Porcelain Masks, Paper Walls
Ao3 link
Courier Six had always been dependable.
She accepted what was asked of her, followed through for no reason other than because she gave her word. She held herself together with something sharper than discipline, never letting the darker moments slip past the mask she wore so well.
So if anyone could survive the Sierra Madreâs open maw, where letting go is the hardest lesson of all, it should have been Six.
âŚRight?
As the walls Six built around herself begin to splinter under the weight of buried horrors, Arcade is left trying to piece together a story too difficult to tell, and hold together someone who is not-so-quietly falling apart.
Word count: 8,591, Hurt/comfort with a hopeful ending.
TW: past injury/vague descriptions of injuries, PTSD/trauma, emotional trauma, masking/hiding feelings
Arcade Gannon had always considered himself rather adaptable compared to most trying to navigate the wasteland.
It was, in part, a survival mechanism, one honed long before the Mojave, long before the followers, and one heâd cling to whenever he inevitably had to abandon another home. But eventually, even he reached his limits, realized that some things resisted normalization with a stubborn, almost personal, cruelty.
This silence was one of them.
It wasnât the absence of noise that bothered him, not completely. Many times, in fact, he prayed for more of it. For less distant gunfire and crying patients, or, as of more recent, less of E-DEâs sarcastic beeps and Veronica trying to coerce their makeshift group into yet another pre-war board game.
Really, it was more the reason behind the silence that gave it such a suffocating presence, as if it had settled into the Lucky 38 with intent, filling spaces that were once crowded with voices, arguments, and the occasional ill-advised weapons testing.
But as it was, the doors to the Lucky 38 remained ever closed and as abandoned as they had been all those two centuries. The only exercise the elevator seemed to get now was whenever Arcade tired of the artificial glow of the windowless presidential suite and retreated to the cocktail lounge above. The sunlight was a stark difference from the identical smoke-stained walls. The golden hues were blinding, but reminded him, however briefly, that the world outside still existed, even if he couldnât scrounge up the courage to enter it once more.
Despite not having an easy rest, it was early when Arcade rose from bedâif the clock Raul had fixed was to be trusted. That, unfortunately, remained an open question. Raul had assured him it worked, but with Six gone, their only reliable reference point had disappeared along with her.
âŚRight, Six.
The thought stung as it overstayed its welcome, like it always did.
Arcade stared at the floor for a moment longer before exhaling sharply and standing up. He added another mark to his mental calendar, the tally so ingrained now that it no longer required effort.
Week 3 of Sixâs âItâll only be 4 daysâ journey.
He mused, not for the first time, committing it to paper. A physical record might lend the situation a sense of structure, give way to a bit of control when everything else seemed to slip through his fingers. Or, it might make it worse, transforming vague unease into something measurable, undeniable.
22 days.
It had been foolish, in retrospect, to let her go alone. Not that anyone ever let Six do anything, not really. She had a way of turning decisions into inevitabilities, of presenting plans with just enough confidenceâand just enough omissionâthat dissuading her felt both exhausting and pointless.
So they didnât bother to try this time, only passing her along to the next person in line.
An offer had been extended to each of them, to join Six as she checked out a strange radio signal coming from an abandoned Brotherhood bunker, her bright smile dimming as one-by-one each member of their makeshift team had a reason to turn down her request. Even Rex had grown tired of her boundless energy. They were all simply too caught up in their own activities and exhaustion to babysit their resident Courier.
Arcade had been the last to turn her down. Heâd just returned to the Lucky 38 after another shootout in Freeside left dozens needing treatment late into the night. Heâd heard each apologetic excuse, he knew in the end she was going alone, but it had just simply seemed so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.
It would not have even been the first time Six had made her own journeys, vanishing from the Lucky 38 to chase quests or half-formed ideas and returning with another story of improbable success, Arcade only knowing she wasnât exaggerating her tales because of how many he himself had experienced first-hand.
So, when presented with the idea again, it had simply felt like routine, an absurd, dangerous, entirely ill-advised routine, and just like all routines, it persisted right up until the moment it didnât.
Misplaced confidence was a hell of a high to plummet from when looking through the lens of hindsight.
The closet stood before him, unmoving even as Arcade faced it blankly. After a beat, he remembered his intent and pulled out his clothes. The motions came automatically, muscle memory overriding thought.
Routine continued to die hard, as it was, as his hands buttoned his usual dress shirt despite his more comfortable clothes being able to serve the same purpose. Any argument of presenting his best died before it even formed. The Lucky 38 remained frozen in its strange imitation of life, its systems humming dutifully in service despite its intended occupant not being around to enjoy it; as Arcade was the only one who remained in this relic of the past.
Veronica and Rex had departed the same day as Six, claiming theyâd assist at the Old Mormon Fort until the Courier returned. Theyâd stopped by a few times, concern increasing with each visit that passed with no update, but Veronica couldnât bring herself to stay for long.
After day 6, Cass had left for whichever casino would take her caps (caps conveniently procured as Sixâs stash dwindled). She also stopped in occasionally to get updates, responding in her own sarcasm blanketed concern. Sleeping in a bed that she didnât have to pay for was an added bonus, though she, too, didnât linger, either too sober or too hungover to deal with Arcadeâs âanticsâ.
