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Arcade leaned against the hot surface of the Red Rocket. His arms were crossed over his chest and sweat was beading down his temples, sticking his dirty blond hair to the side of his head. His eyes narrowed from the bright, evening sun, trying to make out shapes on the horizon, the shady side of the building providing him some cover from the searing heat of the afternoon Mojave sun. The abandoned gas station was to be the shelter for him and his courier companion for the night. He’d have liked something a bit more stable but dusk was approaching and four walls and a collapsing roof was better than nothing— certainly more preferable than the rusted shipping containers they’d slept in the night before near Quarry junction— the smell of Salisbury steak cooking over the fire and attracting the nearby Deathclaws to their small shelter. At least here, they wouldn’t be so painfully exposed to the stiff, desert air while they slept.
Arcade decided he’d had enough of watching the sun set over the dry Mojave and pushed off the metal wall. He cringed as he wiped the sweat from his hairline with the back of his hand. He was on the far end of gas station when he turned the corner and made his way to the entrance, walking cautiously between the rusted cars that littered the stations’ parking lot. Broken glass cracked beneath his boots as he stepped through the door of the building— or rather, the hole in the wall where the door used to be. He looked to the bedrolls that were laid out across from one another with a small fire between them. They were laying on the hard, concrete floor underneath the only stable portion of the roof that remained.
His eyes quickly scanned the room in search of Six but found no sign of him other than the neatly laid out bedrolls.
Arcade clicked his tongue, annoyance setting in his posture as he crossed his arms. ‘Guess he stepped out.’ He thought to himself.
The sound of the radio playing caught his attention as he looked over it, noticing it’s close proximity to Six’s bedroll. He’d swear, that courier couldn’t go two minutes without filling the silence with some kind of noise— be it his own voice, or that of Mr. New Vegas— it didn’t matter.
“—Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone.”
Arcade turned and looked out of the doorway behind him, his eyes resting on the setting sun across the desert. He huffed a tired sigh and crossed the distance between him and his bedroll, pulling off his Follower’s coat and placing it beside him.
Arcade would wait, just as he always had. It wouldn’t matter if the sun was rising rather than setting, or if it was perched in the center of the sky— the courier would find some way to ditch him and come back who-knows-how-long later. That was their dynamic, Arcade would suppose.
The thought was a no-brainer. ‘Guess I'll be waiting for him to get back.’ It had always gone without saying that the courier drifts as he pleases. His leisure was above that of Arcade’s from the beginning, not because he didn’t value it, but simply because his feet take him places before his mind can protest. Arcade would assume that to be one of the many differences between them— the courier doesn’t do much thinking.
He unholstered his plasma pistol, placing it beside his coat, hoping he wouldn’t need to use it but still having it readily available should the need arise.
“—Without a dream in my heart,”
He yawned, shutting his eyes for a moment and bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. He was caught off guard by his own tiredness, suddenly feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders as he was finally able to sit and relax.
Relaxation and the general concept of doing anything besides fleeing or fighting has always been somewhat alien of a concept to Arcade. The same would go for most wastelanders. It’s moments like this that remind him of the medical journals he’s been reading since he was a kid— the ones that talked about treatments for back pain and medicines specially designed for stress. It reminded Arcade that nothing is above weathering, especially him.
The follower winced as his sunburnt skin stung beneath his own touch. The rough texture of his flesh caused him to reflect on just how long they’d been walking. The two had gone from Vegas to Jacobstown and eventually made a detour towards the Mojave outpost for some quick mission that Six had been fixated on.
Someone always needed help, always needed his attention, his shooting arm or his particular take or weigh-in. The great ‘Courier Six’— the revenant, the ghost— brought back from the dead and trekking across the Mojave with his Followers in tow on a mission of revenge.
At least that’s how it started. But Benny was long gone and the Mojave needed a savior, so Six being who he was, stepped up. Maybe not because he considered himself a savior, but because he certainly didn’t mind being hailed as one.
But even in his position as savior of the Mojave, having so much given to him, he still managed to get caught up in wild goose chases, just like the one they were on now. He couldn't even bother to stop, either. It’s the courier in him, ensuring that there’s never a moment of peace or stagnation, and with Six, that was more than true. He never stops wandering, never gets tired, often times forgetting that he has others following him who sometimes can’t keep up.
