blanket on the floor. The conditions were right, and Charlie could feel dreams fluttering just a few minutes away. She fell into their brightness, hoping that she wouldn't be ejected too quickly.

_ A woman stands in the middle of a room, lit by a heavy lamp that hung from the high ceiling. The floor is wood that's been varnished many, many times, slick because of it. Charlie looks to the mirrored wall at her, squinting at the girl staring back. She is young, maybe thirteen, with dark brown curls pulled back into a tight braided bun. She looks like Charlie, with the same scar across her right kneecap, emerald eyes holding the same expression of confusion. Her grip on the bar extending from the wall tightens, as the lady, tall with blonde hair verging on grey, shakes her head with displeasure. _

_ "Miss St. Clair, do you think your parents pay me to teach you to look at yourself?" _

_ "No, Mrs. Stone." Charlie said, her voice high and cautious. It was familiar, but at the same time, completely foreign. _

_ "Then run through your routine. You do know that there is an audition two days from now, at which you will embarrass not just yourself, but me as well, yes? They tell me you have talent. Let me see." _

_ Charlie nodded, feeling tears prickle the bridge of her nose, that sensation that she experiences every time she goes to Mrs. Stone's practices. Clearing her throat, her limbs perform, even though Charlie could not remember for a second what she is supposed to be doing. The woman shouts words at her, words that Charlie cannot understand, strange phrases that are not English. Her feet point, her arms are strong and elegant, and her legs propel her across the room. The actions feel natural, the steps coordinating with the music playing softly over the speakers. Charlie dances for such a long time that her uncertainty vanishes. There is nothing else in the whole world except for the steps and the gestures and her form, until her body stops, freezing in mid-air. _

_ "Better. Let me see the __entrée d'Aurore, Miss St. Clair. Don't get sloppy towards the end, like usual, because _The Sleeping Beauty_ has a prologue and three acts. The chorographer will be looking for a dancer that can make it through." _

_ "Yes, Mrs. Stone." _

_ "Keep in mind that Aurora is sixteen, Miss St. Clair. There will be many older ballerinas at the audition. You probably won't get the part." _

_ "I know, Mrs. Stone." Her tone is disciplined, with a note of despair that Charlie couldn't place. _

_ "There will be other ballets, other opportunities to play Aurora. But you want this one, yes?" Charlie nodded, and the woman continued, "Then perform with the ability you were born with. You are my youngest student for a reason." _

_ Pointing her toes, Charlie looks to the mirror once again, and sees herself. Same face, just older, same hairstyle, but the bewildered stare is gone. The child has vanished, leaving Charlie to fend for herself. She doesn't know the steps, doesn't know how her body is supposed to look, and just stands there while the music swells quietly. Mrs. Stone cocks her head suspiciously, and Charlie feels the floor begin to shake. _

_She has overstayed her welcome._

Charlie made it out of bed just quick enough to dart across the hall to the toilet. The dinner that she so enjoyed was coming violently back up, her shirt covered in sweat despite the cold temperature of the room. The dream, of course, is gone, the situation and the characters gone, only the faint impression of pink tulle on the back of her brain. Breathing ragged, Charlie stood and took an unsteady step forward, before a pair of callused hands caught her under the arms.

"Boone?" She asked, her voice far away.

He shushed her, suspending her weak frame with a lift of his shoulder. Charlie thought for a moment that she was still dreaming, that in a few moments she'd feel the pillow underneath her head, missing blankets that had been kicked onto the floor. But Boone's fingers were tucked tightly into her ribs, struggling to grab hold without snagging her scabbing wounds. The pain was too great for Charlie believe in anything else but reality. Her bedroom spun as he placed her back upon the bed, Charlie still feeling the ground lurching.

"Look at me." His rough fingertips seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Murkily, she answered, "I can't."

"You can. Take a deep breath." He ordered.

Charlie's eyes fluttered, and she focused on Boone's hand, his skin just barely touching her own. His expression betrayed nothing, and she felt her lungs open as her injuries stopped burning. Withdrawing his fingers, Boone frowned as Charlie propped herself up. She must've been loud, if it provoked his attention. Charlie wasn't surprised that sleep had fought so hard against her, but it'd never made her physically ill before. Sweating, screaming, bruised, sure, but vomit had never been part of the scenario. She was angry with herself for allowing what must've been nightmare to get the better of her. Now, not only was she stuck at the Lucky 38 because she'd gotten attacked by a Legionary, Charlie was also certifiably insane. Luckily, it was only Boone that had witnessed her little episode.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I've got it from here, though."

Boone pointed at her shirt, which was spotted with blood along her left side. He meant to argue otherwise.

"I'll get a doctor's bag from the bathroom." He said, standing.

"It'll be fine. Just a few cuts that opened up."

"No." He growled, and shook his head. "Stay here."

His footsteps left the room, and Charlie contemplated what was going on. Boone probably wasn't the only one who heard her, if she'd been loud enough to attract attention. Had she been shouting? Her vocal cords felt leathery, so Charlie assumed that the answer was yes. Her arms and legs felt tight, which meant she'd been thrashing around in bed again. Not just again, always. Beyond last night, Charlie couldn't remember a decent night of sleep she'd had since waking up in Goodsprings. Maybe the bullet had damaged not just the part of her brain that controlled memory, but the part that effected a normal sleep cycle as well. Or she was generally completely fucked up.

From now on, Charlie would have to sleep in shifts, an hour here, forty minutes there, but not an extended amount of time. The clock reported that it had been three hours since Charlie first laid in bed, not counting the past fifteen minutes. Too long. She shouldn't have pressed her luck.

Boone returned with the kit, and stood awkwardly in front of Charlie, not sure whether it was better for her to clean the wounds or him. Deciding to crouch on the side of her bed, he took out an antiseptic and some gauze.

"Can you…" His pursed his lips and then flattened them, "Lean back?"

"Boone, it's not necess-" Charlie started, as he stuck a syringe of med-x into her exposed arm.

She glared at him, even as he rolled up the side of her t-shirt with quick, nimble, if not self-conscious fingers, exposing a mess of cuts and scabs. Boone reached for her left hand, pulling it away from Charlie.

"You scratched yourself." He commented, observing her fingers. "Your nails have blood beneath them."

They did indeed. Charlie could not remember tearing at her own flesh, just as she could not recall anything else. She brushed Boone away, and matched the curves of nail-shaped cuts to her own fingers. Charlie hurt herself, in order to pull away from the dream. What had it been? Why did she always feel like there was something important beyond that veil of unconscious, something that might make Charlie whole again? The dreams were more than that; they were clues that Charlie had led an existence beyond that of the Mojave. But another part of Charlie wouldn't let her experience them, helped destroy them. Her emotions were fighting another part of herself. Charlie couldn't do anything about it, had to still try to hide it, but apparently, it was getting harder and harder to do.

"I don't know when or how that happened," Charlie admitted, letting Boone swipe a clean rag soaked in something that stung very badly.

"Vodka." Boone replied to her unasked question, closing the clear bottle and putting it bad into the doctor's bag. "Better?"

"Yeah."

He was good at it, wrapping and taping her minor abrasions, as though he'd done it many times before. Boone had such a long past that it was possible he'd been some sort of doctor or other medical personnel that he wouldn't tell Charlie about. She'd grown used to the secrets and mysteries of Boone. Her strange nightmare- which was the first dream she'd ever remembered, now that she thought about it- at the Old Mormon Fort reminded Charlie how little she knew about him. In her delirium, she'd made up all these facts about him, his first name, what Carla looked and sounded like, because Charlie knew nothing about Boone. But he had a way of gaining information without losing any, because she was sure that he knew everything about her. She didn't even know how that had happened.

"Was I loud?" Charlie asked, embarrassed. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"I wasn't asleep." Boone replied, and nodded towards the bathroom. "My door was open. Heard you sprint out."

"Oh. So no shouting?"

Boone caught her glance and then looked away. "Checked on you an hour ago. You were quiet until you retched."

"Checked on me?"

He shrugged, nonchalant. "Should've done it more often, make sure you weren't killing yourself."

"Arcade asked you?" Charlie gave him an easy out, waiting for him to accept her offer and move along.

"No. My own volition." Noncommittal, followed by a stretch and then a motion towards the door.

"Thanks. I'll try to be quiet so you can sleep." She said, reaching back to fix her pillows.

"Wait."

He stepped of the room again, putting the doctor's bag back into the bathroom and then dropping from her line of sight. Charlie pulled her covers from off the floor, ready to settle. Exhaustion was already settling into her limbs, coating her senses with a dull grayness. A few minutes passed, and she figured that he meant wait to go back to bed, so that he could fall into slumber first. At least he'd have a fighting chance to getting some rest before Charlie went on to ruin it. But he returned, holding two beige canvas sacks, both containing something that was neither heavy nor large.

