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Porcelain Masks, Paper Walls

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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 Madre’s open maw, where letting go is the hardest lesson of all, it should have been Six.

…Right?

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 he’d 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 wasn’t 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-DE’s 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 couldn’t scrounge up the courage to enter it once more.

Despite not having an easy rest, it was early when Arcade rose from bed—if 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.

…Right, 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 Six’s “It’ll only be 4 days” 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 confidence—and just enough omission—that dissuading her felt both exhausting and pointless.

So they didn’t 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. He’d just returned to the Lucky 38 after another shootout in Freeside left dozens needing treatment late into the night. He’d 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t.

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 they’d assist at the Old Mormon Fort until the Courier returned. They’d stopped by a few times, concern increasing with each visit that passed with no update, but Veronica couldn’t bring herself to stay for long.

After day 6, Cass had left for whichever casino would take her caps (caps conveniently procured as Six’s stash dwindled). She also stopped in occasionally to get updates, responding in her own sarcasm blanketed concern. Sleeping in a bed that she didn’t have to pay for was an added bonus, though she, too, didn’t linger, either too sober or too hungover to deal with Arcade’s ‘antics’.

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. He’d been coming back nightly for the first few days, but decided the walk was ‘too much for his old knees’, and hadn’t 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.

They’d all stopped talking about Six. Any words brought them closer to the burning reality that none of them could face.

That this time… Maybe she…

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 she’d 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 yet…

His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the elevator. The Brotherhood bunker wasn’t that far.

Four days, she’d said.

Arcade closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, sharper this time.

“Just a little longer,” 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.

…Maybe visiting Daisy would be what finally opened the metaphorical cage that trapped him here. Six did mention she’d be passing NoVac on the way to the Brotherhood bunker. It couldn’t 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 ridin’ 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.

He’d 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 didn’t mean to worry everyone, how she didn’t mean to be gone so long. But that she was okay, now. That everything could go back to their strange imitation of normal.

He didn’t expect Six to show up and be, by all appearances, perfectly fine.

“…Six?” His unsure voice came. It was preferable, wasn’t 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 she’d 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.

“Six?” He asked again, stepping forward to draw her attention. “Where have you been?”

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. “Not right now, Arcade.”

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.

“Not right now?” He echoed slowly. “No. You know what? We are doing this right now. Do you have any idea how long you were gone? How long I’ve just been waiting here? No word, no news, nothing??”

She turned from him again with an air of dismissal, heading instead for her bedroom.

“Are we truly such an afterthought that whatever inane adventure you found was more important than letting your friends know you’re still alive? Just off on a bender, or I—I don’t even know what else,” he said, voice bordering on the closest he could get to hysterical, “because you have nothing to say for yourself!”

She froze in the doorway, clenched fists shaking with something he couldn’t 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 didn’t help. It didn’t even make him feel better. Six was air-headed, he knew that. He knew on some level she couldn’t help it. But that didn’t stop the very real fear she’d inflicted on them all in her absence.

“We all thought you were dead,” he leveled, voice serious, almost despondent. “We were all worried. You just vanished. You can’t just—“ 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 anger—or whatever it was that made them tremble—but 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 he’d slip away entirely if they weren’t white-knuckled against it.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m getting the sense that something might be wrong.”

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.

“Six…” His voice faltered, then steadied by force alone. “I’m going to remove your mask, alright? Can you let me do that?”

A small, uneven nod against his chest.

His hands didn’t 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 couldn’t 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.

He’d 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 didn’t look long enough. As if this, too, could be buried.

“Please,” he said, the word almost unfamiliar in his mouth. “Let me look. I can help.” The reassurance felt untested, like something he wanted to believe more than something he knew how to give.

“I didn’t want you to know…”

“And we’re going to talk about that,” he chastised, firmer this time. “But for now, you need medical attention.” 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 he’d 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.

He’d seen this look before, in the recently dead. Not lifeless, not yet, but empty, greyed beyond recognition, like windows to a soul that didn’t 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 couldn’t be sure.

