Work Text:
“You’ve been a hell of a stroke of good luck, you know that?”
Major Dhatri handed over the caps for the third and final bounty he’d issued on the Fiend leaders in the area.
Without bothering to check the contents of the pouch, Cyrus stowed it in his bag. For all his issues with the NCR at large, one thing he could say was that they had never shorted him. He could also say that most of them were decent people, if not great people. 1st Recon in particular had his respect. Boone had set his expectations high, but the rest had held their own in the wake of his example. Their word was as good as their aim. There was also a hell of a lot he could say for the rest of the Republic, but none of it was relevant at that moment.
“Kind of you to say, Sir,” he replied with the same reserved guardedness that always came out for authority figures who’d neither won his affections nor yet lost his respect.
“Wish I had a few grunts as good as you. Damn good working with you.”
With a final nod, Cyrus turned and meandered over to the rows and rows of tents that occupied the greater part of the camp’s field, with ED-E quietly puttering along in the air behind him. As usual, the majority of 1st Recon were in their tent, whiling away the hours until their unique skills would be called upon. Lt. Gorobets was chatting with Sterling to one side, and both men gave him a smile and a wave in acknowledgement when he entered. Not wanting to interrupt, Cyrus waved back, then surveyed the rest of the tent until he spotted 10 of Spades on the couch, feet crossed on top of the low table in front of him, flipping through an issue of the Milsurp Review that Cyrus himself had probably read cover-to-cover at least six or seven times.
“‘Top 5 battle rifles, Rated!’ Don’t tell me you’re thinking of trading in your partner already.”
Even with the face wrap covering most of his expression, Cyrus could see the smile in his eyes as 10 looked up. It was infectious.
“Nah. Wh-Who else would b-be able to put up with B-B-Betsy, anyway? They’d never let m-me.”
Cyrus laughed. It was good having a friend to visit, but even better to see he was doing well. At this rate, he figured the NCR ought to just hire Dr. Usanagi outright. Not that she’d accept.
“Anway, congratulations on c-completing the s-s-set.” When Cyrus only gave him a confused tilt of his head, 10 explained, “You brought in N-N-Nephi’s head, right? Th-That makes all three of Major Dhatri’s bounties. You finished the set!”
Crossing his arms, Cyrus raised his eyebrows at the man’s certainty. It had hardly been five minutes since he’d handed the head over to Dhatri. He knew 1st Recon was the best in the business, but this made him feel a bit laid bare.
“Well damn. Word travels that quickly around here? You all got your scopes trained on the front gate when you’re off duty?”
With a shrug, 10 took his feet off of the table and tossed the magazine down in their place.
“Man walks into c-camp carrying a bloody canvas bag just the r-r-right size for a human head and you think 1st Recon d-d-doesn’t immediately know the score?”
“Okay, fair.”
“Anyway, with those three gone, I reckon the Major’ll be shipping us out soon.”
“To Hope?”
The empty seat next to 10 had begun to look rather tantalizing after all of the hiking he’d done that day, but Cyrus resisted the urge to settle in. He didn’t intend to stay long this time.
“Yeah.”
It seemed Dhatri’s mention of shipping the squad off to Camp Forlorn Hope hadn’t come as much of a surprise to either of them. Still, knowing the situation made the casual way they were tossing around the name feel willfully ignorant. It was arguably an even more dangerous post than this had been, even with all of the Fiends. Fiends were wild, sure, and fought like wild animals, but they weren’t the most tactical, usually. Caesar’s Legion had all the benefits of slavoring, blindly devoted soldiers bolstered by some truly insidious strategizing. The camp had more than earned its name.
Setting his hands on his hips, Cyrus was self-conscious of the fact that he continued to address the unoccupied sofa cushions instead of his conversation partner and he was thankful that 10 wasn’t the type to make a big deal out of it.
“I’d say, ‘I wish you didn’t have to go to a place like that,’ but I’ve seen the state that they’re in out there. They need the help.”
“Appreciate the sentiment all the s-same, man.”
Gorobets could razz 10 for his inexperience all he wanted; the guy had a good disposition for a soldier.
A thought struck Cyrus on the topic of Camp Forlorn Hope, specifically in regards to another NCR fellow with the ideal mentality for his line of work. Setting his pack on the table, he took a quick inventory of his current supplies.
“Say, could you do me a favor? I know this isn’t a field trip, but would you hand off a package for me when you get to Hope?”