“—Without a love of my own.”
Arcade awoke sometime later. His eyes burned against the sudden darkness as he finally opened them and sat up. He pressed calloused palms against his face until the sensations were enough to yield full consciousness— until he could finally take on his surroundings. It was dark, the room lit in a warm glow by nothing but the small fire beside him which was close to embers. The sun had finally gone down, being replaced with the stars that always shone brightly against the empty, cloudless desert sky. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, unaware of just how tired he was when he sat down. He groaned at the sudden ache in his neck from laying stiff on a concrete floor— if he’d recall those medical journals correctly, he was pretty sure at least a few recommended not sleeping on stone.
Movement at the doorway stole his attention as the sudden presence of another person startled him. He instinctively reached for the holster on his hip and upon feeling nothing, remembered where he’d placed it before carelessly falling asleep.
“Hey— relax doc, it’s just me.” The courier’s voice sounded low but uneven, like he’d been just as surprised as Arcade. “Jeez,” The courier chuckled, gesturing to Arcade, “I thought you’d died in your sleep the way you were laying.”
Arcade was reacquainted with a set of crooked, stained teeth grinning down at him. The courier leaned against the door frame with a sigh, taking a long pull from his cigarette and watching the clouds of smoke dissipate in front of his face.
Arcade could see it in his posture— his position— that he was on guard. It was always the little things that he had to watch out for to know what the courier was really up to. Whether it was a finger drifting across the buckle of his holster that showed he was ready to fight, or the occasional flutter of his eyelids that said he’d been awake just a few too many nights— arcade could tell. Traveling with the courier sort of reinforced he cliche— expect the unexpected— and since he was a man of few honest words, learning to read body language was usually an imperative skill.
“Where were you?” Arcade uprighted himself off the floor, stifling a wince at the ache in his muscles. “I thought you said that we would set up together? That implies the both of us, in case you didn’t know.” He frowned at the courier with annoyance across his face, crossing his arms over his chest.
If there was one thing that had stayed an absolute consistent trait of the courier’s since Arcade had met him— being generally uncaring in the worst way possible would be it. By no means does Arcade truly believe that he flat-out doesn’t care, but faux-indifference could be just as annoying as the genuine thing.
“Relax doc,” The courier took a pull of his cigarette and shook his head, “I was just refilling my canteen. I figured we could use a refill considering—“ His eyes flicked across the expanse of Arcade’s body, head-to-toe, with a grin.
Arcade quirked a brow at him. “Considering?”
The courier chuckled with a crooked grin. “Considering how much you drink.”
Arcade scoffed, muttering bitterly. “Sure.” He shook his head dismissively at the courier. “So you left me here—“ Arcade gestured disdainfully with one hand to the room around him. “So that you could go fill up somewhere else? Remind me again why that had to involve leaving me?”
“Relax, Cade. Goodsprings ain’t far from here and you can handle yourself just fine.” The courier casually blew a cloud of smoke, smirking at Arcade with a teasing eye. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
Arcade pushed up his glasses and gripped the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “That’s not the point.”
Without another word, the courier suddenly pushed away from his spot on the wall and began towards the bedrolls. Arcade watched him with dissipating annoyance as the courier’s expression seemed to change into something more casual, as though he’d never been interested. As his eye caught something new, Arcade was no longer of interest.
Arcade knows how the courier likes to tease him about his water consumption. But considering the fact that he’s a pale doctor who’s spent most of his life under the shade of tents or inside of follower outposts, he’s not exactly accustomed to heat. At least not in the way that the courier is. Desert heat is something that takes years of getting used to, and when it comes to standing around in the middle of nowhere for hours with no shade, Arcade certainly wouldn’t fault himself for needing a few extra swigs.
Six plopped down on his bedroll, cigarette still in hand. He sighed a plume of smoke and pressed the lit end into the concrete, tossing the butt somewhere out of the way. He pulled up his Pipboy and quickly busied himself with it, tapping away at the screen, turning dials, his brow furrowed in sudden concentration.