“What happened to you?” 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.

“The Brotherhood bunker…” her voice wavered, unsteady in a way that suggested something deeper than fatigue. “It was a trap. When I got there, there was just this radio playing the same broadcast on repeat, over and over, welcoming you to…” 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.

“The Sierra Madre.” 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 didn’t want to ask about and learn the answer.

But he didn’t need to.

“The room started filling with gas,” she continued, stilted voice catching on something invisible. “I tried to escape, but it was so bad. It felt like I was drowning—like I couldn’t get any air in my lungs,” the words fell out in a haphazard spiral, each pause like breaking glass.

“Six—“

“When I woke up, I was there, at the Sierra Madre. It's a town, or a casino, or—or it was, before the bombs. But it’s just left there, because—and oh God, the fog—“ The words came faster, uneven, stumbling into each other as if stopping meant something worse would catch up to her. “It bleeds into the air like blood, red and—and it burns when you breathe—makes you feel like you’re constantly on the verge of suffocating to death, even when you’re standing still, but especially when the ghosts—”

Her fingers dug into him, grounding herself or grasping for purchase, he couldn’t tell. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to dislodge the memory, but it only seemed to drag her deeper into it.

“They’re not people anymore, not even ghouls, they’re like— and they don’t stay dead. You can’t kill them, not really. They just keep coming, and you have to keep—” Her voice hitched, breath breaking. “—hacking, and hacking, and hacking, until there’s nothing left of them—and even then you don’t know if it’s enough, if they’ll get up again, and again—”

“Six,” he cut sharply. “You don’t have to recall it all right now. Clearly, it isn’t helping. Just… just breathe, okay? You’re here now, with me. Focus on that.” He cringed at his words as he spoke them, starkly reminded of why ‘Doctor’ 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 didn’t recognize before him, trying to shape and fit this problem into something he could fix, or at the very least, manage.

“I should run a checkup,” he finally said. “Clearly that place was…extraneous. Your mind will feel better once your body does.”

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 didn’t 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. “Sit,” he offered, his voice quieter now.

He crossed to Six’s bedside table without hesitation, already knowing what he’d 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.

“This is worse than I thought,” he admitted, kneeling down to carefully examine her up close. “I’m going to need you to wash up before I can begin to help you. Do you think you’re well enough to go shower first?” Arcade asked slowly.

Six quickly shook her head, hands squeezing into fists as her gaze became fixedly glued to the carpet.

“Alright, then,” he said, steady and structured, grasping at what he could do instead of what he couldn’t. “I’ll clean you up, then. I’m going to go get a tin of water from the kitchen.”

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.

“Wait—“ her voice caught, then steadied by force. “I’ll come with you, please.”

“Is this a newly developed phobia of indoor plumbing, or have I simply become that charming?” he asked in some hoping attempt that his joke would land, and wouldn’t 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 physically—though he didn’t look back to measure—but he could feel it. The way she stayed within reach. The way distance, even a few steps of it, seemed unacceptable.

“You can sit down at the table, I won’t stray further than the sink.” The words came more as a request than an offer. It occupied two desires in his mind, both that he’d 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 Arcades’ attention, being something clean, something that made sense in his mind. Because when it didn’t, when his gaze flickered, just briefly—

There it was. Another mark, one he hadn’t 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 should’ve 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 wasn’t 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.

“I spent a lot of time alone, at the Sierra Madre,” Six finally said, voice distant and empty, cutting through Arcade’s internal track. “Just me, and the winding identical streets, and this awful silence.” She rested her head against the back of the chair. “Every time I close my eyes, every time I look around and there’s no one else, no noise. It’s like…”

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.

“You should never have been there alone.” 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 Six’s feet. The water had already begun to cool. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been standing there, staring, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who had left.

“We should have never let you be alone there,” 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.

“I guess I wasn’t, not completely… just most of the time.” her voice wavered, brittle at the edges, like something that might splinter if pressed too hard. “There 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.”