10 balked at the question, one eyebrow cocked.
“Ain’t you supposed to be the courier b-b-between the two of us?”
“Yeah, but…” Cyrus conceded the point with a shrug and a shy smile, “I’ve got another job I’m supposed to be doing right now, and it’ll take me in the opposite direction. This would be a personal favor, since I don’t know when I’ll be heading out east next.”
Without hesitation, 10 clicked his tongue and leaned forward.
“Yeah, all right, but it’ll cost you.”
Narrowing his eyes, Cyrus rubbed a palm over the bristle that had begun developing on his chin. Luckily, his hair was so fair that you couldn’t even tell from a distance, but he still figured he should deal with it soon.
“How much?” he asked flatly.
“Six,” 10 demanded, stone-faced.
“Six!?”
“Hey, it’s a looong walk from here to Hope.”
After a brief consideration, Cyrus sighed and held out a hand.
“Fair enough. You got a deal.”
10 gave a small, celebratory fistpump and shook the offered hand before settling back into the sofa coolly.
“Okay then. Long as you a-ain’t planning on loading me d-d-down like a p-p-pack brahmin, I guess I can help you out. Remember, we gotta c-carry all of our own stuff.”
“Thanks.” Cyrus breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled out a piece of canvas large enough to wrap some supplies in. Spreading it out on the table, he began stacking up what medical supplies he figured he could spare.
“Hey man, why not take a seat wh-while you work on th-th-that?” 10 shifted further to one side of the sofa and gestured to the ample empty space.
Cyrus hesitated momentarily, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to will himself to stand when the time came if he allowed himself the respite, but folded for the sake of his back and knees. The last thing he needed was to hobble himself right before his big showdown with Benny. Dropping into the seat with a grateful sigh, even as the springs groaned in protest, he allowed himself to savor the simple joy of sitting on something softer than rock for a few, meager seconds before starting on the supplies again. 10 boxes of Fixer, 10 stimpacks, 1 super stimpak, 3 Med-X, and a bottle of whiskey to which he affixed a small note reading: ”Share a little with the patients, all right?”
From beside him, 10 let out a low whistle.
“That’s a lot of medical supplies.”
“Hope’s got supply chain issues,” Cyrus replied simply.
Setting out several bottles of Hydra, he stopped and sighed in consternation. He had planned to replace what Private Stone had stolen to get Hope’s clinic back to where it should have been; his turning himself in had been the right thing to do, but it wouldn’t be considered an amicable trade for the next soldier who came in missing a limb. He could tell just by eyeballing the small collection of amber bottles, though, that they wouldn’t fit this cloth, not on top of everything else.
He was so focused on the issue of space that he jumped when 10 tapped his arm lightly with the back of his hand.
“Don’t forget ol’ 10, now. Y-You’re gonna hook me up, right?”
The reminder was unnecessary; Cyrus hadn’t forgotten, but 10’s fee definitely wouldn’t fit in the same bindle as the supplies. Though, maybe he could use that to his advantage. With a smirk, Cyrus dipped into his rucksack once more and produced six bottles of Nuka-Cola, which he neatly lined up next to the Hydra. It was clear that, even without the Hydra, the sodas would not have fit.
“You might need another bag. Got a spare around here?”
“S-Sure thing!” 10 hopped up from the sofa eagerly, jogged over to his footlocker, and trotted back with an empty knapsack in hand. It would hold all of the bottles; the other supplies would still need to be packed separately.
Once they had carefully loaded up the bottles, padding them with whatever worn-out clothes and scraps of rags the two men could spare, and had securely wrapped and tied up the bundle of other supplies, Cyrus gave 10 a pat on the shoulder.
“Once you get there, these should go to one ‘Doc Richards.’ He’s the sole proprietor of Hope’s medical tent. There’s no way you’ll be able to miss him.” Ignoring the brief, curious look that 10 gave at his tone, Cyrus added, “Thanks for this. And good luck. You’ll have plenty of chances to earn that ‘Jack’ out there, believe me. Stay alive long enough to brag about it, okay?”
Sliding the bundle over to his side of the table, 10 tested its weight before tucking it and the knapsack by the foot of the couch.
“You’re a real w-w-wild card, you know that?”
Cyrus frowned, his brow furrowing gently.
“What do you mean?”