"What are doing?" She asked as he shut her door.

Boone sat on the foot of the bed, handing over the larger of the two bags. "For you."

"You didn't have to, Boone." Charlie sighed, although she was secretly pleased.

She undid the tie, which was a scrap of red cotton that seemed oddly familiar. Reaching inside, Charlie grasped something soft and pulled it free. Benny's jacket and black trousers fell into her lap, but they were not the same as they'd been when they rested upon the back of her couch. The coat was smaller and cut differently, the pants taken in and fashioned with a slimmer silhouette. Charlie held up the checkered fabric and realized that it had been resized to fit over her shoulders. The pants were her size as well, bearing the narrower cut that Charlie preferred, with just enough seam allowance to be comfortable while traveling the Mojave. Boone changed them, rendering the residual evil that the clothes still held null and void. It was more thoughtful than Charlie ever imagined Boone could be.

"I… I don't know what to say." She whispered. "How did you…?"

"Wait." He repeated, handing her the second bag.

"Boone, I can't possibly accept anything else."

"Open it." He insisted, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

The object inside the canvas was somehow heavier and tinier than the other gift, and Charlie had a vague idea of what it was before she held it in the light of the room. Maria, Benny's pistol. It was the gun that Boone had been cleaning at his desk yesterday, but Charlie barely noticed it in her anger. The silver sparkled as Boone pressed her hand, turning the gun sideways. _Charlotte_. Her name was now engraved in beautiful flowing cursive along the handle of the gun, the printed letters of Maria erased from the barrel. It was no longer the gun that had nearly killed Charlie, it was the gun that she would use to protect herself with. Boone had given her a whole set of things that Charlie didn't deserve, and she'd been such an asshole for the past two days, simply because he wanted to protect her from Pacer and her own ineptitude. Damn it, she thought. Damn it.

"Thank you. Christ, thank so much, Boone."

"You're welcome." He answered, the corners of his mouth turning up just briefly enough for Charlie to catch the action. "Michael Angelo did the engraving. His receptionist helped me by refitting the clothes."

Boone kicked off his boots, taking off his sunglasses and putting them inside his beret, which he rested on Charlie's nightstand. Once again he left the room, this time wordlessly, returning with a glass of amber liquid and a mass of blankets. He handed her the drink and tossed the comforters onto the floor. He must've raided the linen closet.

"There's a few cots in storage on the casino floor, if you want one of those instead." Charlie offered, looking at the glass in her hand.

"It's watered down whiskey. To help you sleep." Boone informed Charlie, still forming his makeshift bed.

"I can go and get you a proper bed. Or you can sleep in your own room. I'll be fine."

"You need supervision. And I've slept in worse conditions." Boone drawled, sitting down upon the floor.

"Thank you." Charlie said again. He must've known that somewhere in Charlie's equation for sleep, that he was an important and unexplained force.

"Goodnight." He said in return, getting up one final time to shut off the light.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: New chapter! Sorry it took a little longer than usual, I'm having trouble with the chapter I'm working on, not sure whether I want to take in the direction I started to pull it into. But we'll see! Thanks for reading and reviewing, and please enjoy!**

Arcade sat uncomfortably in the penthouse suite at the Lucky 38, compressing himself deeper into the corner of the couch he sat on. Boone dominated the other end, rifle laid across his lap, the barrel of which was pointed towards Arcade. It probably wasn't intentional, but it didn't make him feel any better about the situation. A meeting that included both Charlie and Boone was definitely something serious, not the fun midday vacation from Farkas that Arcade had been hoping for.

"Is she going to be much longer?" Arcade asked, straightening his glasses.

Boone shrugged, not offering anything more than the action. Arcade sighed internally, wondering why Charlie was allowing the sniper to stand watch over her conversations. She knew how Arcade felt about Boone, how he thought that the First Recon needed to be at some kind of hospital for the criminally insane, not traversing the Mojave with Charlie. At the dinner, she had mentioned getting along much better with Boone, that the two had struck some sort of understanding. He probably brainwashed her, Arcade thought, used one of those techniques that the NCR taught its soldiers. Arcade still wasn't sure why he agreed to come to the casino when he knew that Boone was going to be present for whatever conversation Charlie wanted to have. Damn it, if only she wasn't his best friend and confidante.

"I'll warn you, you're not going to like what she's going to ask." Boone murmured quietly, just as the elevator beeped, signaling that the doors would open in a few moments.

"What?" It was all Arcade managed to get out before Charlie stepped into the room, followed by another person that he was not particularly excited to be in the same room with.

Pacer walked a few paces behind her, wearing his ever-present leather coat with a flannel shirt and jeans had seen better days. His antithesis, Charlie wore a pair of black pants that Arcade had not seen before, pressed crisp, with a sheer navy blue blouse. Arcade was sure that he'd never seen her look so mature, until looking down at her bare feet. He supposed that Charlie was allowed a few exceptions, especially since she was cooped up in the 38 until further notice. But he'd hadn't observed much of a limp as she sat in one of the burgundy armchairs adjacent to his and Boone's sofa.

"Before we start, there's going to be a few rules, boys. No shouting, no pointing your guns, no calling each other names. We are here to have a calm conversation, not to start a war. Do we all understand?"

"Why is he here?" Arcade pointed towards Pacer, wrinkling his brow. "I thought you wanted a medical consultation to determine whether you could leave the casino."

She shot him a look, placing her hands on her hips. "I needed to get you here somehow, even if it was under false pretenses. Pacer's the patient, you're the doctor, I'm the concerned friend and Boone is security. Those will be our roles today."

"So I shouldn't let Farkas bill this, then?" He joked, watching Charlie grin.

Boone shifted the gun in his hands, angling it at Pacer instead. Arcade felt his mood lift just a little, even if he had the smallest idea where this day was headed. He didn't like it one bit, but sat back, waiting for Charlie to explain.

"I've been doing a little research," She said, gesturing to Boone, "about heart transplants."

He passed her a large Pre-War tome, most likely an old medical book. Charlie wrenched it open, holding it up so that Arcade could view the graphic pictures of an old-world surgery. Pacer looked away, but neither Charlie nor Boone shied away from the images. Arcade had a feeling that whatever sort of presentation she prepared, Boone had helped to arrange it. They were working together. A concept never seemed to so strange to Arcade, and he worked for Julie Farkas, with whom he needed to cooperate on a daily basis.

"If I'd known we were going do show and tell, I would've brought a few books of my own. But that's all right, because instead, I have my common sense, which allows me to see that it's futile to perform surgery on an addict, who will destroy a new organ even more quickly than the one that's failing right now."

"I haven't used since the weekend. All I've had is fucking fixer, Gannon." Pacer moaned, picking his head up for the first time since he'd walked into the room.

Christ, he wasn't lying. Pacer's face was covered in sores from where his hands had picked, scratching an itch that wouldn't leave. The bags under his eyes were bulbous and saturated with a plum color, as though he'd gotten into a fight. Pacer probably hadn't slept since he stopped using, in too much pain to even attempt to slumber. It was the only time that Arcade ever saw him use fixer in its prescribed manner, using the correct dosage. He would be sort of proud, if he weren't so angry at being tricked to discuss Pacer's life-extending options.

"He's trying really hard." Charlie said, although a tone in her voice betrayed her disbelief over the situation.

"That's great. If he stops using, his life will get better. But you can't believe that this will stick, Charlie. You, of all people, can't believe that Pacer has a real desire to get better."

She pursed her lips, looking between him and Pacer quickly, as though evaluating what she wanted to say in order avoid hurting either party. Always diplomatic, Arcade thought, as she spoke.

"I'm not going to let a man die just because of my own selfish reasons. And no, I'm not truly convinced and I don't think I'll ever be."

"She still cares for him. If it were you, do you think Charlie would let you perish?" Boone interrupted, his voice surprising Arcade.

"I wouldn't expect her to save me. I'm sure we all know the expression, where there's a will, there's a way. He has no will, so there's no way this is going to work. A month tops, that's all I give this attempt." He replied.

"It's not just an attempt. I want to live, Gannon." Pacer said, clutching at the sides of his head.

"No, you want to manipulate my friend into taking care of you. You desperately want her to fall in love again. You want to live for a moment so that you can die happily, clutching both Charlie's heart and an inhaler of jet. I will not let that happen, Pacer. I will kill you myself."

Boone turned suddenly, giving Arcade such an approving look that he was sure that maybe Boone would give him some sort of pat on the back or even a high five. Weirder things have happened.

"And I shall help him hide your body." Boone added, before his expression flattened again.