After day 10, Boone left without so much as a goodbye, only the rations in his pack and the sniper on his back. He, like Six, has been without update. Though, Arcade is more worried for the people of the Mojave than for Boone with each passing day.
Raul got bored with having nothing to do by day 14, and said he was going after the building at the end of the strip with all the glowing signs. Heâd been coming back nightly for the first few days, but decided the walk was âtoo much for his old kneesâ, and hadnât returned since.
Even ED-E, the damned bot, had induced herself into idle mode, remaining there stubbornly no matter how many times he chastised her for being dramatic.
Theyâd all stopped talking about Six. Any words brought them closer to the burning reality that none of them could face.
That this time⌠Maybe sheâŚ
He pushed the thought aside with practiced force, shrugging into his coat as if the motion itself could dislodge it.
Speculation without evidence was a dangerous habit, he knew that better than most. There were explanations. Plenty of them, in fact. The Mojave was nearly as unpredictable as Six was. It was just as likely that sheâd picked up another bedraggled stranger and was currently following whatever drawn-out quest would ensure their fealty, as it was that something actually serious had happened.
And yetâŚ
His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the elevator. The Brotherhood bunker wasnât that far.
Four days, sheâd said.
Arcade closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, sharper this time.
âJust a little longer,â he echoed to no one in particular.
The silence, as always, offered no objection.
The smell of coffee slowly filled the suite as Arcade won the battle of fruition against the 200 year-old machine and managed to produce a drink. The cup warmed his hands in a way that almost felt alive. It was strange. Arcade had grown so adapted to the unrelenting Mojave heat, where even the bitter nights felt merely bearable, that spending all of his time in a place with air conditioning had left his fingers and toes dispassionately cold.
It was almost reminiscent of the days on the coast, before Navarro fell just as the Oil-Rig did. Those icy nights were far worse than simply living at room temperature, but the effect of a warm mug in his hands was all the same.
âŚMaybe visiting Daisy would be what finally opened the metaphorical cage that trapped him here. Six did mention sheâd be passing NoVac on the way to the Brotherhood bunker. It couldnât hurt to take a quick look around, search for signs of where Six has been this whole time.
I got them spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle.
Arcade had just pressed the mug to his mouth when the sound began to trickle through the walls. Half of the bitter drink went into his lungs, the rest nearly spilled onto the table from the quickness with which he stood. He hurried to the doorway, choking down a cough and watching the dial of the elevator rise with an aching slowness, before coming to rest at the presidential suite.
As I go ridinâ merrily along.
The doors cracked open, spilling additional light into the entryway. Arcade felt his heart race oddly in his chest, nervous anticipation for whatever state Six might be in.
Heâd imagined this moment a thousand times over the past weeks. Six stumbling in, bloody, and barely standing; saying how it was the Legion, or deathclaws, or cazadors. Saying how she didnât mean to worry everyone, how she didnât mean to be gone so long. But that she was okay, now. That everything could go back to their strange imitation of normal.
He didnât expect Six to show up and be, by all appearances, perfectly fine.
ââŚSix?â His unsure voice came. It was preferable, wasnât it? That she was okay? So why did his hand tighten against the doorframe, the name coming out with a sense of foreboding?
She ignored him, save for a small jolt to show sheâd even heard him at all. But the red goggles of her helmet never turned his way, instead remaining locked forward as Six crossed the threshold of the elevator.
Her steps were steady, but heavy, betraying some level of exhaustion. As the doors closed behind her once more, she shifted her shoulders to let her bag drop to the floor, and, by the sound of it, it weighed just as much as she did.
âSix?â He asked again, stepping forward to draw her attention. âWhere have you been?â
Her hands clenched at her sides, taking a deep breath before finally facing him. The speaker cut on, a faint line of static indicating she was about to speak, long before overlapping with words. âNot right now, Arcade.â
The words carried an edge to them, but not a sharp one. The finer details of tone were lost, leaving the exact emotions behind them ambiguous.
He stared for a second before irritation boiled within him.
âNot right now?â He echoed slowly. âNo. You know what? We are doing this right now. Do you have any idea how long you were gone? How long Iâve just been waiting here? No word, no news, nothing??â
She turned from him again with an air of dismissal, heading instead for her bedroom.
âAre we truly such an afterthought that whatever inane adventure you found was more important than letting your friends know youâre still alive? Just off on a bender, or IâI donât even know what else,â he said, voice bordering on the closest he could get to hysterical, âbecause you have nothing to say for yourself!â
She froze in the doorway, clenched fists shaking with something he couldnât see behind that mask.
Arcade took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth. His anger was born out of concern, but yelling didnât help. It didnât even make him feel better. Six was air-headed, he knew that. He knew on some level she couldnât help it. But that didnât stop the very real fear sheâd inflicted on them all in her absence.
âWe all thought you were dead,â he leveled, voice serious, almost despondent. âWe were all worried. You just vanished. You canât justââ His voice cut off as she suddenly collided with his chest, sending him a step back.
He noticed now that she was shaking, not just her hands, from exhaustion, or angerâor whatever it was that made them trembleâbut her whole body, weak like a leaf in the unrelenting Mojave wind. Her hands found purchase on the back of his coat, clinging to it as if heâd slip away entirely if they werenât white-knuckled against it.