Arcade knows how easy it is for him to get distracted. How he’d constantly shift from one subject to another in a matter of seconds, leaving whoever he was talking to a bit confused as to what he was saying. He did this in his actions too, constantly veering off the beaten path in the direction of buildings or rubble, searching for something that probably wasn’t there but that he considered to be of value. He’d turn over every piece of scrap and pick out the tiniest pieces of tech with an uncharacteristically meticulous hand, never going so much as a minute without busying himself with something random and miscellaneous. It was as though his body became the conduit for every random thought before the sensible side of his brain would have the chance to say no.
Arcade eyed him with a low brow and mumbled bitterly to himself. “Yeah. Well,” he strode over to his own bedroll, lowering himself into a comfortable position. “You definitely didn’t hurry on my account, I see.”
Six hummed lowly. His eyes were glued to the PipBoy, mere inches from his face and giving the small device his undivided attention, as was generally per usual. He suddenly reached beside himself and began feeling with a misguided, open palm over the bedroll. Arcade watched as his hands blindly found a duffel bag discarded near the sewn-in pillow of his bedroll, which he quickly started rifling through— all while never tearing his eyes away from his PipBoy.
As the moments passed with him tossing about objects haphazardly, Arcade’s interest had slowly peaked. He eyed the courier down to his hand and watched him rifle through the bag of junk and tech that he’d collected, throwing it aside without so much as a glance. When he’d finally found what he was looking for, he pulled it out without a word and Arcade found himself squinting at it.
It was a pair of glasses, specifically the frame of some reading glasses that had no lenses inside of them. They were thick and black all the way around, save for two distinct silver dots just above the screws. They looked very similar to Arcade’s, which were currently being held together by electrical tape and prayers.
The courier grumbled lowly with seemingly no real investment in his words. “I had to stop by the general store and ask Chet if he’d found somethin’ I needed.” He tossed the frames at Arcade— who barely managed to catch them— and continued tapping at his PipBoy screen. His voice was flat, dripping with fake indifference. “Don’t mention it.”
Arcade’s mouth was agape as he looked down from Six to the frames in his hands. He turned them over, opening and closing the arms, feeling the hinges and their surprising sturdiness. But after a while, he found himself just staring down at them in awe, wordlessly. He looked up to the courier and then back down to his hands with a plethora of things he’d like to say— questions and comments, exclamations and more questions, but he settled on staring for the time being, still in awe at their near-perfect condition.
Things like this don’t just happen in the Mojave. Nothing like these glasses— remnants of the old world, nearly perfectly preserved— still exist. They were all torn apart for parts or crushed beneath rubble, destroyed when the bombs first fell or taken places far away. None like this are still around and people with sight impairments just sort of live and hope it doesn’t get them killed. Arcade would consider himself one of the lucky ones, seeing as that’s the way things have always been. It was hard enough for him to maintain the pair that he’s had for years, as careful as he is, but these are practically perfect.
Arcade didn’t know what to say. He looked up at the courier who was still fixated on his PipBoy, biting his lip in concentration, and figured there probably wasn’t much to say for it right now. Arcade quickly looked back down to the preserved frames and noted the remarkably similar resemblance to his— how they would likely be indistinguishable if his personal pair weren’t so messed up— and removed his own from his face. He gently popped the scratched lenses out of his pair and pushed the thick glass into the preserved frame, lifting them to eye-level and admiring his new, perfectly-preserved glasses. A smile pulled at the edges of his mouth until he was grinning like a fool. Arcade looked over to the courier— who’d not paid him so much as a glance— and smiled like he’d arranged the stars. He’d clearly taken much time to ensure that the frames looked very similar and knowing that made Arcade’s heart swell.
“Thank you,” Arcade began, “This means a lot to me. More than— well, it means a lot.” He pushed his new glasses up the bridge of his nose, and not particularly because they were sliding, but more so out of habit. He waited, though the courier was silent, still fixated on the device on his wrist. Arcade cleared his throat and the courier gave a quick “mhm” but nothing more.
“Ander.” Arcade’s voice was stern as he used the courier’s real name, knowing it would grab his attention.
The weathered courier finally looked up from his PipBoy, blinking questioningly, and the sight of his gaze only made Arcade’s smile deepen.
“Thank you, I mean it.” Arcade smiled as big as he could. And it wasn’t the tight-lipped kind that he’d give when the courier would tell him the same story he’d already heard a million times before, it was genuine and real and it was a breath of fresh air in all its sincerity.
