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“Guess what I have,” the Courier announced, striding out of the elevator of the Lucky 38 into the penthouse suite.
Veronica looked up from where she was trying to teach Rex to shake. “Ooh, a present?” She gasped in excitement, standing up. “Is it another dress?”
“I hope it’s more xander root,” Arcade said. He put the finishing touches on the cocktail he’d been making for Veronica and handed it off to her. She took it with a smile of thanks before returning her attention to the Courier.
“No, and no,” replied the Courier. “It’s something even better!”
Arcade shrugged. “As long as I can quote you on that the next time we run out of stimpacks.”
“All right, spill,” Boone spoke up from the couch where he sat with his glass of whiskey, glaring at anyone who dared enter his personal space. He was loosening up, Arcade privately thought. Last week he wouldn’t even allow anyone on the same side of the room. At this rate, he’d be letting people share his couch within the month.
“You’re no fun,” the Courier pouted, and pulled a letter out of her bag. “Caesar hired me to deliver this.”
The Courier and Veronica graciously pretended not to notice Boone’s glass shattering from the force of his grip. Arcade sighed and picked up his medkit, heading over to treat the sniper’s injury.
“What’s it say?” Boone demanded, making a valiant effort to ignore the doctor digging shards of glass from his hand.
“I don’t know,” the Courier admitted.
Veronica beamed. “Aww, you waited for us? That’s so sweet!”
“Oh, yeah.” She looked abashed. “Um... I’ll definitely do that next time. But uh, this time it’s because it’s in Latin.”
Everyone looked to Arcade, who had moved on to stemming the bleeding. He sighed. “Fine. After I finish up here.”
“But—”
“It waited however long it took you to get here; it can wait a bit more.”
After the most impatient five minutes of everyone's lives, Arcade finished bandaging Boone’s hand and accepted the envelope the Courier eagerly shoved at him.
“Okay,” he began, adjusting his glasses. “Looks like it's a copy of a report from one of his Frumentarii. It says—”
His breath caught in his throat. He scanned the letter rapidly, hoping he had misinterpreted the beginning. When that didn’t work, he re-read it, as if somehow the contents would change upon further examination. When that, too, proved fruitless, he adjusted his glasses again.
He didn't know how the Legion had discovered the Enclave remnants, but it didn't really matter. What he did know was that, while the Legion might shun modern medicine, their disdain for technological advancements would likely not be applied when regarding weapons of war.
And if there was one thing the Enclave had been good at, it was waging war. If the Legion approached the former members...
No, he needed to warn them. Get them to clear out the bunker, to relocate. And he had to do it fast.
“I need to go.”
“What?” the Courier and Veronica chorused in unison.
“There’s something I need to take care of.”
“What are you talking about? What did it say?”
He couldn't tell them. That was obvious. Because if he told them then they'd ask what he was planning to do to stop it, and why he thought he could. And even if he didn't answer, well. They weren't idiots. Not even Boone, as much as Arcade liked to pretend to think otherwise. They'd be able to put the pieces together. And then they'd react how he knew they'd react and maybe that was fine; maybe he deserved it, but this was bigger than just him. The Legion had to be stopped at all costs. Their acquisition of Enclave technology would turn the tides of the war in a bad way. And he couldn't prevent that if he were dead. So.
Arcade closed his eyes, wishing for strength. “I can’t tell you. I promise I'll explain everything later. But right now, I need to go.”
“Arcade, you can't be serious; what's wrong? Just tell us what it says! You can't just go haring off on your own.”
Arcade sighed. He opened his eyes and met Veronica's gaze. “Do you trust me?”
He knew what she would say, of course. The guilt weighed heavy in his chest, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed them to let him do this. They could hate him for it later.
She frowned, insulted. “Of course I do.”
He nodded, turned to the Courier. “Courier?”
“Like you even have to ask,” she replied.
He looked at Boone.
“You lie all the time. And you don’t even have the decency to be good at it.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” It was true. He hoped they’d still believe that, afterward. “But that’s not what I asked.”
The other man stared at him for a long moment before finally nodding. “You do what you gotta do, Doc.”
Arcade’s shoulders minutely relaxed. “Thank you.” He looked around at his friends. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And,” he added, “I’ll explain everything then.” He took a final look around the room. "I promise."
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
A week later, Arcade stepped out of the elevator and was greeted by the sight of his friends playing cards. As soon as the doors opened, their heads shot up and they turned towards him.
“Arcade!”
“You’re back.”
“What happened? Are you okay?”