âOkay,â he said slowly. âIâm getting the sense that something might be wrong.â
There was a muffled sniffle, and her grip tightened like she was bracing against something only she could feel. His words made her shaking increase, the tremor in her shoulders worsening. Whatever resolve was keeping her together before had shattered, revealing only what she tried to hide the hardest.
It set something off in him. Not panic, he was too practiced for that, but sharp, insistent alarm bells ringing in his ears, an overwhelming symphony of wrongness at the display before him.
âSixâŚâ His voice faltered, then steadied by force alone. âIâm going to remove your mask, alright? Can you let me do that?â
A small, uneven nod against his chest.
His hands didnât move at first. They hovered uselessly at his sides, caught between the clinical certainty he relied on and the unfamiliar weight such an action held. Then, finally, they obeyed him and lifted the helmet free.
Admittedly, there were many concerning things he missed about her appearance at first, things he should have noticed immediately, but in the moment was just background noise; for once his eyes locked onto the tears streaming down her cheeks he couldnât pull his attention away.
By her behavior alone, it was obvious in hindsight that she was crying behind the mask. But peripheral knowledge and seeing it in front of him were entirely separate concepts.
Heâd seen her take bullets with only a grimace, charge after deathclaws with her six-shooter and a crazed grin, ride out cazador venom with nothing more than a rag to bite down on. Pain had never seemed to make a home in her mind, acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath.
So had he ever seen her cry?
Certainly not since she started wearing that mask like a second skin.
She turned her head, trying to hide, as if the act could be undone if he simply didnât look long enough. As if this, too, could be buried.
âPlease,â he said, the word almost unfamiliar in his mouth. âLet me look. I can help.â The reassurance felt untested, like something he wanted to believe more than something he knew how to give.
âI didnât want you to knowâŚâ
âAnd weâre going to talk about that,â he chastised, firmer this time. âBut for now, you need medical attention.â His voice leveled out as he shoved aside his personal feelings, grasping at the persona that accompanied the coat on his shoulders and the emblem on his sleeve.
Her skin was sunken and sickly, drained of its sun-kissed vibrancy. Bruises bloomed across her face in deep, ugly shades, layered over with dried blood that traced every cut and split with almost clinical clarity. It looked less like an injury and more like documentation, or like a masochistic painting, detailing every source of pain with precision.
Yet it was her eyes that unsettled him the most.
Though heâd been seeing her them much less nowadays, he starkly remembered their bright, defiant green. That spark of unspoken knowledge and drive, that try as he might, Arcade could never quite follow. What met his gaze now was merely an imitation, but a familiar look that Arcade had never expected to see from the Courier.
Heâd seen this look before, in the recently dead. Not lifeless, not yet, but empty, greyed beyond recognition, like windows to a soul that didnât yet know it had stopped breathing. The only real color came from the raw, bloodshot red ringing them, though whether it was from prolonged drug use, or extended exposure to something toxic, he couldnât be sure.
âWhat happened to you?â he asked in little more than a whisper, shifting back slightly to see her better. He felt, rather than saw, how she tried to follow, fingers tightening with sudden, desperate insistence. The motion pulled at something sharp in his chest.
âThe Brotherhood bunkerâŚâ her voice wavered, unsteady in a way that suggested something deeper than fatigue. âIt was a trap. When I got there, there was just this radio playing the same broadcast on repeat, over and over, welcoming you toâŚâ her voice trailed off, demeanor growing haunted at even the prospect of the name. Her hands, which had given up on clinging to the back of his coat, found purchase on his wrists.
âThe Sierra Madre.â The words came out as an omen, a promise of power even as Six traveled so far from the source.
The name itself meant nothing to Arcade, but the way it seemed to drain what little color remained from her face told him enough. That, for once, he didnât want to ask about and learn the answer.
But he didnât need to.
âThe room started filling with gas,â she continued, stilted voice catching on something invisible. âI tried to escape, but it was so bad. It felt like I was drowningâlike I couldnât get any air in my lungs,â the words fell out in a haphazard spiral, each pause like breaking glass.
âSixââ
âWhen I woke up, I was there, at the Sierra Madre. It's a town, or a casino, orâor it was, before the bombs. But itâs just left there, becauseâand oh God, the fogââ The words came faster, uneven, stumbling into each other as if stopping meant something worse would catch up to her. âIt bleeds into the air like blood, red andâand it burns when you breatheâmakes you feel like youâre constantly on the verge of suffocating to death, even when youâre standing still, but especially when the ghostsââ
Her fingers dug into him, grounding herself or grasping for purchase, he couldnât tell. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to dislodge the memory, but it only seemed to drag her deeper into it.
âTheyâre not people anymore, not even ghouls, theyâre likeâ and they donât stay dead. You canât kill them, not really. They just keep coming, and you have to keepââ Her voice hitched, breath breaking. ââhacking, and hacking, and hacking, until thereâs nothing left of themâand even then you donât know if itâs enough, if theyâll get up again, and againââ
âSix,â he cut sharply. âYou donât have to recall it all right now. Clearly, it isnât helping. Just⌠just breathe, okay? Youâre here now, with me. Focus on that.â He cringed at his words as he spoke them, starkly reminded of why âDoctorâ had become more of a decorative title for him, before Six had saved him from a boring, research-induced death.