He knew that Six would brush it off as though it was nothing— like he’d not spent the last few weeks searching through rubble and abandoned offices for frames or telling every general store from here to The Divide what he was looking for. But Arcade’s skill with him— his hidden talent when it came to the courier— was reading his body language. After all, anyone would be a fool to take the courier on his word.
Six grumbled. “It’s nothin’. I said don’t mention it.” Six looked back down at his PipBoy, doing exactly what Arcade thought he’d do— acting like what he’d done was a casual thing and that his devotion to Arcade wasn’t the driving-force behind most of his actions. His eyes were trained on the PipBoy once again, but he failed to hide the faintest quirk of his lips in a small grin. Pride in his work broke through the surface and Arcade hasn’t missed it in the slightest, regardless of how brief it was.
Arcade knows how often the courier gets distracted. How his mind scatters over missions and plans and projects, half of which he usually winds up forgetting. His memories end up muddled together, the routines and schedules he’d gotten so used to becoming lost to him. Always getting distracted by the littlest things and sometimes not being able to decipher or make sense of it all. Arcade had only ever known him this way, but Ander knew he couldn’t have always been like this— scattered and erratic. At least since the bullet Benny had so kindly placed in his skull some time ago.
He’d had so many nights where his memories muddled together into one blurr— a timeline he couldn’t decipher nor make sense of— leaving him with more questions than answers. Months of his life had slipped away and who was he to wonder where they’d went if he couldn’t even comprehend their value? There were moments, small, brief moments, where he’d forgotten his own name. It took him weeks after waking up in Goodsprings just to remember Ander and that was a real feat to achieve in itself. Most people would see his erratic behavior and assume him to be just another low-life wastelander, or maybe a druggy from freeside turned courier. Just a crazy scavver with a brain that’d been fried under the irradiated sun.
But Arcade knew. They’re relationship— as hard-to-read and challenging as it is— has never been all that emotional or touchy-feely. Yet there were nights when Arcade would stay up with him and hold his arms with a benign but gentle grasp as the courier shook and trembled, eventually crying himself into a black-out slumber. Those nights were never intended, but it was nights like this that made him remember how the courier was by no means two-dimensional. He had played the part of the savior for so many people and for so long that feeling vulnerable and real was a memory that had long since faded. He’d become so terrified of acting on things like this— urges to be genuine and sincere— and stifling it had become second-nature. And he couldn’t really recall when it became like that, but he could remember Benny and how something like that had made him so emotionally reclusive so quickly.
But Arcade could see it in the smallest actions. In the way he’d protest and argue and tease with more vigor than he’d even show in the midst of gunfights. He could see it on the courier’s face when an object would give him pause, reminding him of some forgotten memory that he’d never known himself to have. He could see it on his face as it contorted while he slept, showing years of fear in one expression or in the thrashing of his arms as he cried out from dreams of a life he no longer had— enough that It would scare him awake. Arcade could see it that the courier didn’t know how else to be, and he knew for himself that it wasn’t perfect, but that it was his own way of giving Arcade all he could, and that’s all that Arcade could ask for.
They sat in silence for a while as the comfortable quiet between them yielded more emotion than talking likely could. Arcade couldn’t stop smiling to himself over what Six had done. The gratitude was apparent on his face— or it would be if Six would bother to look up from his Pipboy— and he felt it swimming around in his chest like knots in his lungs. Arcade stared over the flames of the dying fire, scanning the weathered face of his courier counterpart. He was appreciating his features that were accentuated by the warm glow of the fire— the freckles that were so thickly scattered across his cheeks and down to his chest. His brown, greasy hair and the few strands that fell over his eyes. The scar above his left eye, just above his temple— remnants of a bullet wound, now scarred over and serving as a reminder of how much the Mojave could really hurt.
Arcade couldn’t help himself. He pushed up from the floor and crossed the small distance between them, making a place for himself at the courier’s side. He tossed the duffel bag filled with scrap aside and grabbed Six’s attention in the process. The courier stared at him questioningly for a moment with a raised brow, their faces only a few inches apart as they stared at each other.