Pacer stood, groaning. He cleared his throat, and then addressed the room. "There are two loves of my life. One is jet, the other, Charlie. Jet has been my crutch since I was fifteen. I use it to feel like a whole person, to fix the things that are wrong with me. For a long time, I didn't even see the other side of it. I thought that every inhaler of jet was making me a better person. When I turned twenty, I came to Freeside, to meet up with the King. I looked around, and there were dozens of people just like me, injecting and snorting and drinking things that made them feel different. Except that they were wretched and miserable, and for the first time, I saw myself as I really was. So I kept using because I was already hooked and if I kept going down that road, I knew that I would die. Except the years kept coming and my despair was getting worse. Nothing could bring me back.

"And then I met Charlie. She stood in the School, waiting to talk to the King. She smiled when I spoke to her and she laughed when I told a joke and she kissed me when I kissed her. Charlie didn't know what I was and so I was more than just Pacer, for a little while. This woman has joy, despite everything that has happened to her, and I knew that I could too, as long I kept my secrets close. But she is smarter than I will ever be, and she found me out so quickly that I could barely believe it. Charlie lost hope, and so did I. For a long time, I was glad when Gannon told me I was really dying. Every moment that passed was better, closer to the end. I didn't see it the right way. I saw death as an easy way to gain sobriety, and I wouldn't have even seen it if I hadn't told Charlie. She sees me. She sees the fifteen-year-old boy that I thought wasn't good enough. I love her, and she believes it. She is the only person that has truly loved me back. She wants me to live, and so I will try my best. She deserves it, not me. You're not helping me, you're helping Charlie."

His words were so convoluted and rehearsed that Arcade was sure that he was caught up in some soap opera. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, or that it kind of made Pacer seem like less of an asshole. Was it all a lie? Were the words that Pacer spouted into the air just another manipulation? They had to be, Arcade knew, they had to be false. Pacer would ensnare Charlie any way that he could, he wanted to pull her away from her friends- no, her family, as Arcade had witnessed at the dinner a few nights ago- so that Pacer could hold her close until he died? Why did he want to put her through all of this, if he really loved her?

"You and you, out." Arcade ordered, pointing at Boone and Pacer. "I need to talk to Charlie in private."

Pacer ambled back towards the elevator, although Boone was not as quick to get up. He stared at Arcade for a long time before finally standing, hitching the rifle behind his back.

"You and I are allies in this." He spoke directly to Arcade, ignoring Charlie. "I would like nothing more than to be rid of him. But she is my friend. Remember that."

The sniper followed Pacer into the waiting elevator; Arcade and Charlie both quiet until the doors closed. He met his friend's eyes, before beckoning her to sit on the couch with him. There were too many things going on for her to be so far away.

"I love you, you know that, right?" Arcade asked, linking their fingers together. "You are my best friend and my little sister. I want you to be happy, but I want to protect you."

"I know, Arc. I love you, too. And I realize that you think I'm crazy for wanting to help him."

"No, but you have to be honest with me, though."

"About what?"

"Are you doing this because you want to be with Pacer? Do you think that if, and this is a strong if, he gets sober, you'll want to be in a relationship with him?"

"I don't know. I'm not in love with him, but Boone is right, I do still care about Pacer. But I can't think about it that way, or else I'm going to get even more involved than I already am. I have to tell myself that it is just another favor that I'm completing for a Wastelander in need. I have to remove my feelings from the situation."

"Boone tell you that as well?"

"No. I learned it from observing. His emotional distance is something I need to utilize more often."

Arcade shook his head, tightening his grip on her hands. "It's not. Your deep personal involvement in even the most trivial matters is what makes you who you are."

"Maybe. I don't know."

"I don't like the fact that Boone is trying to teach you how to become a robot."

"He's not. I don't like the fact that you're letting your ill feelings about Pacer and Boone get in the way of listening to my argument." She retorted, with a smile. "If it was any other addict, would refuse in the same pigheaded way?"

Arcade quieted, realizing that there wasn't any way that Charlie would take no for an answer. He supposed that if she really believed that Pacer would stop using the jet and live a normal life, he could hear what she had to say. Charlie was anything but hopeful normally. She looked at life with such a pessimistic view, that sometimes, Arcade wondered how she kept her head up at all. She didn't believe that she would get her memory back; she didn't believe that she could stop Caesar's Legion, and she didn't even believe that Boone was on her side. Wait. That had to be it, that had to be the breaking point. Something had drastically changed between Boone and Charlie; Arcade had felt it for the past thirty minutes. They say across from one another easily, no cautious glances or awkward words exchanged. Their relationship had gone from tenuous to relaxed so quickly that Arcade barely realized it.

It made sense now. Boone had convinced Charlie that they were allies- no, friends, that was _his_ phrase- and part of the pessimism had vanished. For a moment, at least, Charlie thought that Pacer could get better. She really did believe in him. It wasn't stubbornness on her part; it was pure confidence in his character. Perhaps Pacer would relapse, or maybe, because he felt the certainty that Charlie held for him, Pacer would stay sober.

"Go ahead." Arcade sighed, waving his hand in the air. "Tell me your plan."

"Well, it's not exactly a plan, per se, but a set of ideas that you can validate or change or shoot down. I'm not an expert, you are."

"Not if you ask Farkas." He replied, making her laugh quietly.

She picked up the book again, along with a sheet of paper that had a scribbled list. "I don't know how possible it is, you know, to execute a transplant, especially one that involves an exceptionally vital organ. Upstairs, I have a couple other medical guides, but this one has the broadest instructions. I'll give you the others, because they're more likely for doctor use than civilian."

"It's possible, yes, but the chances probably aren't very good. Medical science is not what it used to be. There's no such thing as a sterile environment and we're going to have to find something that can pump blood artificially while the procedure is carried out. Most doctors have only attempted reconstruction on cadavers, as practice. A real transplant probably hasn't been successful since the Great War." Arcade explained, leafing through the pages. "See, these are from the mid two-thousands. Even then surgery wasn't one hundred percent guaranteed to work."

"I know."

"I don't know enough to do this by myself, even. We can't do it at Old Mormon Fort, because Farkas will never allow me to attempt it. I doubt she'll be confident enough to offer any pointers either."

"I asked Boone to contact Dr. Usanagi at the New Vegas Medical Clinic. She's allowing us access, and she'll help. She's arranging a list of supplies that we'll need, anesthetics, tools, things like that. She won't tell Farkas, either. I figured you would not want her involved."

"That's good. They have medical assistants there, that'll be a big help. But Usanagi does implants mostly, nothing close to major surgery. She deals in the brain."

"I know. When you give the word, I was going to go out to Camp Forlorn Hope and contract Dr. Richards' help. Not because you're in love with him," Charlie said with a smirk, "But because he deals with badly injured soldiers every day. He's got to be creative when it comes to healing them. I think he'll be a valuable asset."

"I agree with you."

"I want Dr. Mitchell there are well, if he can make the trip. I sent word yesterday, asking for his help, and if he accepts, Veronica will pick him up. Keep him as safe as possible."

"That's a good idea."

"Lastly, I was thinking that Doc Henry is probably the best person to ask for help. He exchanged Rex's brain, so we know that he's definitely got surgical skills. But I don't know if he'll tear himself away from nightkin research. I wouldn't let him test on Lily, so I'm sure he's got some lingering resentment."

"We'll see what we can do, Char. I'll see if I can talk to him, Remnant to Remnant."

Charlie snuggled into him, her hair brushing against his face. "So you'll help me, love?"

"If that's what you truly need me to do, I'll help with the surgery. But you know, you're missing a vital element in this scenario."

"What?"

"If we're going to put a fresh heart in him, where are you going to get one on such short notice?"

For a moment, Charlie looked cross, but he knew that it was directed towards her and not him. She sighed and tucked an arm around Arcade's shoulder. "I have no fucking idea."

"Perhaps we can put up advertisements around the Strip. _Are you looking to kick the bucket? Want to make a difference in the world before you depart? Well, if you're healthy, donate your vital organs to a member of the Kings!_ Don't you think we'd get a lot of takers?"

"Definitely." She answered, leaning her head back against the couch. "Let's see if we can actually get this all orchestrated, and then we'll see where we can get a heart from."

"Sounds good to me, kiddo."

"Are you sure you're okay with all of this?"

"If it's going to make you happy, then I guess I am."

She smiled at him, and then stood. "So, you think I can leave the 38 yet? Am I all healed?" She twirled on her right foot, which Arcade knew was her good side, the one that had not been almost severed by a Legionary.

"I will only examine you if you tell me why Boone is calling you his friend." He bargained, getting up at well.

"That's a long, awkward story, that I would love to tell you." Charlie replied, taking his hands.