Arcade had never been good at the emotional side of clinical care. He could recite medical texts like it was the Sunday paper, set broken bones with nothing but a pair of sticks and a dirty string of cloth; hell, he could probably perform open brain surgery if under duress. But his ability to comfort his patients, or lack thereof, is exactly why he was shut in a tent and forgotten about.
His gaze was lost again on the person he didnât recognize before him, trying to shape and fit this problem into something he could fix, or at the very least, manage.
âI should run a checkup,â he finally said. âClearly that place wasâŚextraneous. Your mind will feel better once your body does.â
He guided her to the bedroom, the familiar walls offering no comfort to her fraying mind. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, relentless no matter how often she brushed them away, but her fingers were occupied with a different task. Trying, and mostly failing, to undo the straps of her leather armor.
Arcade tried to step forward, to help, but she backed away like they were opposing magnets. He understood, he supposed. Many patients tried to do things alone for the simple reason that they didnât think they could.
Piece by piece, the armor eventually unraveled and fell to the floor in a dull, lifeless heap.
Beneath it, her body told its own story. Bruises bloomed across her skin in dark constellations, threaded with half-healed scars that ran wherever the armor had once concealed, likely continuing even past her battered tank top and shorts. Dirt and dried blood clung stubbornly to her, a second skin she had yet to shed.
Arcade motioned gently toward the bed. âSit,â he offered, his voice quieter now.
He crossed to Sixâs bedside table without hesitation, already knowing what heâd find. The drawer slid open with a soft rasp, revealing the small stash of Med-X tucked inside. It was a disappointing sight, but not unexpected.
She offered her hand to him, stagnant as the needle was pushed into the veins of her wrist, more practiced with this sensation than most others. With the pain taken care of, Arcade was able to take closer stock of her wounds.
âThis is worse than I thought,â he admitted, kneeling down to carefully examine her up close. âIâm going to need you to wash up before I can begin to help you. Do you think youâre well enough to go shower first?â Arcade asked slowly.
Six quickly shook her head, hands squeezing into fists as her gaze became fixedly glued to the carpet.
âAlright, then,â he said, steady and structured, grasping at what he could do instead of what he couldnât. âIâll clean you up, then. Iâm going to go get a tin of water from the kitchen.â
He kept his tone even, laying each word out plainly, trying to keep his words simple and his actions predictable.
The moment he stood, though, she was moving with him, immediate, almost desperate in intention.
âWaitââ her voice caught, then steadied by force. âIâll come with you, please.â
âIs this a newly developed phobia of indoor plumbing, or have I simply become that charming?â he asked in some hoping attempt that his joke would land, and wouldnât make that horrid look in her eyes worsen.
It hung for a second too long, not making her more distant, but not bringing her any closer either. Just that same brittle quiet as she followed him.
The walk to the kitchen felt stretched thin, every step dragging against something unspoken; the floor, the silence, the unseen figure that loomed over her shoulders. Her breathing stayed slightly off track, quiet, as everything else was, but just noticeable enough to track.
She was too close. Not physicallyâthough he didnât look back to measureâbut he could feel it. The way she stayed within reach. The way distance, even a few steps of it, seemed unacceptable.
âYou can sit down at the table, I wonât stray further than the sink.â The words came more as a request than an offer. It occupied two desires in his mind, both that heâd caught the way she swayed, even when standing still; but also to test the boundaries of her monophobia, see how far was too far in her current state.
Hesitantly, she obliged, tilting the chair in a way that kept him in her view.
The tap turned with a dull twist, and suddenly the oppressive silence was filled with the steady rush of water. It hit the basin with a sharp, hollow sound, scattering into uneven echoes that bounced off the metal walls. It choicefully kept Arcadesâ attention, being something clean, something that made sense in his mind. Because when it didnât, when his gaze flickered, just brieflyâ
There it was. Another mark, one he hadnât catalogued before. Dried blood at the edge of her cheekbone, leading from a cut half-hidden beneath the grime. Evidence layered over evidence, too much to process all at once.
He looked back to the basin quickly.
His grip tightened slightly on the rim, the metal cool beneath his hands, and let the droplets of water splash against his skin.
22 days.
The number lodged itself in his mind, heavy and immovable. Weeks of this, of whatever the Sierra Madre decided for her.
And where had he been?
Safe, contained by polished floors and intact walls in the Lucky 38. Turning over the same thoughts, nursing the same quiet frustrations, letting routine be a stand-in for purpose.
As soon as it became clear something might've happened, he shouldâve taken up arms, joined Boone and scoured every inch of this godforsaken desert if it meant finding her, saving her from this fate, doing anything that prevented the reality before him. No matter how improbable, how much of a fool's errand it would be to try and find a Brotherhood of Steel bunker, of all things.
For a while, it had all just seemed so improbable. Six was a modicum of defied odds and just enough luck to see things through. She was also rather notorious for getting sidetracked, going to ludicrous lengths for others, for no other reason than being asked.
Arcade wasnât sure when the belief of catastrophe bled into the belief it was just Six being Six, when it overshadowed enough to make permanent residence in his mind. But when it did, it was pushed down still by a stark denial, caged further by a surety that if something had happened, it had already happened.
