Work Text:
“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”
-Madeline Miller
“Boone?”
He freezes instantly, causing him to drop the gun he was servicing. It wakes up the dog laying by his feet. He’d know that voice anywhere given how often it haunts his dreams, even bleeding into the waking hours on occasion. Boone turns around slowly, like if he moves too fast it’ll disappear.
It’s like seeing a ghost.
The courier’s eyes were what stuck with him all those years, and they’re the first thing he notices when he sees her again. Gold, like the bars she brought back from the Sierra Madre. He’d seen them light up when she laughed, seen them glow in the dark like a creature from another world. Seen them flash with anger, shut with grief.
And now he's seeing them again, downcast and tired. The gleam in her eyes is duller than he remembered, and there are dark circles underneath that he recognizes all too well. He used to see them in the mirror every day.
“I sleep better when you’re around.”
They’d shared a bed for a too-short month before she left. Part of him wishes he never had, just so he didn’t know what he was missing every morning he woke up and the space beside him was empty.
“Jack,” he mutters in disbelief. His dog cocks his head, looking at her, but he doesn’t growl. If it wasn't for that, he might assume she really was just a ghost.
That, and how different she looks. When you hold onto memories, you don’t account for aging. She’d always seemed young despite having a few years on him; it was hard to imagine her growing old. Now there are creases in the corners of her eyes, grey streaking through her brown hair. It's longer than he's ever seen it; longer than when she came back from the Divide broken and bitter.
Some things don't change. Despite being woven into a long braid, it’s still shaved on the side. Her red bandana is tied around her hat. She has the same scars, ones he’s traced with his eyes hundreds of times.
Traced with his hands only a few.
The pause that stretches between their words weighs on the both of them.
“It’s been a while,” she says. A twitch at the corner of her lips.
“Ten years.” He knows the exact date she left. Couldn’t forget it if he tried. He counted the days for a while — nothing better to do — until he filled three notebooks with tallies and realized he’d drown in paper if he kept it up.
That barrier between them, the one he’d built — it was what drove her away, and it’s still there all these years later. It’s the six feet that stands between them. It’s the way he can tell that both of them want to close the distance but continue to stand still. It’s the fact that he isn’t getting on his knees and saying he’s sorry for doing this to them.
He’s tired of it. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to destroy that barrier, to cross that six feet and hold her and never fucking let go again. But something holds him back — the fear that she doesn’t share his feelings anymore. For all he knows, she could be happily married with two kids and a loving spouse that gave her everything he couldn’t.
It doesn't feel that way, but the uncertainty is enough to keep him standing still.
Part of him is angry. Mourning her was the only way he could keep living without her. It was how he lived without Carla; you had to accept that they weren’t coming back. Seeing her here now, it was like all those old wounds were reopening again, threatening to bleed him dry.
What right did she have, to come back and try to pick up the pieces? To hurt him all over again? He’d done his best to move on after she left, and this had the power to undo all the progress he’d made.
But maybe it was worth the pain.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
The courier takes the hat off of her head. “I don’t know,” she admits. He’s never seen her so uncertain. She looks exhausted. “Spent ten years trying to find a place I belonged. Finally had to accept that there ain’t one.”
He knows the feeling. Both of them are outsiders, the only difference being that she escaped the Mojave when he couldn’t.
“Always said I’d been everywhere, but now I think I really have,” she continues, staring at the ground. “Crossed the whole damn country, coast to coast and back again. Nearly died doin’ it. But it didn’t make a damn difference.” She clenches her hat in her hands. “Was fine, for a few years. But I couldn’t forget this place or the people here, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t forget—“
Her gaze meets his again as her voice halts. “You. I couldn’t forget you,” she finishes. When he just stares at her, unable to form words, she keeps talking. “Partners came and went, but I never found one like you. One who… who I could talk to without ever sayin’ a word.” A mote of fear sparks in her eyes — she doesn’t know if the bond they once shared still exists, or could ever exist again. If she’s overstepping that line in the sand they’d drawn so long ago. “Can’t tell you how many times I dreamt about that damn beret.”
In lieu of any spoken response, Boone takes the beret she’d left behind out of his pocket and holds it out. Like a peace offering — like a bridge across that six-foot chasm.
She glances at it, then back at him, clearly hesitant to make a leap of faith. Then she steps forward and takes it from him, their fingers brushing together. The courier stares at it for a moment before she brings it close to her chest and shuts her eyes.
A lump forms in Boone’s throat. It feels less like she’s touching fabric and more like she’s holding a piece of him.
“Wish I’d taken it with me,” she says softly, opening her eyes again. “Thought that leaving it behind would make it easier to move on. But it didn’t.” She looks up at him. “I know I was hard on you, telling you to get help—“
“I needed to hear it,” Boone quickly interjects, finally breaking his silence.
“…Maybe,” she concedes. “But lookin’ back, I was no saint myself. Could’ve done more, tried a little harder to… I don’t know. Fix us.”
Us. The word hits him harder than it probably should.
“Yeah. We both could’ve.”
He knows that she’s right, even if it’s hard to swallow. It was easy to look back and put all the blame on yourself, to see the other person as if they could do no wrong. “Halo effect” — that was what the doctor had called it.