Music played quietly over the loudspeakers, on Radio Las Vegas, her favorite. They danced in time to the songs, swaying, while she told him how she and Boone had wound up so close.

By the time Arcade left the 38, it was nearly ten at night, and he'd eaten dinner with the whole group. Charlie walked him out, and reminded him, just before he exited, that no matter what happened, Arcade was always her only best friend and her only brother, and that she loved him with her whole heart.

He believed her, because of course, he felt exactly the same.

Plus, it was only a matter of months before he got to see Dr. Richards again.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Sorry for taking forever! I went to NY's Comic Con this weekend and was super exhausted. Plus, I'm having still having issues with the chapter I'm working on. There's one more already written, but I can't decide whether to pull the trigger on my latest idea or try something else. We'll see. Plus it doesn't help that I finished Mass Effect 2 this afternoon and have been flooded with ideas for another fic… But I don't know. Anyway, thanks for the reviews, and please enjoy!**

Boone stood still outside of the 38, resting with just one shoulder against the outer wall so that his rifle could hang comfortably. His pack, filled with a change of clothes and spare supplies, swung next to his hip as he waited for her. He supposed that there were several plans that Charlie needed to set in motion while she was gone, however, he did not think that any of them would take as long as they were. But soon enough, wearing her favorite beige dungarees with a grey cotton t-shirt, she bounded out the front door. Charlie's smile was hard to ignore, her eagerness palpable. How long had she waited to escape New Vegas? Long enough, he thought, greeting her presence with just a nod.

Her hair was tied up in its normal manner, braided and then spun into a tight bun. He liked the no-nonsense approach, even if he had grown accustomed to seeing her curls bouncing upon shoulders that were usually swathed in fabrics that were not suitable to the Wasteland. Day after day she'd worn dresses and skirts and frothy blouses, all of which were designed to show a woman's figure. He was glad that those ensembles had been designated appropriate for exploring only the Lucky 38 and the rest of the Strip. Boone had a hard time remembering that Charlie was not just his ally and friend, but a girl that wanted to go out and look pretty.

Last week, after Arcade had given her a clean bill of health, and shortly after, Boone had taken her to Camp Golf and taught her how to shoot. They spent the nights out there too, getting used to elements once again. She didn't complain though. He liked that. It took three days before Charlie hit the center of a target, but it was progress. She was still more confident with a powerfist, but Charlie could actually injure something with a firearm now. She carried Maria- she blushed viciously every time she called it Charlotte- in a holster that Boone gave her. Perhaps that meant she intended to use it.

The second part of the training Boone planned had involved Lake Las Vegas. Charlie was still weak from bed rest, though she did her best to hide it. They'd made good time during the first few hours of the trip to Golf, but her lingering injuries slowed them down enough that they barely made it there by sundown that day. Charlie was angry with herself, embarrassed to admit that she wasn't as limber as she used to be. Boone understood. Her body had changed; Charlie was more slender than she'd been nearly two months ago. Muscle lost. The lake served two purposes: strength training and physical therapy. Sleeping in Charlie's room had its advantages, such as the rather impressive library she managed to acquire during her brief time in the desert. A book explained exactly what Boone should do in order to get her back into fighting shape, and so, once they'd finished with the firing range, they'd headed south towards Lake Las Vegas.

The small pier jutting into the lake was his true destination, and there they laid down their packs and relaxed for a few precious moments. Charlie sighed and pulled off her shoes, dipping just her toes into the water.

"When this is all over, I should like to live near a place like this." Charlie purred, lying back against the wooden planks. Her shirt rose just enough to expose her jutting hipbones, the swell of flesh that used to camouflage them gone. She looked sickly, splayed out like that.

"Come on. We're going in the water." Boone ordered, standing and pulling Charlie up with him.

"No... I don't want to go in. I'm fine here." She stuttered, shaking her head.

"You. Water. Now."

He lifted her easily, firmly holding her squirming body over the lake, Charlie's feet swinging in vain. Lowering her just a little, so that her knees submerged, Boone felt her breathing quicken. Charlie looked at him in pure horror as her thighs dunked in the chilly temperatures.

"Please, stop! I don't know if I know how to swim! Boone, please!" Her chest racked with sobs as she struggled to grab his arms, her spine plunging deeper.

"It will be fine." He tried to soothe, her straining legs churning up the lake despite his words.

"Stop it! You can't do this! I'll sink!"

It the first time that Boone saw her react in such a way, her emerald eyes alit with pure fear. Her hands tightened into fists and pummeled him, wherever she could reach. The worst of them caught Boone clear in the jaw, but by her wince, he could tell it hurt her as well. Even when the Legionary cornered her on the Strip, Charlie had not reacted with such terror. There, she had understood her fate, accepted the attack with calm dignity. Today, she screamed and wept like a child as Boone lowered her even further. She clenched, arms straight against her body, elbows pressed against her sides. Charlie's fingertips clenching Boone's hands were the only things keeping the water from engulfing her.

"Please!" She begged one final time.

"Do you trust me?" He asked, holding tight.

"Don't drop me!" She cried in reply, ignoring his question.

"Do you trust me, Charlie?"

"Boone!"

"If you are strong enough to pull yourself back up then I will not fight you. If not, you're going in the water, understand?"

She tugged for a few moments, yanking her body only a few inches away from the surface of the lake. Charlie shrieked in frustration, not able to force her body to comply with her will.

"I can't. I'm not strong enough."

"Do you trust me?" he asked again, catching her gaze.

"Yes, damn it, Boone, yes!"

He pushed her hands away, watching as Charlie closed her eyes and dropped down to the water. She truly believed that she was going to drown. At least, she did until her feet smacked against the silt of the lake bottom with plenty of room left to spare. Charlie shuddered above the water, the residual fright leaving her expression.

"You could've told me it was shallow!" she exclaimed, reaching up to batter him once again, although this time the motions were filled with embarrassed joy.

He shrugged, taking off his sunglasses and beret before sliding into the lake. She clutched her shoulders, leaning away from Boone. It was her way of saying that enough was enough.

"Come." He beckoned, swimming a little deeper. "If you move about, you'll warm up."

"I can move around just fine right here."

"Charlie."

"Boone." she retorted, starting to make her way towards the shore.

"Didn't drown, right?" He asked, cocking his head.

"Well, no." Charlie admitted, adding, "But doesn't mean I won't."

"You're telling me that a body of water scares you."

"No! I'm just… more comfortable on land."

"So, if a lake can reduce you to a quivering idiot, what about a Fiend? Powder Ganger? Just going to piss your trousers when we eventually head up to Cottonwood Cove?"

"That's different." She replied, her voice tense with conviction. "The water is dangerous."

"It's not irradiated."

He paddled towards Charlie, trying to figure out where her courage had gone. There was something in her expression, a certain focus that he hadn't seen before. Before he had an opportunity to inquire what was the matter, she held up a single index finger, requesting silence. It was an appeal that Boone could not remember ever having to oblige.

"It's there. I know it is."

Her eyes closed, and her fingers pressed against her temples, rubbing tiny circles against the skin there. She was determined, but about what, Boone could not guess. For a moment, he considered reaching out towards her, to shake out whatever what bothering Charlie, but he just stood in the water, watching her. Tiny wisps of hair curled along her forehead, having escaped when Boone tossed her in the water, the tendrils golden under the sun's rays. For a moment, he was reminded of his honeymoon with Carla, at a tiny resort on the bank of Lake Mead. Boone spent the days in the water, his wife curled up in a chair on the shore. She would watch him swim with such a pretty smirk, only retreating to his wet arms when sunbathing got too warm. It had been a perfect week. The only time in his life when he felt that way.

"Fuck me." Charlie cursed, throwing a hand against the surface, the ripples reaching Boone quickly. "I can't fucking remember."

"What?"

"There's a reason for my behavior, I know there is. A real reason."

"Oh. From your life… before?" He let the end of the sentence lay in the space between them.

"I guess. I don't know. I never know. I wish, just once, my brain would work with me. I'm tired of being completely clueless. I want to remember."

"Sometimes not knowing is better."

"Maybe for you." Charlie spat bitterly, and then softened. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, I'm just frustrated."

"I know."

She looked up at him, still ashamed of what she'd just said. Charlie said it without thinking, Boone realized, but it still stung in a way that he could not evaluate. Most days, he wished that he could forget about life with Carla, in order to live in a way that was not so painful. Sometimes, though, he held her memory above anything. He'd yearn to go back to Novac and sleep in their bed and smell her old perfume and hold her dresses as he fell asleep. This practice would require a lot of scotch, maybe a bottle of whiskey if his preferred alcohol weren't available. But he hadn't drank in a long time. It was a promise that he'd made to himself when leaving Novac. Charlie didn't deserve a drunk following her around. She didn't deserve an addict either, but she was still trying to save Pacer. Boone had made sure that she wouldn't have to rescue him as well.