âI spent a lot of time alone, at the Sierra Madre,â Six finally said, voice distant and empty, cutting through Arcadeâs internal track. âJust me, and the winding identical streets, and this awful silence.â She rested her head against the back of the chair. âEvery time I close my eyes, every time I look around and thereâs no one else, no noise. Itâs likeâŚâ
Arcade let the words hang in the air longer than he intended, trying to find some combination of words that might frame the turmoil into something he could ease; the emotional equivalent of a stimpack and bandage. Finally, with a long sigh through his nose, he spoke.
âYou should never have been there alone.â His voice came out steadier than he felt.
He hefted the bucket of water from the sink, the metal handle creaking faintly in protest, and set it carefully at Sixâs feet. The water had already begun to cool. He hadnât realized how long heâd been standing there, staring, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who had left.
âWe should have never let you be alone there,â he tacked on.
Six flinched, not at the words, but at the movement as he knelt in front of her. Up close, the damage was worse. Various shades of browns, blacks, and dark reds clung stubbornly to her skin, caught in the seams of old wounds and new ones alike. It was almost overwhelming, trying to decide where to start.
âI guess I wasnât, not completely⌠just most of the time.â her voice wavered, brittle at the edges, like something that might splinter if pressed too hard. âThere were others scattered around. Elijah, the man who took me, said I had to find them, that we each had our own part to play. That it would take four of us to open the Casino.â
He worked the cloth through the water, then twisted it between his hands, more out of habit than thought. When he reached for her, he didnât press immediately, testing for a reaction before applying more pressure. She went rigid under his touch, every muscle tightening as if bracing for something sharper, but didnât pull away.
That hollow silence fell over them again, taking up home when neither of them could find something to stave it off.
Six looked at him, or through him, he couldnât quite tell. With that, he found himself retreating, instinctively, into something safer, reminding himself that emotions held no weight when interacting with a patient. Or at least, they shouldnât.
He cleared his throat. âYou mentioned others.â
Her gaze flickered, feeling more solid as it settled upon him.
ââŚYeah.â she echoed, like she had to work past something caught in her throat. âYeah, there were.â
âWould it help if you told me about them?â
She paused, considering the offer.
âThe first one I met, his name was Dog⌠or God, depending on who you asked.â A faint smile touched her lips, like the shape of a joke more than the feeling of one.
Arcade glanced up at her, catching the expression. He returned it reflexively, despite not understanding. Still, she was trying. That mattered.
âHeâs a nightkin,â she went on, words feeling more natural in her mouth. âKind of like Lily with Leo, but if Leo was a whole person too, and if they couldnât really talk to each other.â
âSounds like Dissociative Identity Disorder,â Arcade murmured, attention split between her explanation and the careful cleaning around a particularly fresh wound. âNot uncommon among nightkin. Prolonged Stealth Boy use tends to⌠destabilize things. Itâs not uncommon for two or more to share a mind, however such a thing takes shape.â
âRight.â She swallowed, keeping deliberately still. âThey didnât share, though, not really. Just took turns. They both always thought they knew best, but I donât think they ever did, only ever fighting for control. Dog just hungered, God just planned. But it never led them anywhere.â
The words faltered, implying something deeper, something more personal in her mind, but Arcade could not parse what.
âBut it all worked out in the end,â she continued. âThey managed to make themselves one again, realized they were both fighting for the same things.â
Arcadeâs motions paused, just briefly. âThatâs not exactlyââ He stopped himself, the correction dying before it could fully form. This wasnât the time for a lecture on the complexities of identity integration. âNever mind.â
He wrung the rag into the water, cleaning it before reaching for her other arm.
âThen, there was Dean Domino, heââ
Arcadeâs head snapped up, genuine surprise breaking through his clinical focus. âDean Domino? Iâve heard of him! The Kings call him the King of Swing.â A faint, incredulous huff escaped him. âHeâs still alive?â
âNot just alive,â Six said, something sharper threading through her tone now, âbut heâs been at the casino since the bombs. Heâs been trying to crack it this whole time.â
Arcade let out a low whistle under his breath. âPersistent, if nothing else.â He resumed his work. âWell? Did he live up to the title?â
There was a pause. Sixâs gaze drifted, not to anything in the room, but somewhere far past it.
âWell,â she said slowly, âhe tried to kill me when we first met.â Her fingers curled slightly against her arms, nails pressing into skin hard enough to leave marks. âAnd what he did to ChristineâŚâ Her voice faltered.
âBut⌠he understood the Casino better than anyone. Not just the layout or the traps, but its rules, how it breathed,â she explained, words falling out more than they were said. âI donât think he wanted to be there any more than anyone else did, not really. He just⌠He couldnât let it go, like Elijah. That place, it has a way of keeping you there.â Her voice cracked. âIt gets inside your head and itâit doesnât let go, it justââ
Her nails dug deeper, skin blanching under the pressure.
âThe last person,â Arcade cut in, firmer now, the shift in tone deliberate. âTell me about them.â
It wasnât a question, it was a redirect.
At the same time, his hands found hers, guiding them to loosen before the pressure could turn damaging. He replaced the contact instead of removing it, pressing a roll of bandage into her palm and curling her fingers around it, giving the tension somewhere to go.
Her focus stuttered, his words and actions catching her unexpected attention.
