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There were three beds in the Lucky 38 Presidential Suite. Arcade knew this because he had slept in one of them, right across from Veronica in the second. Daisy had slept in the master bedroom, though the continued noises throughout the night made it debatable whether any sleeping had actually gone on or not.
This was a fine arrangement. It was also fine when Daisy brought someone new to the suite, a red-haired woman by the name of Rose of Sharon Cassidy. That was fine because Daisy rarely actually stayed the night at the suite, and even if she did, Arcade had come to realize girls tended to like sleeping in the same bed—especially Daisy.
When Daisy brought a fourth acquaintance, a massive nightkin grandmother . . . well, Arcade started to get concerned. No matter; he would sleep on one of the many couches. Spare blankets in the closet, plenty of lavish pillows thrown around the suite, he was fine. Daisy continued to spend nights away, off doing whatever it was she liked doing so much out in the wasteland. Arcade was starting to miss traveling with her.
She always came back, sooner rather than later, this time with another horde of loot and more snacks than Arcade could eat in a month, as well as a sniper named Boone. He walked around the suite once and then spent an hour in the game room, just sitting in the silence. Arcade had said a polite hello, met with a clipped "Hi" in response. He had yet to see the man smile.
This was still fine. He and the sniper could sleep on couches, Lily—the elderly nightkin—got her own bed, and as long as Daisy was away, Cass and Veronica each got a bed of their own as well. If need be, the chances of them being willing to share a bed seemed slim . . . but there were still plenty of couches to spare. The blankets in the closet were running low.
Three beds. Three beds and god-knows-how-many couches, and Daisy kept bringing more people up to the suite. This time it was a charming mustached ghoul in a mechanic's jumpsuit. Daisy enthusiastically introduced him as Raul, and he had—somewhat less enthusiastically—waved to the growing crowd of the people Daisy called her friends—not that any of them would object to that label. Raul wasn't the most talkative, but he fixed the abnormal clicking that had been coming from Veronica's power fist, so he was accepted into the group soon enough.
A friend of Daisy was a friend of Arcade, that's what he'd told her when she asked if things were okay, hiding his clenched jaw as best as he could. This was still fine, there was still enough space. It would just be nice if Daisy would give some warning before bringing the next mystery "friend" aboard. Seriously, how long had she known most of these people? A day? Less?
The most remarkable thing about the entire situation was that Mr. House was letting so many wastelanders live in his luxury casino. Daisy was still the only one to have seen his face—not to mention having spoken to him—and Arcade was pretty sure she hadn't told him about all the people she was housing, but the point still stood.
Then there was the dog, Rex. Funnily enough, he was the one of Daisy's many companions Arcade had known the longest, having seen him around Freeside before he and Daisy had run about the Mojave to find a way to help him. Something about his brain getting old, if Arcade had heard correctly. Disturbingly enough, Daisy had found a replacement remarkably fast, and then Rex was as good as new. He barked a lot, but he at least seemed to make most everyone happy, not including Boone, who seemed only to glare at everything from behind his dark sunglasses.
Arcade had overheard Daisy calling him Caleb, though, so there was that. Caleb Boone, assuming his actual name hadn't slipped Daisy's mind. Arcade would have pegged him as more of a Jackson.
. . . He had yet to ask if Caleb was correct, but he hadn't heard otherwise. Still, it would be far from the first time Daisy had messed up the name of any given person she came across—or lived with. Arcade had lost count of how many times he'd been called Alex, Arthur, Aiden, Amber . . . even he'd been referred to as Caleb a couple times.
Ask any of the people in the suite and they'd have a whole host of incorrect nicknames accidentally given to them by Daisy. Viveca Santangelo. Rose of Sheryl Carmen. Iris Bowen. Arcade wasn't surprised she'd started taking to calling most everyone "babe."
Daisy took Arcade out with her for the next round of friend-gathering, taking him down to Primm while very excitedly talking about this robot she'd heard of. Sure enough, inside the first building Daisy had led them into was a beat-up eyebot lying motionless on the counter. Arcade had stared at it while Daisy talked to the owner, a certain Mr. Nash.
Within an hour of getting permission, Daisy had transformed the deactivated eyebot into a fully-functional companion. A friend, she called him. Arcade didn't trust its peppy little beeps one bit, but Daisy was enamoured. They headed back to base, bringing their new robot friend along.
Another introduction, this one done mostly in beeps that Daisy inexplicably seemed to understand, and then there were eight. Eight mostly-strangers crammed into the dimly-lit suite, occupying themselves in whatever fashion available while Daisy meandered around, chatting with everyone. It was Christmas Eve. The only present anyone had gotten was alcohol from Daisy, but that had already been in the kitchen.
Arcade waited patiently for her to finish conversation with the mechanic, Raul, before stepping up and getting her attention.
"Excuse me," he said, keeping his voice even, "Daisy. This, uh, this was your plan? To bring all these . . . people up here?"
"Well, no," Daisy said with a grin. "But I keep meeting all these awesome people out in the wastes, and all of them have wanted to travel with me. It's only fair that I give them a place to stay when I'm away."
"Right, that's very considerate of you. But may I ask if you've considered the bed situation?"
Daisy's smile remained unchanged. "What do you mean?"
"Six. Six people, Daisy, and a dog."
"And a robot."
"And a robot. How were you planning on having enough beds for everyone? Most of us have had to sleep on the couches, but we're two blankets and a pillow short."
"There are three beds."
"Exactly." What wasn't she getting?
"Yeah! Three . . . minus, no, divided by . . . um."
"You want us to sleep two to a bed?"
"Yeah, that's it. Two plus—no, no per bed. One, two, one, two, one, two. Three pairs of people." She held up fingers on both her hands, and only then did her smile fall. "You guys are okay with that, right? I thought maybe you and Boone because you're closest in age, and then—"
Ignoring how far off that age estimation was, Arcade interrupted, fighting to understand what Daisy wasn't understanding. "What about Lily? She's much larger than the rest of us, if you hadn't noticed. No one's going to want to sleep crammed next to a nightkin—nothing against nightkins, of course. It's a space issue."
"Wait, wait." Daisy held up her hands. "Two blankets short?
"Yes."
"So can those two people share the other two beds? I mean, join the people already sleeping in them?"
"We don't know each other well enough to be comfortable with that."
"Oh, right. Do you want me to buy more blankets?"
"That would be appreciated, yes."
"Okay." Daisy smiled. "Problem solved!"
The problem was not, in fact, solved—not yet, at least—but Arcade nodded anyway. At least inside they had a place to stay that was even remotely big enough for all eight of them. Inside the Lucky 38, it was warm enough not to warrant blankets at night—though no one would object to having enough. And no one would ever go hungry, not with the ever-growing stash of snacks Daisy kept the kitchen fully stocked with. Things were fine, and that was more than enough. What with the sorry state of the wasteland, "fine" was something most people strived for their entire lives. Arcade had witnessed the struggle firsthand.
So all things considered, including the very endearing nature of Daisy's irresponsibility. . . this was fine. More than fine, if she actually remembered her promise to buy more blankets.
Nothing wrong with making friends, after all.