It had altered his perception of Carla into something unrecognizable, transforming her into a martyr rather than a woman. A woman he loved. One with strengths and flaws just like any other person, who was willing to set aside her own happiness to raise a family with him.
“You make it sound like her death was inevitable. Like she was always gonna die.”
“It was gonna be something. If I'd never met Carla, it would've been something else.”
He’d come to understand that it didn’t matter what things would’ve been. It was what it was, and there was no taking it back. In therapy, he was given a choice: torture himself over it forever, or try to move on and become a better person. He’d chosen the latter — but too late to make a difference for the courier.
“I should've never gotten close to her. I've got bad things coming to me. You'd better keep your distance, too.”
A last-ditch attempt to save her, because he didn’t know if he was strong enough to keep turning her away. Turned out he was, for better or worse.
It had affected his view of the courier, too. It was still his fault that she left — that was indefensible. But she pushed him away after walking the lonesome road, blamed the harsh words she said on account of her being a “bad person”. Used it as a shield so she couldn’t be held responsible when others got hurt.
They aren’t the same people as when they’d last seen each other, inside or out, and that’s for the best.
There’s only two feet between them now.
“You look different,” she says, not quite smiling. It’s true; for once his hair, just starting to grey, is long enough to pull a comb through, and it’s been a while since he’s shaved. “Better,” she adds.
So she can tell. Things rarely got past her. Now that they’re closer, he realizes that she's holding herself back — been doing it the whole time. He can see it in the way she grips the beret, how she’s bouncing on her heels ever so slightly. She was never good at sitting still.
Two feet. After how far she’s come, it's only fair that he take the last few steps.
It surprises her when he moves closer. She thinks it’s to take the beret back, so she holds it out, but his attention is drawn to her hand instead. It’s black, and from far away he’d assumed she was wearing a glove; up close, he realizes it’s prosthetic.
He takes it in his, slow enough to allow her to move away if she chooses. She stays where she is. As he brings it closer to his eyes, she answers his unspoken question. “Accident, when I was crossin’ the Rockies. Yao guai caught me by surprise. Sorta like—“
“The deathclaw at Quarry Junction,” he finishes. She nods, swallowing hard.
He doesn’t want to let go of her hand. Can’t help but feel like it’s his fault in a way. If he’d stopped her from leaving, or if someone had been there to watch her back—
No, he can’t afford to think that way. What matters is that she’s standing there in front of him now.
Less than a foot separates them.
“I’m sorry,” he says, green eyes staring into gold. Swallowing that damn pride of his. “For everything.”
“I’m the one who should be saying that,” she replies softly. Burying her own ego too.
Touch always came easier to Boone than words. The courier knew that, struggled with it herself from time to time. That night in Bitter Springs, when he was convinced it was finally the end, she’d opened her mouth to say something — but nothing came out. So instead she’d pressed their foreheads together, made him breath in sync with her. He’d never forgotten it.
Much later, she’d confess that it was then that she realized she loved him.
So before he can lose his nerve, he steps forward, closing the gap, and presses his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes, hears it when she sucks her breath in. She lets out a watery, disbelieving laugh as her breathing gradually falls in rhythm with his own.
They stay that way for a few moments, his hand still clasped around hers. Part of him is afraid that he’ll open his eyes and she’ll be gone again. That this is all just another dream.
It isn’t until he feels a hand on his cheek that he pulls away slightly to look at her. There are tears in her eyes, and he covers her hand with his own, leaning into her touch.
“I got no right to ask you to let me back into your life.” Her words are choked up as she tries to keep speaking. “But I’m gonna anyways. Don’t know what else I can do. I can’t… I don’t—“
“I know,” he reassures, and she nods gratefully, finally letting the tears fall. Only then does he embrace her; strong arms pull her closer to him as she buries her face in his shoulder and sobs. He cries too, breathes in the smell of cigarettes, sarsaparilla, and something he can’t place — something from far, far away.
Things wouldn’t go back to they way they were right away. Maybe they never would — maybe that was a good thing. The road to recovery was long and difficult, not something that just ended after enough time had passed. It was a constant challenge to stay on your feet, to keep moving, to not stray too far off the path.
But at least it was a road they could walk together.
Bonus:
“You have a dog now?” the courier sniffs once they finally separate. She wipes her face on her sleeve while she holds out her hand. The dog approaches her cautiously, sniffing her palm.
“Yeah,” he nods before drying his own eyes on his t-shirt. His shoulder is damp from her tears. “He helps. With… everything.”
“What’s his name?” she smiles, scratching the mutt behind his ears. It puts a smile on Boone’s face too, even though both of them look like they just came back from a funeral.
“Dinky. Couldn’t think of anything else.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and she covers her mouth with her hand. Concern crosses his features when he realizes she’s crying again. “Hey, you alright?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” she says, getting choked up all over again, “just been a while since I cried, and that’s really cute, and, and—“
“Just get over here." She practically falls back into his arms as he chuckles. “You’re more emotional than I remember.”
“So are you,” she laughs between sobs. “We’re getting soft.”
“Maybe. Don’t mind it much.”
“Me either.”