He used the opening, pressing the needle of a super stimpack into her wrist in one clean motion, eased now that it wouldnât grow new skin over old dirt. She flinched, but the reaction came a second too late, dulled at the edges.
âChristine,â Six said, the name coming out softer than the others. âShe was with the Brotherhood, a scribe, I think. Same chapter as Elijah.â Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension not gone but carefully unwinding.
âShe was hunting him, thatâs how she ended up there,â she explained. âI donât really know what for, but if the Sierra Madre is what heâs capable of, I don't want to know any further.â
Arcade dropped the rag into the bucket, the water now clouded, like a sky of crimson and mahogany. His hands reached now for a roll of bandages.
âShe had gotten trapped in an old autodoc.â She paused, voice beginning to retreat again. âIt⌠messed up her throat pretty badly, and even when she was out, it was still like she was trapped there.â A faint frown crossed her face, but one glance from Arcade and she steadied again. âBut she was nice, fun to talk to, even if there wasnât much talking on her part.â Another implied joke, another returned smile. âAnd she was smart, smart enough for the both of us. I think you wouldâve liked her.â
Arcadeâs hands slowed just slightly. âShe sounds like the kind of person Iâd get along with.â
âYeah,â Six agreed absently. âI wonder if Veronica ever knew her.â
âHmm.â He let the statement hang in the air as he mulled it over, giving the hypothetical genuine thought. âI think itâs unlikely. The Brotherhood isnât exactly⌠intimate, as organizations go. The different chapters are like families, and a lot of the âfamiliesâ donât tend to get along.â
âMaybe they couldâve met here,â Six offered, then turned away in a show of defeat. âBut Christine stayed,â she added quietly, âat the casino. Taking care of it, I think.â
âThen sheâll make sure no one else ever gets trapped there. That youâre the last people the Sierra Madre couldnât let go.â
Sixâs eyes began to grow wet again. âThat sounds nice.â She leaned her head forward, nestling it into the crook of Arcade's shoulder, causing him to pause in his bandaging. âI never want to go back there.â
âYou wonât. There is nothing left to keep you there.â
She sniffled softly, having no more words. Her body slumped tiredly, the mix of Med-X and exhaustion finally outweighing the burdens sheâd carried this far.
âI donât think thereâs much more I can do for you in terms of treating your wounds. I think time and rest are what you need right now.â
Six seemed apprehensive. âButââ
âIf youâre about to give me any sort of what-if, I donât want to hear it. Youâre home, Six. Nothing from the Sierra Madre can hurt you here.â His words were meant sincerely, and physically they were true. But the wounds of that place clearly ran far deeper than the bruises she wore, and those wounds would continue to ache and fester, no matter how perfectly he stitched her back together again.
Her hands found Arcade's coat, looking to her bedroom door like it was a prison cell.
âBut, what if I wake up and Iâm back there? What if none of this is real?â
Arcade paused in his move to stand, his hands moving from awkwardly hovering, to pulling at Sixâs shoulders, bringing her away so her eyes could meet his.
âThen I will hunt down the Sierra Madre and find you myself,â Arcade told her seriously.
âYou donât mean that. You donât understand how⌠how badâŚâ
âThat doesnât matter anymore, youâre home now, Six.â He repeated to her.
âIâI know, butââ
âSix.â Arcade interjected, squeezing her shoulders once more until she met his eyes. âLook at me, listen. You are home now.â
The words didnât fix anything. He knew they wouldnât.
But they landed.
Her expression smoothed instead of cracked, eyes glossing over again. She retreated, but didnât disappear, she simply lulled.
He guided her carefully back toward the bedroom, keeping a hand on her arm like he expected her to disappear if he let go. He eased her down onto the mattress, slowly, giving her time to resist if she wanted to.
She didnât, but she didnât settle either.
Arcade exhaled quietly and took the armchair nearby, pulling it closer so that she could almost reach him if she needed to. He told himself that was for her sake.
A silence finally settled over them that didnât feel oppressive. It wasnât there because neither of them could find the words to reconcile the situation, it stayed because they finally found something resembling comfort again.
But still a wedge remained.
âWhat would you have done?â
Six came back to herself slowly, brows furrowed as she settled on him.
âIf I hadnât insisted,â he clarified, more controlled now. âIf I let you come hide away when you told me ânot right nowâ⌠what then?â
âI wouldâve figured it out.â
Arcadeâs jaw set, hardening with his gaze. âThatâs not a good enough answer.â
âIt is to me.â There was more edge there than before, not sharp, but present.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. âYou came back half-dead, Six. That isnât something you just figure out.â
âI came back.â Her response was immediate, sure in its tone. âThatâs the part that matters.â
He blinked at that, thrown for a loop, not by the logic, but by how certain she sounded. âThatâno, thatâs not how this works,â he said, frustration creeping in despite himself. âYou donât get to reduce this to survival as a success metric.â
âDonât I?â Six asked, causing the room around to still. Her finger came to pick at the butterfly strips lining her cheekbone, picking at it like Arcade was picking at her fresh emotional wounds. âI donât have the luxury of falling apart,â she continued, quieter, but more grounded than sheâd been all night. âPeople depend on me not to.â
âYouââ Arcade tried, but Six wasnât finished.