He neglected to answer them, instead striding directly to the bar and pouring himself a generous helping of whatever alcohol was nearest. He'd tried to muster up his courage while he was away, but even he could concede that sometimes the old methods were the best. He downed half of it in one go; only then did he turn back around.
He took in their expectant faces. (Well, the Courier’s and Veronica’s expectant faces, anyway. Boone exuded his perpetual air of casual indifference, though he was looking directly at Arcade, which, for him, indicated an unusually high amount of interest.) He wanted to get one last look while they still saw him as a friend, to ingrain it in his memory so he had something to cling to. Though, to be fair, if all proceeded as anticipated, he very shortly wouldn’t have to worry about clinging to much of anything. Still, there was no use putting off the inevitable any longer than he already had.
“The Legion discovered the remnants of the Enclave. They were going to try to recruit them. I had to make sure that didn't happen.”
He saw the confusion on the Courier’s face, and the slow, dawning realization on Veronica’s as she doubtless put together the various lies, evasions, and half-truths he'd told over the course of their acquaintance. Boone remained expressionless, but his posture had noticeably stiffened.
“The Enclave? Arcade, why would you do that alone? You should have told us; we could have helped!” the Courier objected.
“No,” Veronica interjected, scrutinizing Arcade's face. "We couldn’t have helped at all, could we? It had to be him.”
Arcade smiled grimly and tilted his glass towards her. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. But I needed to make sure the Legion didn't get their hands on Enclave technology. And I couldn't do that if I were dead.”
The Courier’s brow furrowed. “Dead? Arcade, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t be so naive.” Arcade tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he gestured to his companions. “I hang out with a Brotherhood Scribe and an NCR soldier. Both of whom are far too intelligent to have not put together why I’ve been lying the whole time we’ve known each other.”
“You were with the Enclave,” Boone rumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.
Arcade tossed back the rest of his drink. His hands didn’t shake as he put the glass back on the bar behind him, but then, given how often he was involved in both surgeries and firefights, he wouldn’t have gotten very far without steady hands.
“Got it in one,” he replied lightly, trying to hide the creeping dread he felt. He carefully didn’t look at any of the exits. There wouldn’t have been any point; his companions were far too competent for it to matter, and besides. He didn’t want them thinking he was going to run like a coward. He’d done enough of that already. One way or another (and he could be honest, at least to himself—he knew which way it was going to be), he was done running.
“You can’t really think we’d hurt you, Arcade! We’re your friends,” the Courier protested.
Her earnestness was almost enough to make him smile. “The NCR has standing orders for all Enclave personnel to be immediately arrested pending interrogation and summary execution. The Brotherhood takes a simpler approach and doesn’t bother with the arresting part.”
“Don't be ridiculous! Sure, maybe that's what the NCR or Brotherhood as organizations would do, but you can't think that Veronica or Boone would do anything like that. Right, guys?”
The Courier looked between her friends expectantly, waiting for one of them to agree with her. She was instead met with Veronica’s averted gaze and Boone’s usual stoicism.
“Are you serious?” she cried, incensed. “What's wrong with you? Arcade's our friend; who cares if he was with the Enclave? You can't seriously be considering attacking him for it!”
“It's fine. I underst—”
“Shut up, Arcade!” She cut him off, rounding on him. “It's not fine!”
He held up his hands in acceptance. “All I’m saying is you can’t blame them. And,” he continued, making eye contact with Veronica, then Boone, attempting some sort of reassurance (for whatever his opinion was worth), “neither do I.”
Boone held his gaze for a long moment before finally looking away and effecting a casual shrug. “Not gonna kill you, Doc,” he said.
Arcade blinked, nonplussed. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. But—and, not to push my luck or anything—NCR custody would result in much the same, except it would be preceded by lengthy torture, so if it’s all the same to you, I'd rather you just—”
“Not gonna have you arrested, either,” Boone interrupted. “I know what kind of man you are. So you used to be Enclave.” He shrugged again. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. What matters is what you do next.”
Everyone in the room stared at the staggering display of emotional competence from their resident sniper. Boone shifted uncomfortably under their gazes and turned to leave the room, seemingly having reached his sentimentality quota for the day (and quite probably the month, if not the whole year).
“If you kill him, you’re stitching me up the next time I get shot,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he left the room, presumably addressing Veronica.
The door swung shut behind him. Arcade and the Courier both turned to Veronica, who was scrutinizing him.
He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what; maybe a reassurance that, despite Boone seemingly having abandoned all reason, he didn't expect anything similar from her—but she spoke first, cutting off his not-yet-formed sentence.
“How old are you, Arcade?”