"How about this," Boone began, seizing Charlie's hands and pulling her towards the deeper section of lake, "We will create a memory for you."

"What do you mean?" She asked uneasily.

"Well, you're frightened of something. Perhaps you had a bed experience with water when you were a child."

"Maybe."

"You were going swimming with your cousins. Your parents were taking a trip, and your aunt and uncle were babysitting. That's how you ended up at… a river bank."

She smiled, unconvinced. "How old was I?"

"Nine- no, seven. They're both older than you, and have a bit of a rebel streak. This is how you ended up by the river without any adult supervision. They're both okay swimmers, not talented, but know how to keep afloat. You're not confident with anything beyond a dog paddle. Jeff, the oldest, wants to play a game that needs three, but you're too scared to go in, so he pushes you. You're nearest a swifter part in the river, the current taking you away from your cousins. You can't keep your head above water, and before you know it, the river swallows you. Later, you wake up in your cousins' house, wrapped in towels, surrounded by your family. That's why you're so afraid, Charlie."

"Good story." She replied, treading water.

"It's not a story. It's a memory. You told me about it when we first met."

"Boone." Charlie said with a grin, but didn't add anything to it.

"You're not scared anymore. I won't let you drown."

She let his hands go, swimming a few strokes away. A note of relaxation tinted her face as she turned back to catch his gaze.

"I know you won't." Charlie answered, putting more distance between them.

It only took five more days until she was able to swim ten laps around the lake before needing to stop. It was progress, Boone thought as he responded to the grin Charlie sported as she pulled her pack tighter. This was to be their first real journey since their training trial run, a trip to Camp Forlorn Hope. The Lucky 38 was going to be traded for the broad desert, and Boone couldn't remember a time when he'd been more eager to leave. He was glad that it was going to be just him and Rex and Charlie, the small party heading out that late morning.

Boone wouldn't admit it aloud, but he was growing fond of her company.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long. I've been distracted this week by papers and such, so I haven't had much time to get any non-analytical writing done. I still have an essay hanging over my head, so it might be a little while for the next chapter, which I promise will actually get written someday. Anyhow, thanks to all of you that reviewed, and please enjoy! **

How'd they decided this particular route to Camp Forlorn Hope, Charlie couldn't say. It had started innocently enough, passing by caravans and through the Grab'N'Gulp Rest Stop. Then they'd gotten to the 188 Trading Post, their plan executed exactly. Once Charlie saw the El Dorado Gas and Service, she knew that all they had to do was keep an eye out for the Wind Farm, making the left turn, and head into the mountains to find the Camp. It was easy. A fool could follow the Pip-Boy GPS that Charlie kept referencing. But when they'd ended up in Novac, both she and Boone knew that their course had gone awry in a terrible way. Novac was too south, and now they had to go back northeast, through the goddamn mountains. First though, Charlie needed to figure out where she went wrong. They needed to bunk for the night anyway, and the idea of her room at the hotel seemed like an oasis after all their walking.

"Stay here for the night?" Charlie suggested, even though she could already feel the soft sheets enveloping her.

"No. We camp." Boone disagreed, his expression indifferent.

"Why? I've got a room; you've got a room. Seems pretty simple."

"Are you completely dense?" He asked, adjusting the rifle along his back.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You do remember that I murdered Jeannie May, yeah? Who's to say that the town hasn't taken that to heart?"

They stood underneath the dinosaur, out of the sightline of the spotter- though who'd taken the night watch, Charlie couldn't guess- and away from the motel room windows. Curtains. Blocking morning light. She shouldn't be fantasizing about décor, though; she should be listening to Boone. But her bed called to her. Usually all a mattress offered was rejection.

"I could gather intel." Sleep. That's what Charlie really meant.

It'd been fun for the first two days that she'd been allowed out of the Strip- not counting the week and a half that she and Boone had spent at Camp Golf and Lake Las Vegas, those days had _not_ been enjoyable at all- but she was sunburned so badly that all Charlie wanted to do was hide for just a little bit. Her skin was already starting to blister, while Boone's just gathered a healthy glow. She wished she could be so lucky.

"We're already behind schedule."

"It won't take but a second. I'll just chat up Cliff Briscoe, maybe Manny-"

"You will do no such thing." He growled, taking her wrist. "I will not stay in this place."

"Then you and Rex can camp by yourselves. I am sleeping in my bed and I will come by and collect you in the morning."

"No. You will not."

"Afraid of the desert?" She retorted, already starting to fish her room key from her pack.

"Charlotte, you're being unreasonable." He only used her full name when he was annoyed, but she was not swayed.

"Let go of me."

Boone threw her arm back, his nostrils flared. "Let's not forget for whom we're collecting doctors."

Perhaps the long days were taking a toll on Charlie's behavior. Her temper normally had a decent fuse. She needed to relax. Boone didn't have to help her with this, he could've stayed back at the 38 and requested that Charlie take another companion instead. Even at the lake, he'd been so tender that she was sure that she imagined all of it. Sure, he'd thrown her in, but his little tale about why Charlie was so afraid of large bodies of water was so kind that it made her the littlest bit uncomfortable. Where had Boone- the silent sniper with a thirst for revenge- gone in that moment? Charlie felt instantly guilty.

"I- I'm sorry. Let's go." She murmured, feeling far away from herself.

Truth was, she wanted Boone to tell her stories, just not made-up ones about her forgotten life. Charlie had probably told him everything that it was possible to know about herself. There wasn't much more that she could reveal. He'd already heard about Pacer. That was her biggest secret. Yet, she knew nothing about Boone. His wife had gotten kidnapped, he was a member of the First Recon unit in the NCR, and his life had gone to shit real fast. Maybe that was enough, she thought. Knowing that her friend's life couldn't get any worse was not as reassuring as she previously believed. Could she really fool herself in thinking that _she_ had made things better? Charlie was positive that there was no way to trick herself in to believing it. Boone traveled with Charlie because he was duty bound. They might be the most tense of friends, but she knew they made better allies.

"Forget it. We'll stay. You're right." He replied.

"We don't have to." The idea of a thick quilt had wormed its way into her head again, despite what she said.

"If there is an angry mob at my door tomorrow morning, then I guess you and Rex can go without me."

"Bo-one." She drawled, and then leaned in. "I'll pick them off one by one."

"Even Cliff?"

He knew that she had a soft spot for the older man. Cliff reminded her of someone, but of course, she could not say whom. Life would be too easy if Charlie could just have some of her memories released from their shackles.

"Shut up and go to your room." She retorted with a grin.

"You're not… We're not?" He asked, eyes narrowed. "You're sleeping on your own?"

"Sure." Charlie chirped, dexterously unlocking her door. "I'll keep Rex, if you don't mind."

She stepped in, but he pushed her aside with a clever jerk of his shoulder. Drawing his rifle, Boone poked into each of the corners of the dim room before clearing the boogiemen out of the bathroom. It was sort of endearing in a way, if Charlie decided to forget about her pride. Not that she had all that much left after getting shot in the head and then attacked by Legionary in full daylight on the Strip.

"Safe." He declared, nodding curtly. "Goodnight."

"Not going to check under the bed?"

"Goodnight, Charlotte." Boone repeated.

Once he was gone, Charlie changed into more comfortable clothes, washed her face, and then dived into bed. She was a little hungry, but more exhausted then anything else. She poked tentatively at sleep, hoping that it would be gentle with her.

The morning came quicker than she would've hoped, the sun streaming in from the windows relentlessly. Hadn't she closed the curtains? Hell, weren't they always closed? It must be Boone, Charlie thought, turning over to face away from the ocular assault. Except that there was no mattress to catch her, only worn pavement. This wasn't her room at all. She wasn't even _inside_ a room. She was curled up on the sidewalk outside of Boone's room, and she couldn't remember- surprise- how'd she managed to make the trip downstairs in one piece. Goddamn it. Had anybody seen her? Was there any way that Charlie could embarrass herself any worse than this?

"Get inside." The deep voice rumbled above her head.

She didn't have time to consider the command, for she was already being seized by the shoulders and pulled inside a cool, dark room. Charlie struggled to wake, to think of some reason that she'd wound up outside his motel room. There had be a rational explanation, some sense had to lying hidden within the situation. But she doubted it.

"I don't know what happened." She moaned, her temples aching suddenly.

The smells of the room made her head spin. It was like nothing Charlie had ever experienced, different scents all aligning to form something less than pleasant. Dirty clothes mixed with stale alcohol and perfume failing to cover all of it. This wasn't Boone's room…right? Charlie had slept in his bedroom at the 38 and knew that it was beyond clean. Obsessively spotless. But this place was not anything close to that.