âOut there, if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let people see youâre not sure, then someone dies. Maybe itâs you, maybe itâs someone else. But it stillââ that careful steadiness was faltering, whatever she was trying to say got lost in her throat, so she continued with something she could. âSo you learn to be decisive, stagnant, filing things away until you can stop and figure it out. Then people start relying on that.â
Her voice softened, not weaker, just more honest. âThen everyone needs you to be that person, the one who figures it out.â
Arcadeâs expression shifted, something conflicted flickering through it. âAnd you think that means you donât get to be anything else? Even in the comfort of your own home? Even around people who deserve to know better?â
âI think,â she said carefully, âthat the second I stop being that, I stop being useful.â She went quiet again, clearly trying to find the words, and despite his better judgment, he let her. âYou started traveling with me to help the Mojave, because you knew that I could. But if I canât even help myself, if I canât be what the Mojave needs, if you see that I canât, then what even am I? No one would stick around to find out.â
âI would,â Arcade told her seriously. âI am your doctor, but more than that I'm your friend, whether itâs convenient or not. Donât put a mask on in my presence because you think it makes you more palpable,â he scolded. âYou donât get to decide what I can and cannot handle for me.â
Her expression wavered at that. âThatâs not what Iâm doingââ
âIt is.â His tone sharpened, just slightly. âYou made that decision the moment you walked in here and tried to hide this.â
âI wasnât hiding it,â she said softly.
He scoffed. âYouââ
âI was managing it.â The correction came automatic, carrying with it a stark intention.
âNo you werenât.â
âI have a first aid kid under the desk, I wouldâve.â
Arcade exhaled through his nose, tension pulling at his posture. âThat doesnât count.â
âIt has before.â
He leaned back slightly, studying her. âAnd howâs that working out for you right now?â His words weren't cruel, but they weren't gentle either.
She flinched like they had been the former, falling back into silence as she considered her next words.
âIâm still here,â she said eventually.
Arcadeâs gaze softened, but he didnât let it go. âBarely.â
That one landed, striking her in hesitation, and that hesitation said more than anything else had.
âIâm sorry,â she finally said.
âDonât apologize to me.â His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the red gleam of her NCR helmet resting nearby. âJust stop hiding behind that mask. Take it off for people who care to see.â
Her gaze followed his, then returned to him. For a moment, it looked like she might argue again, but she didnât. Instead, she turned onto her side, facing him more fully. Her eyes were tired, hollow, but genuine. âThank you, Arcade.â
Arcade averted his gaze, words faltering as he considered them carefully before sharing. âI understand what itâs like, forcing yourself into a box. Locking away pieces of yourself, even with people who deserve to know betterâŚâ he admitted. âIt consumes you, and it leaves you with nothing in the end. Thatâs whyâŚâ he trailed off, struggling slightly. âYou donât have to do it. Your sins are notâtheyâre not likeâŚâ
He turned his hand over in his lap, tracing the lines in deep contemplation. âSix, thereâs actually something I need to talk to you about.â He turned back toward her, only finding her lax, the tension in her face softened into a fragile slumber.
ââŚSleep well,â he murmured, folding himself down until his face smoothed once again. âYouâve earned it.â
He lingered, eyes tracing the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the faint twitch of her brow as remnants of nightmares passed through her mind. Slowly, the shadows eased from her features, leaving behind a sense of peace, or, at the very least, neutrality.
Eventually, it weighed too heavily on his mind to find the others, save them from the same thoughts that had kept him so trapped here. But the threshold of the doorway gave him one last pause. He turned, watching her chest rise and fall one last time as a small anchor against the uncertainty that threatened to creep in.
As he lingered, the elevator rattled to life behind him, the vertical ferry bringing another uncertainty into the delicate space. All Arcade could muster was a tired hesitation.
When it dinged into place, Boone stepped through, steady in his walk and intense in his demeanor, though the latter was elevated by the amount of blood staining his clothes. Most surprising to Arcade was that some of it seemed to come from Boone himself.
Before he could ask, he stepped forward, grabbing Arcade by the arm and half leading, half dragging him back into the elevator.
âI found the location of the bunker Six went to. Weâre going there.â He instructed plainly.
âWhat?â Arcade had nearly forgotten thatâs what Six had originally gone for after hearing the horror stories of the Sierra Madre.
âWe are going after Six,â Boone repeated, enunciating each word deliberately, pulling Arcade down to be level with him. âUnless you have other plans, Gannon?â
Arcade shook his head, trying to keep the tone calm. âWell, there is the slight issue with your plan in the fact that Six had actually returned just a few hours ago. I doubt your quest to the bunker will yield more answers than simply talking to her.â
Booneâs eyes narrowed, processing. He didnât move at first, just stared, as if weighing every word. Then, with careful steps he walked to the bedroom.
âSheâs asleep,â he murmured, almost to himself.
Arcade approached from behind, voice low. âAnd youâd do well not to wake her. Itâs been rough, to say the least. She was taken to this place⌠Iâve never seen her talk about anything with that much fear.â He shook his head. âI know youâve been worried, but let her work through it for herself before you demand answers.â
Booneâs gaze lingered on her face. âWho took her?â he asked quietly.
