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Boone didn’t sleep too good. It wasn’t just a fact of life, but a fact of life that left him banished to the master suite of the Lucky 38 at the pointed request of Arcade. Boone didn’t mind it much - wasn’t keen on the loneliness, but the bed was better.
Between the creepy robots and ED-E buzzing about the place, the only bothered to set a watch when the Courier had pissed off someone particularly important. And the Courier had been gone for weeks now, alone, leaving with a wink and an announcement she had ‘stuff to look into’. And then nothing. No messages. No reports of a mysteriously unnamed good Samaritan from Mr New Vegas. No one turning up in Freeside clad in too much leather and metal for the desert heat trying to bribe out the Courier’s location (the King enjoyed giving those ones the run around). Boone wouldn’t have a said he was worried, a weakness that felt akin to hesitating on a shot. But it remained that he was staring at the ceiling at 2am, thinking not about Bitter Springs but about why the Courier had vanished.
He’d been close, yesterday, to suggesting they check the Legion camps in the area. Just in case. It was Cass who had headed him off, despite her complaints about being stuck in the drabbest rooms in all of Vegas. (”I don’t like it, but if the Legion had her we’d know. Besides, what’re you gonna do? Storm Caesar’s Fort by yourself?”)
(Boone considered saying he might, but that kind of talk tended to get concerned looks. Boone hated that.)
ED-E might go with him, if he asked nicely. Some of the others were reticent about the eyebot, but Boone liked it - him - just fine. He certainly seemed to hold as much as much loyalty to the Courier as Boone himself and, importantly, he was uncannily good at spotting Legion patrols from a distance. An early start and they could cover a lot of ground. As cursed as Boone was, he’d never yet met a Legion bastard immune to a .308.
He creased his forehead as he followed pattern of tobacco stains above him, barely visible in the dim light. He couldn’t shake the feeling he might have brought something down on her. Despite knowing better, knowing he should have walked into the desert the minute he felt a twinge of anything that wasn’t purely professional, he cared about her. He knew what happened to people he cared about.
Perhaps a beer would help.
Boone was only halfway up, fishing for his shirt beside him, when the rattle of the elevator echoed through the dusty rooms. Boone instinctively reached for his rifle. But he’d spent enough time with the Courier to know the sound of her movements, the rhythm of her footsteps, her habits. This was what he’d been waiting for - the Courier had returned.
Unsure Boone froze. He didn’t hear the telltale sound of anyone else waking up, not even the disturbingly alert Rex. The thought crossed his mind to lie down and feign sleep, to let someone else deal with the awkwardness of where she’d been in the morning. It was enough to know she was back, wasn’t it? But the door to the suite was already opening, and Boone found his eyes locked with the Courier. She looked exhausted. Dark smudges stained beneath her eyes, her clothes were dirty and torn. A new rifle graced her back, a design Boone was unfamiliar with. Interesting.
Wordlessly, she moved to the bed as if being dragged. Her pack tumbled from her shoulders to the floor as she flopped down beside him, clunking heavily despite the plush carpet. Huffing out a breath, she pressed her head back into the pillow and closed her eyes. Boone raised a hand, fingertips inches from her shoulder before he stopped himself. Words weren’t his thing. And these weren’t normal circumstances, this was dangerous ground.
The Courier smiled faintly, her eyes still closed. “You’re in my bed, Boone.”
“Yeah,” Boone said. “Arcade was going to make me sleep on a poker table if I woke him up again.”
“That’s fair,” the Courier replied, her voice rough. Boone plucked a half-empty water bottle from the floor and thrust it into her hand. She emptied it in two gulps, the bottle bouncing uselessly from her hand until it rolled off of the bed.
“Thanks,” she said, “it’s been one hell of a trip.”
The Courier’s shirt slipped down with the movement, exposing her neck. It drew Boone’s eyes downward, and in an instant his blood ran cold. Unable to stop himself, he shakily ran a thumb over the angry red band that had blossomed there. A slave collar. He should have -
“It’s alright Boone,” the Courier said. The muscles of her throat moved under his hand as she spoke, but she didn’t pull back.
“Who did this?” he replied. His voice came out with a steel edge to it, harsher than he’d intended. He was going to shoot every bastard in red under the sun.
“Long story,” the Courier said. “I told you Boone, I’m fine.”
She didn’t look fine. Boone stroked his thumb over the mark, unsure if the gesture was comforting but afraid to touch her anywhere else. “Tell me where they are. I’ll take ‘em out.”
There were only two permanent Legion camps in the area, three if he counted the long dead Cottonwood Cove. The fuckers moved around a lot, but they kept paperwork. Good paperwork. If he could -
“Boone.”
The Courier took his hand, threading her fingers between his. Boone squeezed, treacherous heart pounding. Her eyelids fluttered open and shut - she should rest, Boone knew. Her hand was heavy in his grasp, comforting. Assurance that she was real, that she was safe. But he had to know.
“It wasn’t Legion,” the Courier said.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t find them,” Boone said, although some of the red mist cleared from his mind.
The Courier tilted her head away, her eyes towards the haphazardly placed, mismatched collection of storage at the edge of the room. Her hair was half-plastered down from the grime of the desert, the other half sticking out at unexpected angles. A wave of familiarity from hunkering down in abandoned gas stations and rusty caravans swept over him, the odd sense of fondness sitting uncomfortably.
“It was one guy. He got the jump on me. I dealt with him.”
“One guy?” Boone regretted the incredulous tone instantly. He hoped his usual flat tone had disguised it, but the heat raised on the Courier’s cheeks said otherwise.
“As I said,” the Courier replied with a tight smile. “He got the jump on me. Veronica’s old mentor. I’ve got to have a long talk with her tomorrow, and I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Hm,” Boone grunted. “Should have looked for you.”
“You’d never have found me.”
“I still should’ve looked.”
The Courier closed her eyes. “Let me sleep Boone.”
Boone gave a single nod. “I’ll go find a poker table to lie down on.”
He pulled gently on his hand, still entwined with the Courier’s. Her grip tightened. “Stay here,” she said. “I could use someone I trust right now.”
The words coiled heavily in Boone’s chest. “Alright,” he said, and rested a shoulder back down to the bed. The extra weight on the mattress, the warmth of his hand on her stomach - they were both unusually intimate, different from sleeping beside her out of necessity. It should have been just another emotion for Boone to squash down. Should. But there was almost a privilege in feeling her breath slow, in watching her face relax into a semblance of peace. With that ugly mark around the Courier’s neck, though, Boone knew he wouldn’t been joining her in sleep.
Carefully, he stroked his thumb over hers. She made a noise in the back of her throat, close to a purr, and rolled to her preferred side sleeping position - dragging Boone’s arm with her, over her waist. She moved back on the bed, pressed her shoulder-blades to his bare chest, her thighs to his thighs, and momentarily Boone felt - safe. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into her filthy hair. Perhaps, for now, this would be enough.