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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 shouldn’t.

He cleared his throat. “You mentioned others.”

Her gaze flickered, feeling more solid as it settled upon him.

“…Yeah.” she echoed, like she had to work past something caught in her throat. “Yeah, there were.”

“Would it help if you told me about them?”

She paused, considering the offer.

“The first one I met, his name was Dog… or God, depending on who you asked.” 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.

“He’s a nightkin,” she went on, words feeling more natural in her mouth. “Kind of like Lily with Leo, but if Leo was a whole person too, and if they couldn’t really talk to each other.”

“Sounds like Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Arcade murmured, attention split between her explanation and the careful cleaning around a particularly fresh wound. “Not uncommon among nightkin. Prolonged Stealth Boy use tends to… destabilize things. It’s not uncommon for two or more to share a mind, however such a thing takes shape.”

“Right.” She swallowed, keeping deliberately still. “They didn’t share, though, not really. Just took turns. They both always thought they knew best, but I don’t think they ever did, only ever fighting for control. Dog just hungered, God just planned. But it never led them anywhere.”

The words faltered, implying something deeper, something more personal in her mind, but Arcade could not parse what.

“But it all worked out in the end,” she continued. “They managed to make themselves one again, realized they were both fighting for the same things.”

Arcade’s motions paused, just briefly. “That’s not exactly—” He stopped himself, the correction dying before it could fully form. This wasn’t the time for a lecture on the complexities of identity integration. “Never mind.”

He wrung the rag into the water, cleaning it before reaching for her other arm.

“Then, there was Dean Domino, he—”

Arcade’s head snapped up, genuine surprise breaking through his clinical focus. “Dean Domino? I’ve heard of him! The Kings call him the King of Swing.” A faint, incredulous huff escaped him. “He’s still alive?”

“Not just alive,” Six said, something sharper threading through her tone now, “but he’s been at the casino since the bombs. He’s been trying to crack it this whole time.”

Arcade let out a low whistle under his breath. “Persistent, if nothing else.” He resumed his work. “Well? Did he live up to the title?”

There was a pause. Six’s gaze drifted, not to anything in the room, but somewhere far past it.

“Well,” she said slowly, “he tried to kill me when we first met.” Her fingers curled slightly against her arms, nails pressing into skin hard enough to leave marks. “And what he did to Christine…” Her voice faltered.

“But… he understood the Casino better than anyone. Not just the layout or the traps, but its rules, how it breathed,” she explained, words falling out more than they were said. “I don’t think he wanted to be there any more than anyone else did, not really. He just… He couldn’t let it go, like Elijah. That place, it has a way of keeping you there.” Her voice cracked. “It gets inside your head and it—it doesn’t let go, it just—“

Her nails dug deeper, skin blanching under the pressure.

“The last person,” Arcade cut in, firmer now, the shift in tone deliberate. “Tell me about them.”

It wasn’t 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 wouldn’t grow new skin over old dirt. She flinched, but the reaction came a second too late, dulled at the edges.

“Christine,” Six said, the name coming out softer than the others. “She was with the Brotherhood, a scribe, I think. Same chapter as Elijah.” Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension not gone but carefully unwinding.

“She was hunting him, that’s how she ended up there,” she explained. “I don’t really know what for, but if the Sierra Madre is what he’s capable of, I don't want to know any further.”

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.

“She had gotten trapped in an old autodoc.” She paused, voice beginning to retreat again. “It… messed up her throat pretty badly, and even when she was out, it was still like she was trapped there.” A faint frown crossed her face, but one glance from Arcade and she steadied again. “But she was nice, fun to talk to, even if there wasn’t much talking on her part.” Another implied joke, another returned smile. “And she was smart, smart enough for the both of us. I think you would’ve liked her.”

Arcade’s hands slowed just slightly. “She sounds like the kind of person I’d get along with.”

“Yeah,” Six agreed absently. “I wonder if Veronica ever knew her.”