“Sorry—“ Arcade looked at the device on his wrist and then back to the courier, “I was just wondering what could possibly be so interesting on that PipBoy of yours.” Arcade readjusted, setting himself firm and cross-legged beside the courier.
The courier snorted. “I’m just updating my mission log. And I didn’t think you to be the jealous type, doc.” He moved the screen towards Arcade— flickering with emerald hues— and nudged it in his face. “Go ahead, see for yourself.”
Arcade scoffed. “Oh sure, I’m just dying with jealousy.” Arcade eyed the device for a few seconds and sure enough, the screen was covered with unending lines of green text— the contents of which were nothing more than boring and meticulous details of their journey so far.
It alarmed Arcade, or rather pained him, to know how much the courier needed this. How pouring out the day’s most boring details had become a coping mechanism for him. Recounting the daily tasks and trials like he’d need them for later, taking notes on everything and peering over each detail to make sure it was all correct. Arcade didn’t know how long ago the habitual cataloging had started, but he knew that the courier would write down everything from what he ate for breakfast to the smell of the stagnant, dusty air inside of a building he’d entered. It made it all harder to forget. A product of his own anxiety.
Six pulled back the PipBoy and continued typing. His fingers made quick work of the buttons and dials, tapping roughly and emptying more and more of the day into his files. Arcade watched over his shoulder as he did so, eyeing his nimble fingers as they dashed across the device with haste. Arcade’s patience ran dry and he suddenly grabbed the hand wielding the device and lowered it out of eye-shot.
“I think—“ Arcade began as he clicked the Pipboy’s off button, “We should let the PipBoy rest and get some sleep. Both of us.” Arcade flashed a subtle smile and squeezed the courier’s hand a moment before loosening his grip.
“Nah, you go ahead.” The courier slowly pulled his hand away and pushed himself up. “I’m gonna take watch. Someone’s gotta make sure we don’t get eaten in our sleep.” He began towards the doorway just as Arcade quickly leaned forward, catching his wrist in his hand.
“Hey— what? No, you’ve watched enough. Let me take a shift for a few hours.” Arcade gently pulled the courier back over to him but the resistance was still there. “I’m serious.”
Arcade despised the courier’s more self-destructive tendencies. Sleep-deprivation was one of many. There had been nights where he was too jumpy or paranoid to make time for the rest he needed. He’d busy himself for hours on end with some unimportant task— upgrading a weapon, deconstructing some old-world tech, or staring at his PipBoy for no reason than to have something to fixate on. Even in the Lucky 38 he’d wander around the suite aimlessly until his mind could find something to latch on to. He’d tinker with guns or pieces of scrap at the workbench. Eventually, he’d make his way to the cocktail lounge where he’d sit in the dark and stare down at the city— the entire wasteland— so far beneath him. He’d look down upon the Mojave that stretched out as far as his eyes could see, even beyond the mountains, and watch the sun slowly rise above the desert. Only then— when the suite was full of bustling companions making their way in and out, with never a lack for noise— would he finally drift to sleep. It was the noise he needed, and the dormancy he couldn’t stand. Otherwise, there was always something for him to keep busy with.
Arcade could see it in the smallest of actions— the slightest slip-ups— how he needed to slow down. By no means was he looking for someone to stop him from doing what he needed to feel comfortable in his own skin, but Arcade would assume that it couldn’t hurt to have someone to remind him that it’s okay to slow down sometimes. How he needed someone to keep him from driving himself insane in the law hours of the night when he couldn’t stop pacing, always antsy with nothing to do and walls to stare at. Arcade knew the courier needed this.
Arcade pulled at the courier’s arm until he was struggling to not fall into Arcade’s lap.
“No.” The courier replied sternly. “I’m fine. I can watch for— I dunno— a few more hours at least. You just stay and get some—“ He was suddenly pulled down by Arcade, plummeting to his bedroll with a grunt of surprise.
“Just shut up and sit down.” Arcade sighed and frowned at him. “Please.”
“No, Arcade—“ The courier shook his head, furrowing his brow at Arcade, “It’s risky not having someone on watch.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.” Arcade said flatly. “That’s why I’m volunteering to watch for you.”
Again, the courier shook his head, this time closing his eyes in sureness as he did so. “No. I’m just gonna do it myself. Don’t even— don’t even worry about it, it’s fine.” He stared at Arcade, and Arcade knew he was somewhat right.