"I'll find you something to wear." He grunted. "Then we can go upstairs and discuss what you've done."

He was reprimanding her. Charlie looked up indignantly, before considering the whole of what he said. Get her something to wear? Oh Christ, this was becoming more of a nightmare with every passing moment, Charlie cursed, glancing at her pajamas. Yes, she was still wearing what she'd changed into last night, a navy blue tank over a pair of black shorts. Sure, they weren't armor, but they weren't indecent.

"I can go outside in this." Charlie protested. "I'm covered."

"Bathroom. Now."

Knowing better than to argue, she wordlessly followed him inside. It did not fare much better than the rest of the apartment, the white tiles covered in so much grime that they appeared a strange blend of grey and brown. She shuddered to think of what could make such a combination, before noticing that a vanity had been built around the sink. For Carla, Charlie thought, her fingers skipping along all the dust-ridden cosmetics that still made their homes along the counter. His late wife must've stood there hundreds of times. The idea was eerie.

He flicked on the light, and Charlie saw what he meant. The scratches that had he'd found at the Lucky 38 didn't hold a candle to the bloody lines along her calves and thighs. The cuts were ragged, and worse, deep. She'd done it again, except this time Charlie practically sheared her own skin. Damn it. Couldn't she be normal for one fucking night? Did the world really have to add self-injuring to her long list of defects? There was enough already wrong with Charlie.

"Christ." She breathed, trying to hide the fact that she was beyond pissed.

"Wait." It was too quiet, and Charlie knew that he was going to show her something else.

His hands pressed against her back, gently pushing aside the straps of her shirt. At first she figured his caution to be because of her hideous sunburn, but there was something else within the action. And then she felt his fingertips elicit terrible pain that had nothing to do with her ongoing battle with sunlight.

"Fuck!" She exclaimed, too loudly, though the noise did not shock him.

Boone silently handed her a gilded hand mirror, motioning her to turn away from the sink so that she could spy upon her back. Charlie nearly retched when she saw the destruction. Bruises bloomed violently across her skin, their blackened purple imprints far larger than Charlie would've imagined possible. She couldn't have done that. Right? Charlie's hands were much too small to make that sort of imprint. She hoped.

"I can't do anything for your back." He lamented.

"I have some buffout upstairs, I think. I'll take a couple." She remarked, accepting the coat that Boone offered.

The trench coat hid most of her injuries, and the pair solemnly made their way upstairs. Rex greeted her wholeheartedly as Charlie opened the door, wriggling his way into space between her and Boone. He said something to the dog, ruffling the hair on his head before sinking into the couch beside Charlie's bed. Perhaps he had not gotten much sleep either.

"Don't take the buffout. Med-x will work better."

"If you chose to ignore that med-x is a serious drug."

"So is buffout." Boone countered.

"It's glorified aspirin," Charlie answered, retrieving the bottle from her medicine cabinet.

She handed it to him so that he could survey the ingredients before untying the jacket and tossing it over the non-functional television. Charlie couldn't stand to look at the incisions on her legs, so she pulled a long pair of loose cotton pants from the footlocker by the foot of her bed, on which Rex normally slept. It would be enough to distract her from the fact that she was slowly destroying herself, one night at a time.

"Just don't take the buffout." Boone said warily. "Arcade told me… that it's bad."

"You've taken it before."

He had sunk the syringe of med-x into her arm before Charlie registered the quick pain. Boone had the habit of doing that quite a lot.

"Too late. Can't mix meds." He huffed in a manner that suggested that the conversation was over.

She frowned for a moment, before sliding into her blankets, still tossed about from last night. Charlie didn't even know what time it was, her Pip-Boy still on the nightstand. It was too uncomfortable for Charlie to sleep with. Boone noticed her glance, and reached over, handing it over.

"You can sleep if you want." She said quietly, clicking through the Pip-Boy to figure out how they'd gotten so off-course yesterday.

"Not tired. You?"

"I'm fine." She shook her head. "Same as always. I'm used to it."

He nodded, and pointed towards the coat he'd let Charlie borrow. "I'm going to bring this back."

"Carla's?"

Boone cleared his throat before answering, the pause making her feel terrible for asking. "Yes."

Should she ask him about her? How did he know that she was dead? Charlie didn't actually know whether she had a family or not and yet she did not automatically declare them deceased. She felt their loss as sharply as he did Carla's. He must have some sort of information that he wasn't telling her. But it wasn't any of her business. Right?

"I- I um, can I, well, never mind." She stuttered, feeling moronic.

"What?"

She didn't need to say anything. Charlie should keep her mouth shut. But the words escaped her lips anyway.

"How come you never talk about her?"

Boone's expression was startled in a way that she hadn't seen before.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: So this is the chapter that I was having so much trouble with. I'm still not completely happy with it and it's a little short, but I finally managed to finish it. It also didn't help that as soon as I got an idea of how to wrestle with it, we got hit with a rogue October snowstorm that knocked out our power. Yuck. Anyhow, thanks for the reviews and please enjoy!**

"What?" He asked again, watching Charlie cower in a manner that was usually reserved for young children.

"Forget it. I shouldn't have asked. It was rude."

Boone started to speak, ready to tell her go fuck herself, but stopped. He couldn't reprimand her for being curious. But Carla was _his_. Telling another human being about the woman that he lost was almost sacrilege. He wasn't ready to enlighten Charlie. He'd killed the only person he'd ever loved. If Boone had his way, he would never tell her about Carla's death. It would change the way that Charlie looked at him; ruin the tiny smile she wore when they spoke. Boone couldn't lose that yet. She still believed in him. Once he told her about murdering his wife, it would all change.

Charlie gave him a look of pity. It was subtle, but Boone caught it nonetheless. "I'm sorry." She whispered, clutching her knees to her chest.

"Okay."

She reached up to the top of her head, letting her hair free. It was mostly mussed already, from her having slept outside, but Charlie shook it out anyway. Boone wondered how exactly she had ended up at his doorstep. If he hadn't woken early and wanted to pick up one of Cliff Briscoe's famous breakfast specials, Boone wouldn't have been the first person to discover Charlie. Though the town was too fond of her to let her sleep on the ground, like a vagrant.

"You must've taken a header down the staircase." Boone postured, remembering the bruises and the cuts.

"Before I scratched myself, I guess."

He narrowed his eyes. "The stairs are concrete. I saw your legs. You didn't do that."

"You think?" She asked, her tone disbelieving. "What about the other night?"

"You're not capable of this kind of damage."

"But yet I threw myself down a flight of stairs and I can't remember any of it."

"You didn't do it." He affirmed, standing.

His original intention was to bring the coat back to Carla's closet, but Boone didn't want to go just yet. The night had been long enough, imprisoned with memories of her. Charlie's room was cooler, the air not so thick. She'd already seen one of his secrets, the dirt and garbage that still remained in his and Carla's apartment. Boone couldn't bring himself to toss anything that belonged to Carla away. The old bottles of booze he couldn't explain quite as readily, but he liked having a reminder of his misery. Every pint of scotch served as a token of a day that Boone had fumbled through. Plus, if he never cleaned the room, he could never leave. There was always a reason to go back. Boone wasn't going to tell Charlie about any of it however. She was smart. She could figure it out on her own.

"Boone, wait." She called, picking her pack from the floor.

"Yeah?"

There was hesitancy in her actions, tension in her face as she scrambled for something inside the bag. When she found it, Charlie kept the item closed tightly within her fist. She looked up him, wetting her lips, and then sighing. Whatever she was doing, Boone couldn't say.

"I'm going to show you something. I want you tell me if… If you recognize it."

She opened her fingers and closed her eyes, because she knew exactly what she held. Carla's ribbon. Cornflower blue satin that Carla always wore in her hair. From the moment that Boone met her on the Strip and even when he put her out of her misery. He was furious. So fucking pissed that Boone didn't even realize he'd snatched Charlie out of the bed and held her inches from his face.

"Where the hell did you find this? Did you steal it?"

"No!" She cried, her breath catching. "Of course not!"

"Where did you get it, then?" The words did not feel like his, the way they left his lips did not feel natural whatsoever.

Charlie deserved it though. Why did she think that she could get away with hiding such a vital item from him? Carla's ribbon was important. Boone had everything else, had all her clothes and all her makeup and jewelry, but he didn't have the most critical piece of the collection. Her wedding ring was not even so significant. The ribbon symbolized Carla, soft and flowing and beautiful, and Charlie had it all this time. She betrayed him.

"Put me down." Charlie whimpered.

"Where did you get it?"

If it weren't for the single tear rolling down her flushed cheek, Boone would not have recognized the sadness behind Charlie's terror. Against his better judgment, he set her down, her feet catching the carpet and pulling away from his grasp. What her feelings were now, Boone could not guess.