He paused, taken aback, before answering. “Thirty-five.”
She nodded to herself, as if that confirmed something.
“We took back Navarro in 2254. Which would make you eight at the time.”
Arcade didn’t reply, still not quite sure where she was going with this.
“You’re right that I’m supposed to report or... eliminate Enclave members. But I don’t think a child who hadn’t yet reached double digits when the Enclave was destroyed qualifies.”
He tried to ruthlessly quash the burgeoning hope that was still stubbornly insisting on clawing its way up his throat. “What are you saying?”
She sighed. “I might be the biggest idiot in the world for this but...” She shook her head and met his eyes once more, resolute. “I’m not going to turn you in.”
“Veronica, think about this," he urged. "We both know the Brotherhood doesn’t care how old I was. If they found out—”
“I’d be exiled, if not executed outright for harboring a fugitive,” she finished calmly.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I may have my orders, but I know better than anyone how the Elders can be shortsighted. And I’m not going to let one of the best men I know suffer for something his parents did.”
Behind her, the Courier beamed with pride.
“If, however,” Veronica eyed him meaningfully, “you had knowledge of the whereabouts of actual members of the Enclave, then this would be a different conversation. I wouldn’t be able to turn a blind eye.” She held his gaze, imploring him not to force her hand.
Arcade was no fool. And this was already far, far more than he ever thought he’d get. “I understand,” he replied.
Veronica relaxed. “Good.”
As soon as the tension broke, the Courier squealed in delight and lunged forward, hugging first Veronica, then Arcade.
It wasn’t until she had glommed onto him that he realized he’d been trembling. Interesting. He wondered when that had started. Luckily, she clearly had the presence of mind and necessary foresight to maneuver him over to a chair so that when his legs gave out from under him he collapsed into it rather than onto the floor. Distantly, he identified the symptoms of shock and adrenaline crash. He put his head in his hands and tried to take steadying breaths.
“Do you think he’s okay?” He heard Veronica ask over his head.
“Well I’d say he held up rather well considering I’m pretty sure he spent the entire week convinced we were gonna kill him,” came the Courier’s slightly bitter reply. She was likely still upset, then. But she was rubbing circles on his back, which was very nice of her.
He heard Veronica approaching and felt her tentatively pat his shoulder.
“Stop being so reluctant, Veronica; give the man a damn hug already.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then, the hand on his shoulder was removed, replaced by arms around his waist. He leaned into them gratefully.
The Courier drew away from them for a brief moment, turned towards the door and hollered “Boone! You can come back in now; they're done talking about their emotions,” before returning to her previous position.
The door creaked open, followed by the sound of footsteps.
“They don't look very done to me,” came the dry reply.
Arcade tried to surreptitiously rub away the tears he felt forming in his eyes. He hadn't intended to so thoroughly lose his composure, but he supposed that, considering everything, it was an understandable reaction. After he felt sure he wasn't going to start crying, he looked back up to see Boone hovering near him, with a poorly concealed look of concern.
“We've finished talking and have moved onto the hugging portion of the evening. You're invited too, you know,” the Courier teased.
Boone said nothing but his discomfort at the idea was written plainly across his face.
“It's fine, Boone,” Arcade managed, clearing his throat and attempting to dislodge himself from the convoluted embrace in which he was currently entangled.
Veronica allowed him to extricate himself, but the Courier stubbornly clung tighter.
“You do know you're gonna have to let go eventually, right?” he reasoned.
She ignored him, shoving her face further into his chest. “Shut up, Arcade,” came the muffled reply.
He looked up at Veronica and Boone in a wordless plea for assistance.
Veronica sighed and acquiesced. “Hey, he probably wants some space to process everything. Do you want to help set up another game of Caravan and bully them into joining us?”
The Courier pulled away reluctantly. “Fine,” she grumbled, following Veronica over to the card table.
As the two of them began shuffling the cards, Arcade turned to Boone. “Were you waiting on the other side of that door the whole time?”
He crossed his arms and avoided eye contact. “I just wanted to know if I was gonna have to clean blood out of the carpet,” he muttered.
Arcade reached out to clasp a hand on his shoulder. Boone, shockingly, allowed it. Arcade waited for him to meet his gaze. “Thank you,” he said, trying to instill in those two words the gratitude he felt.
Boone shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Arcade smiled. “Sure.” He gestured towards the table, where the Courier and Veronica’s discussion of proper card layout was getting increasingly heated. “We should probably join them before they end up killing each other.”
“Well,” Boone replied as they began to head over. “We can’t have that.”