âNo one youâd know,â Arcade said tiredly, âand knowing Six, she saved a special fate for him.â He studied Booneâs demeanor, the set to his jaw, and the tight hold of his fists. âShe doesnât need you to go find payback or justice for her. Right now, she just needs you here.â
Boone nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. He didnât shift, standing unmoving in the doorway like a sentinel.
Arcade exhaled and tried again. âLook, I know youâre worse at this than I am, which is saying something. But if you keep lingering in the doorway covered in blood, she might wake up and youâll probably set off a new wave of emotion in her, and neither of us wants that. My advice would be to wash up, then just sit with her. She spent plenty of time alone where she was taken, and she seems pretty keen on not being so anymore.â
Booneâs fingers flexed at his side, a silent acknowledgment. He didnât move, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
âIâm going to fetch Raul, Cass, and Veronica,â Arcade said, trying a light note. âHelp me keep them from disrupting her sleep, wonât you? Your imposing glare is much more effective than anything I could say.â
His tone implied a joke, and it fell as flat as Arcade expected, but there it was. A flicker in his expression, realizing that there was in fact something he, and probably he alone, could do.
âRight,â he finally mumbled. âGet the others, Iâll do what I can.â Then, without another word, he moved toward the bathroom.
âAnd,â Arcade began, catching him. âYou should probably wake ED-E.â A long, resigned sigh went through him, annoyed despite himself that he was the one to bring this up. âSheâll probably want to see that Six has returned.â
Boone said nothing, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, catching the irony, but saving him by not commenting on it.
With nothing else, Arcade finally slipped towards the exit.
The elevator hummed beneath him, as it brought him back to the world outside. It was a slow, quiet ride. The metallic whispers doing nothing to drown out his own thoughts.
They circled around Six, of the armor sheâd built around herself long before the Sierra Madre had ever carved new scars into her. Of how he shouldâve known better, long before it ever came to this.
He could see now, more clearly than ever, the weight she carried. And yet, even in sleep, she had not been entirely unguarded. Those small cracks, fleeting glimpses of the person beneath, lingered in his mind, stubborn as a stubborn truth.
Arcade drew in a breath, feeling the cool metal of the railing under his palm. The elevator lights flickered as they neared the bottom. He straightened, bracing himself for the world beyond, already trying to come up with explanations for their scattered companions.
When the doors opened, the world spilling into frame, he took a deep breath, then stepped in to join it, hoping that Six could soon do the same.
[Bonus]
The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden hues on the Lucky 38 doors when Arcade finally pushed his way through, Veronica at his side and Rex at their heel.
It had taken longer than expected to traverse the Strip and Freeside to round up the three companions, though, that was due in part to Cass getting kicked out of the Tops, and having too strong opinions about the other Casinoâs to indulge them. Most surprising of all, though, was when he finally did find her, it was by the East Gate, sharing drinks with Kings, of all people. Clearly boredom did wonders for grudges.
ââswelled up to the size of a baseball, I mean I donât know how she was still standing. But, she was convinced the only cure for it was just some agave juice! She argued and argued until the venom closed her airways!â Veronica rambled as they stepped into the elevator, using far more hand gestures than necessary.
Arcade let out a small chuckle despite himself. âJust wait until youâre on hour 24 of being awake, and thereâs a whole tent of people like that. I suppose itâs comforting to know that things have stayed interesting at the Old Mormon Fort without me.â
âWell you shouldâve stopped by,â she said, elbowing Arcade between the ribs. âI donât know what up here was better than whatâs out there. The Lucky 38 is just another hole in the ground.â
âYes, yes, and youâve made your opinions on those clear.â He felt as if he should answer her further, shed light on what had kept him so grounded, especially when his worst fears were proven true in the end. But before he could find the words, the elevator opened once more, allowing the many voices of the suite to carry through.
Rex bounded for the dining area, his whole body wagging with the force of his tail. Arcade and Veronica were not far behind.
As soon as Six came into sight, she was engulfed in a tight embrace from Veronica, the hug couldâve only been tighter if their Brotherhood of Steel scribe was wearing her signature power fists. A beat later, however, it seemed to catch the amount of bandages lining Sixâs body.
âOkay, Iâm no expert, but this looks like some serious damage,â Veronica said in hesitant surprise. âWhat happened to you?â
Raul brought his beer from his mouth, resting it in his lap. âYeah, mija, you havenât yet graced us with the daring tale of your adventure.â
Sixâs smile strained, kept together, but shaking. âRight, yeah, I⌠I justâŚâ
Her eyes found Arcadeâs, and he was ready to step in if she needed him to. But first, he offered one terse nod.
âIâll tell you all later, just⌠not right now, okay?â The words were soft, unpracticed in Sixâs mouth, but genuine.
Arcade weighed the words, not sure where his expectations had laid. It was a start, if nothing else. The truth would be a harder battle, but at least, in this moment, Six found the strength to keep the mask off.
âVeronica, why donât you entertain everyone instead with the story of the woman and her radscorpion sting?â He offered.
âOh my gosh!â Veronica gasped, remembering the absurdity. âYou guys wonât believe it, so this womanââ
The anecdote became background noise in Arcadeâs ears, having already heard it once. His gaze lingered on Six, searching for the same shattered pieces heâd seen before, and finding only cracks. But her eyes then met his, and she offered a small, thankful smile, sincere in its authenticity.
And that was enough.
(Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!)