"At Old Mormon Fort, do you remember when you asked me saying Carla's name in my sleep?"

"Yeah. I do. And you told me nothing happened. Am I correct in assuming that it was a lie?"

"Technically, yes, but I was just doing it because I was sure that it was just a stupid dream, but I saw Carla's picture, in your room, and now, I don't know. I don't know, Boone."

"Tell me what you _don't know_." He growled, standing over her. "Now."

Her words spilled out slowly, as though she were embarrassed about what she was saying. She described a frightening world populated by Jeannie May, haunting her paralyzed form. Fire and ice and a forest, a form-changing world filled with those that Charlie had killed. An afterlife that the woman shivering before him did not expect, covered in glowering darkness and brutality. She spoke of Carla distracting Jeannie May Crawford, his wife intercepting Charlie's drifting spirit. Trying to push her in the right direction. Charlie's verbal sketch of Carla was more accurate than she could've imagined, the pale blonde hair and blue eyes the same shade as her favorite ribbon, adding in the depiction of Carla's tiny waist and her height. Charlie told him about Carla's reassuring clear voice, full of kindness and affection when she told Charlie to take care of Boone. His wife wanted Charlie to guide him towards the goodness in life, Charlie's tone trembling so softly as she stopped speaking. She was afraid of him. Boone didn't know whether to be proud or ashamed.

"And? That doesn't explain how you got this."

"She gave it to me, in the dream, as we parted. And when I woke up, it was in my pack. I _swear_ that I don't know how it got there. It just appeared, like fucking magic." She saw his disbelief and repeated her explanation once again, "Why would I lie, Boone? I thought it was all a nightmare. And then I saw her photo in your apartment and now I… I just don't know. Maybe I'm insane."

He didn't answer her, not directly. "We leave at sundown."

"Boone, I'm _sorry_. I shouldn't have kept it a secret, but I really didn't think that any of what I saw while I was at the Old Mormon Fort was real. Please, believe me."

Boone walked out, into his apartment, needing that last bit of scotch he'd left last night. Fuck being sober. Fuck protecting Charlie from every little thing that leapt out at her. Fuck this desert. He hated everything, he hated the world that took Carla away, and he hated the doubt that kept Charlie from telling him about her dream. She told him everything, Boone knew every single truth in her brief life, but she chose leave out the most important piece of information. He looked down at the ribbon in his hands. It was Carla's. Or it was just _like_ Carla's. Boone didn't know. It could be anybody's. Maybe he shouldn't have been so harsh in Charlie's room, he should've stopped when he saw her tears. But no, he kept pressing her, torturing her, until she shattered. Damn it.

Fury waning, rational thoughts returning, Boone set down his pint of scotch. It wasn't worth it, he decided, wanting to take a nap before collecting Charlie. He could apologize; tell her that he wasn't in his right mind. Anything relating to Carla touched a special part of his brain, prone to injury. He'd never seen his companion hold a grudge before; Charlie was always forgiving and forgetting. Especially forgetting, he mused, trying not to grin as he crawled into bed. It was strange sleeping in such a silent space after spending so much time in the Lucky 38. The casino was filled with white noise, the air conditioning, the others' conversations filtering under his door, Rex's bark cutting through the walls. Perhaps Mr. House did not intend for so many people to live under one roof, because the Dino Dee-Lite was much more soundproof.

He still slept on what was deemed his side of bed, Carla's spot always smooth. She could only sleep away from the wall, hated to be penned in. Charlie was the opposite; he'd noticed that she could only relax when facing that physical barrier. He should be with her, making sure that she was resting. After a particularly bad night, Charlie looked like what could only be described as death warmed over, dark circles under her eyes melding with the pale freckled skin of her cheeks. Maybe they should try rotating their schedule, sleeping during the day and traveling at night. Boone would mention it later, hoping that she wouldn't be too upset with him. Charlie had every right, he understood that, but Boone couldn't control himself. She had to know that after seeing his apartment.

Everything would be fine. He'd explain that he was wrong and she was wrong and then they'd go back to being companions.

His plan to get ready just before sunset had not worked at well as he'd originally wanted, shimmering night climbing through his curtains. Boone skipped the shower that he desperately needed, picking up his backpack and shuffling slumber out of his eyes. Charlie certainly wouldn't mind the extra time; her body was so wounded that she probably should spend a few days recuperating. She'd never agree to such an idea, not after all that time wasted at the Old Mormon Fort and the Lucky 38. Boone easily recognized her impatience.

There weren't many people about, not even the caravan that normally sat just outside the motel. Probably left to get more supplies, or to regroup after Charlie sold him most of what she'd scavenged on the journey so far. Boone reminded himself to gather a few medical supplies from the safe in her room, before rapping his knuckles against Charlie's door. She didn't answer right away, probably wanting to make him suffer just a little. It was okay. Boone didn't mind.

Waiting a few minutes, he knocked again, louder, waiting for the pattering of footsteps. Nothing. Complete silence thudded in his eardrums, and Boone shouted her name. Her whole name, just so that she could feel his blooming irritation. He looked over to the window, noting that the blinds were parted just the smallest bit. Peering in, Boone hoped that more than the darkness of the room would be staring back at him.

Damn it. She was gone.

Boone didn't know what was worse; the thought of Charlie surviving in the wilderness on her own or that he'd forced her to run away.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: New chapter! I kind of like this one, but I'm not sure. On a side note, I decided to make the next chapter an Arcade POV, because I sort of miss him. Plus Charlie and Boone are all angry and serious, so I think the story needs a little break from it all. Anyway, thanks for reading and please review!**

It took only a day and a half to reach Camp Forlorn Hope, mostly because Charlie didn't stop to sleep. Well, she had tried and given up. It was fucking cold up there in the mountains and she had no idea how to start a fire. Charlie had seen Boone do it a million times, and yet, with her hands shaking from the temperature and her stomach growling because she forgot to pack more food, it just didn't happen. Fine. Plus, slumber was unwise when there was nobody but Rex to stand guard. She trusted the robotic dog, but Charlie was not willing to get into any more trouble.

She hadn't planned to leave without Boone, not at first. But he'd screamed at her and he hurt her, and she was so weak that she couldn't do anything at all. Charlie's mind shrieked for her to retaliate against his strong hands lifted her into the air, her brain snapped its teeth and growled- but she just took it. Perhaps she did deserve it. Why had she kept the truth for him from so long? Why did that ever seem like a good idea? Like it or not, she and Boone were supposed to be close and she crossed a line. If he'd had evidence of her past life and kept it away from her, wouldn't she react the same way? Yes and no. Charlie would have been furious, but she didn't have the same physical presence.

Idly, Charlie reached for her arms, feeling the bruises he'd left. They were shaped like hands, she'd discovered. Fuck. A little token to show just how pathetic she really was. Wasn't Boone the one warning Pacer to never lay hands on her? A feeling of shame ripped through her torso, which combined with the metallic taste of dehydration made Charlie feel completely awful. She set out to prove that she didn't need him and all she did was reinforce the fact that she was utterly dependent upon Boone. One day, Charlie would be self-reliant, but that day wouldn't come any time soon.

Charlie's whole body ached, her lips were raw from the swirling mountain winds and her hands were chapped as well. At least her terrible sunburn was hidden under long sleeves, although the rough fabric didn't provide much comfort against her about-to-blister skin. The bruises from falling down the stairs weren't quite as livid, although every time her backpack banged against her shoulders she wasn't sure whether to wail in pain or cry in despair. Her boots weren't broken in yet, so yes, even her feet were killing her. Compounded with her own survival stupidity and the lack of sleep, Charlie was absolutely sure whether she'd chosen the wrong profession. As if wandering the Mojave Desert as a 'courier' was a real career, anyway.

Camp Forlorn Hope had never looked quite so _lovely_ before, as Dr. Richards pointed her towards the barracks. Charlie needed to rest before eliciting the doctor's help, or else she wouldn't be able to form a coherent sentence. Rex took off to patrol with the NCR pups, barking a farewell before trotting off. Kicking off her terribly uncomfortable boots and the button down shirt that was so completely caked in dust that she could barely believe that it had started out white when she left the Dino Dee-Lite, Charlie collapsed into a bunk. At least the camp was warm, something that Charlie never thought she'd wish for after spending so much time in the desert. She clutched her pack against her chest, feeling the hard butt of her pistol through the canvas. Fuck Boone. Charlie fluctuated between being so angry she couldn't breathe and epically miserable. She couldn't decide upon a particular emotion.