“Y-You call yourself a courier - and maybe you are one - but you t-t-take bounties like a merc, you shoot like one of us, you fixed that eyebot,” he said, lazily indicating towards ED-E, who was still silently heeled across the table from them, six feet in the air, “you know a lot more medicine than just first aid, you quote all those old books…” By this point, Cyrus had begun to blush and scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly as he glanced around to ensure no one else was paying witness. Maybe he’d been spending too much time hanging around Camp McCarren. Maybe this was his punishment for spending so much time on NCR odd jobs instead of his revenge quest. He liked to think it had all been in service of the greater good he still wanted to believe in. Maybe this was just proof that no good deed went unpunished.
“I heard about the bomb in the monorail, t-t-too!”
At that, both the lieutenant and Sterling glanced over. Cyrus titled his hat to hide his reddening face with the brim and waited for them to return to their own discussion.
“Could you just...cut to the chase?” he muttered, feeling the heat radiating from his cheeks.
“Man, even Hildern can’t find a bad thing to say about you. Least, that’s what I hear from the LT. I don’t have to work with him, thank goodness. You know how rare that is?”
At first, it seemed as though 10 had ignored his plea for parsimony. Cyrus was about to retort that Hildern only liked him because the man had too much of an ego to read subtext. Blessedly, however, 10 finally explained his point.
“What I’m saying is, you seem to know a l-l-little bit of everything. You’ve got a solution for any situation, like a Swiss army knife. To be honest, I said ‘wild card’ ‘cause I thought it was more flattering than ‘Joker.’”
Cyrus let his hand drop away from his face to give 10 an honest smile.
“Heh. Thanks, how considerate of you.” It did sound nice, and he had to admit that it fit his track record of always being the one thing no one ever accounted for, even as word of his deeds spread through the Mojave like cholla.
“Okay then: if you’re spades, what suit am I?”
“Hearts.”
The young man replied so quickly and with such conviction that Cyrus was momentarily stunned.
“How’s that?” he asked as his head slowed its reeling.
“‘C-’Cause you’re always h-h-helping everyone out, you know?”
Cyrus relaxed into the cushioned back of the worn sofa despite the spring pressing into his shoulder blade, staring at 10 as he wondered if that was the impression he left on most people. It was a nice thought, at least.
“Huh. Well, thank you again. I suppose that suits me just fine.”
10 groaned, holding his side and crumpling as though he’d been mortally wounded.
“I take it b-b-back,” he whined over the bark of Cyrus’s laughing at both his reaction and his own joke, “maybe you are a ‘Joker.’” Even as he shook his head, the smile in his eyes warmed Cyrus’s heart. It was nice to have little moments of normality like this. Maybe that was why he hung around so much. “Nah, I’m k-kidding. How about ‘Hearts Wild?’ Got a nice ring to it, don’t it?”
“For what?” Cyrus asked as he wiped a tear from his eye.
“Your nickname.”
He couldn’t help but visibly cringe.
“I don’t know what’s worse: that it sounds like a pimp’s name or a stripper’s. A name like that’s going to give entirely the wrong impression.” Taking a deep breath to calm the post-laugh jitters, he rested an arm over the back of the couch. “Besides, I’ve just got the one heart. As far as I know. Just the one wild heart that refuses to stay still… “Anyway, I prefer just going by my name. Not like I plan on leaving a legacy that’ll need a cool title. I’m just a mailman who’s gotten wildly side-tracked from my route.”
10 shrugged.
“If you say so. I still think you should give ‘Hearts Wild’ a second thought. Could help give you more presence.”
“Sure,” Cyrus obliged placatingly, standing up and stretching, hearing a few tendons pop back into place. “I’ll think it over. Or, you could make it all the way to ‘King” and make it a royal decree. Then I’d have no choice.”
10 shook a finger up at him sharply.
“One day, man. You’ll see. One day.”
Re-evaluating the occupants of the tent, Cyrus noted that the lieutenant and Sterling had finished their conversation and were now going about their separate businesses.
“I’m going to see if Sterling wants to share a smoke before I head out.”
“All right. I’ll s-s-see you around. And don’t you worry about your packages. I’ll make sure they g-get there safe and that they know 10 of Spade’s the one wh-wh-who got ‘em there in one piece.”
Patting the breast pocket of his shirt as he turned and crossed the tent with ED-E at his side and feeling the ornate, silver lighter and crumpled box of second-rate butts he’d recently salvaged, Cyrus made a silent prayer that both of them would live long enough to properly worry about their legacies.