Thousands of dangers could sneak up on them in the night. Whether it was a bandit, a group of Khans, or a wandering legionnaire patrol— they were never safe without a pair of trained eyes on watch. Arcade could begrudgingly admit that much, but he wasn’t about to let the courier keep himself awake for the sake of avoiding the silence of a stagnant room.
“Sure, yeah. Well,” Arcade cringed at the cliche choice of words already dawning on him. “Let’s take a risk tonight.”
“Aren’t you always the one preaching in my ear about never playing it safe?” The courier squinted at Arcade. “Where’d this come from?”
Arcade snorted and made a show of pushing up his glasses. “I don’t know. Guess I’m feeling a little sure of myself tonight.”
He was usually the one chiding Six for throwing caution to the wind and doing something reckless, but Arcade doesn’t quite pride himself on having much dignity left after all these years and if there were ever a night for the courier to be the voice of reason between the two of them, he’d rather it be this one. A nice change of pace would surely be the courier not getting them thrown into unnecessary conflict for no good reason, saying whatever he could to weasel himself out of trouble with his dumb, charismatic grin, knowing exactly what he was doing.
“Sure, yeah.” The courier began with a hint of bashfulness. “But as tempting as it is to take an uncalculated risk, I’d rather not tonight.”
Arcade peeled up the cover of the bedroll and tossed it open. He positioned himself as far beneath the blanket as he could without letting go of the courier’s hand and finally pulled him down and under, trying his best to cover the both of them with it.
A frown soured the expression on the courier’s face as he tried to readjust himself uncomfortably beside Arcade. “I would— really rather just keep watch. At least let me put out the fire.” His body ached with exhaustion but his mind— his paranoid thoughts driven by love and fear— was the driving force behind his actions. So maybe he allowed himself to be guided into a warm embrace but that part of him still screamed that he take caution.
“Please,” Arcade draped an arm over the courier’s side and pulled closer whatever would yield to his grip. “Shut up.”
Their face-to-face position was uncomfortable to say the least but Arcade wasn’t about to complain. He’d move aside and give the courier most of the pillow, and he’d do what the courier has been doing for years— push down every complaint and save it for later. He pulled the cover up to his neck and the courier begrudgingly accepted it, but not before he pulled off Arcade’s glasses with two careful fingers and placed them aside where they wouldn’t be crushed.
The courier hated feeling confined. He couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to move or thrash or run or breathe and the whole concept of it all made his chest rise and lower at a quicker pace. It seemed Arcade could sense it though, because he moved back and gave the courier space beneath the cover, providing inches of room to move as he’d like. It wasn’t much, but it did help. Six wasn’t one for cuddling, given how restricting it usually was, but Arcade made him briefly reconsider his feelings towards the whole concept.
When the flames of their campfire all but burned out and Arcade’s breathing evened into a slow, steady pace, the courier’s hands felt liberated under the guise of moving unseen. The darkness gave him a chance to move them about as he pleased— over the curve of Arcade’s chest and down the length of his arms, perhaps intertwining with his fingers. The darkness gave him fear, too. Fear of what lay in waiting outside for him to let down his guard, and fear of what tomorrow would bring amidst the silence of this abandoned room. But for the time being, he felt content, as wild a concept as that tends to be for him.
Arcade knew fully well that Six would wait until he fell asleep before slowly climbing out of the bedroll. He’d take watch for the night, his eyes scanning over the dark hills in search of anything that could harm him and his beloved companion. He knew the courier could never stay still that long— not under these circumstances— but nonetheless, he was comforted in knowing that he’d gotten the other man to slow down for a night. The courier’s eyes would drift back to him as he’d stand watch at the doorway, eyeing each toss and turn of his body beneath the bedroll as he slept comfortably and safely.
Things are far from easy as the sole savior of the Mojave Wasteland. The lives of the many demanded his attention and fell under his responsibility, and people held him to standards that he couldn’t possibly imagine himself
ever meeting. It was enough to make anyone go crazy and Arcade knew he had to be there for the courier. Not because he really had to, but because he wanted to. Being the one to make him slow down wasn’t easy but when it came to nights like this one, Arcade wouldn’t trade it for the world.