No, that was wrong. She wanted to be pissed, but the melancholy kept creeping from between her ribs, enveloping her. It was so ridiculous, she thought, turning towards the wall, pressing her forehead against cool wood paneling. At first, Charlie believed that peculiar note throbbing through her chest was anxiety caused by being on her own, but after an epiphany last night, she knew it was something else. She _missed_ Boone. She didn't want to, not after what he did, but she couldn't help it. Somehow, between plucking him from Novac and ending up in Camp Forlorn Hope alone, she'd fallen for Boone. Damn it. The feelings didn't even present themselves until after Boone broke her heart, and now Charlie couldn't do anything but revel in how she'd gotten herself in such an uncomfortable position. She didn't want to think about him that way, not at all, not with all the Pacer shit she was going through, but her heart shuddered whenever she closed her eyes and saw his face. Charlie remembered how that one night when he'd slept on her floor, he'd said her name in his sleep, _Charlie_ floating through his murmuring lips. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Boone didn't have emotions, and if he did, they were all devoted to Carla. Nothing left for Charlie, but that was okay. She'd wean herself off whatever heartsickness she'd developed. She did it once, with Pacer, and she could do it again.

But it actually hadn't worked too well, had it? She certainly wouldn't be at Camp Forlorn Hope if it had. Whatever. This time would be different. Boone was not Pacer, and Charlie had no chance of anything working out with Boone. At least Pacer had been interested in her.

It was well into the night when she'd awoke, which apparently meant that she was so exhausted that sleep didn't bother to battle her. Charlie stretched and looked about the darkened barracks. A part of her knew that Boone would be hot on her heels and she should get things done in order to hightail it out of camp as quickly as possible. Another voice, much more logical in its thinking, reminded Charlie that no matter what she did, he would catch up. Boone was more experienced, and she could barely put one foot in front of the other without checking the Pip-Boy to make sure she was going in the right direction. Whatever. If he found her, he found her. She wouldn't fight it, but she wouldn't necessarily tolerate it either.

"Charlotte." He said her name and all her thoughts of wandering the wilderness alone vanished.

Charlie didn't answer, she was too afraid. Of what, she couldn't say, but tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She walked past him, dodging the hand that reached out, barely managing to escape. Why had she decided to sleep in such a conspicuous place? Perhaps if she had waited in the mountains… Her mind stopped as he placed himself between her and the door.

"Stop."

In response, she set her mouth in a terse line. He wouldn't break her, not again. Not after what he did in Novac, when she was just trying to help him. Charlie could see how badly he hurt in that place, how the memories haunted him. She shouldn't have suggested staying there, now she realized it, but Boone didn't have to become such a monster. Remembering how he acted, how another person just came out of his skin, Jesus, even now she wasn't sure if it had really happened. Boone was so even-keeled, so absent of feelings, that Novac felt like a fever dream, not real life.

"Move." She ordered in the most threatening voice she could summon. "Move or I'll scream."

"Are you okay?" He asked, unwavering in his dominance. Charlie couldn't best him, and it was barely worth it to try.

"What do you think?" She pressed a hand against his chest, trying to shove him out of her way. He just caught her fingers within his. It made her thoughts churn in an absolutely unfair way.

"Stop. Please, stop."

"No. You know what you did in Novac. I know what you did and I'm not going to ever forgive it. You _hurt_ me, Boone. I have bruises that you gave me and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even get away from you. This is an abusive fucking relationship and I will no longer stand for it." Her eyes blurred from the tears still fighting to fall.

"Charlie." His tone was so soft that she almost didn't recognize the pleading nature of the request.

"Forget it. I'll take it from here. Go back to the 38, go back to Novac, I don't care. Just stay the hell away from me."

"Let me explain."

"No, because you have a tendency to talk with your _hands_." She flourished one arm underneath a dim lamp, showing him exactly what he'd done.

It was enough to distract Boone, and Charlie finally stepped outside. It was safe there, NCR troopers able to intervene if Boone tried to do anything stupid. Maybe she was being thickheaded, maybe she should try to make up, but she needed to remind herself why a crush on Boone was such a terrible idea. Charlie couldn't have feelings for somebody like him, because it was just a path to forever-hopeless unrequited love. If there was somebody out there for her, it was Pacer. Not Craig Boone.

The medical tent felt so far away, mostly because she could feel Boone following her. Not trying to argue anymore, not trying to meddle, just making sure that she wasn't going to do anything stupid. If he truly wanted the role of her guardian, perhaps he shouldn't have said or done those things back in Novac. Charlie tried to hide her disgust as she approached Alex Richards, Arcade's favorite crush. That was something that she should focus on, uniting the two men. Not Boone.

"Charlie! How was the nap? You sure look much better than before." Dr. Richards greeted. She could feel Boone bristle with the mere mention of her sleeping habits.

"Great. Listen, my trip to Forlorn Hope involved more than just checking on your medical supplies."

"Ah, cutting right to the chase, I see. All right, Char, let me know what you need."

She cleared her throat and started to explain how she needed his medical expertise for Pacer's heart transplant. The whole situation seemed like a ridiculous impossibility, but Dr. Richards listened to her with an interested ear, nodding in all the right places and asking relevant questions. He even inquired about Arcade's involvement in the whole ordeal, which made Charlie grin. She needed a little bit of good news. Arcade needed love in his life. Hank from Gomorrah was okay, but her best friend needed a steady man. She wanted him to settle down and find happiness.

"I know you know how… tentative the surgery is, but I just want to make sure than you realize that no matter how many doctors you find, this isn't foolproof." Richards finally said, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

"Does that mean you'll come to New Vegas?" She asked hopefully.

"You've helped me and the camp so much that it's the least I could do. Of course, Charlie. Just let me have a few days to get things set up here, and I'll take a trooper and head to the Strip. Arcade will be there to get me acclimated?"

"Yes. Well, at first. I need his help convincing Dr. Henry to join our little party, but I have a few things to find first. However, Lily, our unofficial den mother, is already getting the casino ready for guests. She'll have a place for you to stay. And your expenses will be covered." Charlie had a rather large fortune from all those card-counted blackjack games.

"I've got a few of these supplies that I can spare. I'll bring them as well," He finished, handing her back the list that Usanagi had made. "And if you're headed to Jacobstown like you said, Doc Henry might be the best person to find an artificial heart, even if he doesn't want to lend his own skill."

Charlie thanked him profusely, pressing a kiss into one of his cheeks. It hadn't been as hard as she imagined getting Dr. Richards on her side. One doctor down, one to go. With any luck, Dr. Mitchell would be at the Lucky 38 by the time she went back to collect Arcade. First though, she needed to find a respirator. The best bet was an old hospital pretty far north, but it was supposedly filled to the brim with Fiends. Which could mean that whatever equipment was left might be destroyed by those drug addicts. It was okay, though. She had other ideas if that particular one didn't work out.

Boone dutifully followed her back to the barracks, where she picked up the last of her belongings. Charlie found a thicker shirt to pull on, preparing for the chill of the mountains. She didn't even glance at Boone as he sat across from her, his gaze tracking her every move. Rex was back at her side, panting contentedly. They were all ready to find that hospital. As she walked out of camp, Charlie wondered if the silence would make the trip seem quicker. No, it probably wouldn't, but she could wish, right?

Unluckily, the quiet did not last for long.

"Charlie, are you ever going to speak to me?" Boone asked, touching her shoulder once they'd gotten a decent distance from the NCR encampment.

"I've decided to adopt your practice of only speaking when spoken to." She retorted, pushing a rogue curl behind her ear.

"I went too far back in Novac." His tone was clipped, as though the apology was just a formality that he did not truly mean.

"You think? I told you, I didn't mean to keep that ribbon a secret, I didn't. And you just treated me like shit anyway."

"I was angry." He admitted, stopping to rearrange the rifle on his shoulder.

"I know. We don't have to talk about it. We were both wrong. Let's leave it at that."

She turned to look at him, wondering if he would accept what she proposed. It was easy. Neither of them had to tackle difficult subjects. Charlie didn't have to worry if her feelings were completely transparent and Boone wouldn't have to tell her anything that he wasn't comfortable with. She understood that Carla was a delicate subject, better than she did yesterday, and Boone didn't have to talk about his late-wife anymore. It would be fine. Tense, yes, but otherwise okay.

"Charlie, I…" He trailed off. "Forget it."

"You sure?" Damn it, why did she have to sound so hopeful?

"Eventually, I'll tell you." He offered an awkward smile. "Now let's head north. That Fiend hideout won't clear itself."

Charlie nodded, and followed him into the wilderness, praying that her crush would vanish sooner rather than later. It was one thing to be dependent on Boone, it was another to fall for him. She needed to keep her head out of things and just focus.

But it didn't help that he was always so damned close.


End file.

Fallout, Drama, Romance