“Hmm.” He let the statement hang in the air as he mulled it over, giving the hypothetical genuine thought. “I think it’s unlikely. The Brotherhood isn’t exactly… intimate, as organizations go. The different chapters are like families, and a lot of the ‘families’ don’t tend to get along.”

“Maybe they could’ve met here,” Six offered, then turned away in a show of defeat. “But Christine stayed,” she added quietly, “at the casino. Taking care of it, I think.”

“Then she’ll make sure no one else ever gets trapped there. That you’re the last people the Sierra Madre couldn’t let go.”

Six’s eyes began to grow wet again. “That sounds nice.” She leaned her head forward, nestling it into the crook of Arcade's shoulder, causing him to pause in his bandaging. “I never want to go back there.”

“You won’t. There is nothing left to keep you there.”

She sniffled softly, having no more words. Her body slumped tiredly, the mix of Med-X and exhaustion finally outweighing the burdens she’d carried this far.

“I don’t think there’s much more I can do for you in terms of treating your wounds. I think time and rest are what you need right now.”

Six seemed apprehensive. “But—“

“If you’re about to give me any sort of what-if, I don’t want to hear it. You’re home, Six. Nothing from the Sierra Madre can hurt you here.” 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.

“But, what if I wake up and I’m back there? What if none of this is real?”

Arcade paused in his move to stand, his hands moving from awkwardly hovering, to pulling at Six’s shoulders, bringing her away so her eyes could meet his.

“Then I will hunt down the Sierra Madre and find you myself,” Arcade told her seriously.

“You don’t mean that. You don’t understand how… how bad…”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, you’re home now, Six.” He repeated to her.

“I—I know, but—“

“Six.” Arcade interjected, squeezing her shoulders once more until she met his eyes. “Look at me, listen. You are home now.”

The words didn’t fix anything. He knew they wouldn’t.

But they landed.

Her expression smoothed instead of cracked, eyes glossing over again. She retreated, but didn’t 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 didn’t, but she didn’t 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 didn’t feel oppressive. It wasn’t 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.

“What would you have done?”

Six came back to herself slowly, brows furrowed as she settled on him.

“If I hadn’t insisted,” he clarified, more controlled now. “If I let you come hide away when you told me ‘not right now’… what then?”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

Arcade’s jaw set, hardening with his gaze. “That’s not a good enough answer.”

“It is to me.” There was more edge there than before, not sharp, but present.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You came back half-dead, Six. That isn’t something you just figure out.”

“I came back.” Her response was immediate, sure in its tone. “That’s the part that matters.”

He blinked at that, thrown for a loop, not by the logic, but by how certain she sounded. “That—no, that’s not how this works,” he said, frustration creeping in despite himself. “You don’t get to reduce this to survival as a success metric.”

“Don’t I?” 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. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart,” she continued, quieter, but more grounded than she’d been all night. “People depend on me not to.”

“You—“ Arcade tried, but Six wasn’t finished.

“Out there, if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let people see you’re not sure, then someone dies. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s someone else. But it still—” that careful steadiness was faltering, whatever she was trying to say got lost in her throat, so she continued with something she could. “So you learn to be decisive, stagnant, filing things away until you can stop and figure it out. Then people start relying on that.”

Her voice softened, not weaker, just more honest. “Then everyone needs you to be that person, the one who figures it out.”

Arcade’s expression shifted, something conflicted flickering through it. “And you think that means you don’t get to be anything else? Even in the comfort of your own home? Even around people who deserve to know better?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that the second I stop being that, I stop being useful.” She went quiet again, clearly trying to find the words, and despite his better judgment, he let her. “You started traveling with me to help the Mojave, because you knew that I could. But if I can’t even help myself, if I can’t be what the Mojave needs, if you see that I can’t, then what even am I? No one would stick around to find out.”

“I would,” Arcade told her seriously. “I am your doctor, but more than that I'm your friend, whether it’s convenient or not. Don’t put a mask on in my presence because you think it makes you more palpable,” he scolded. “You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot handle for me.”

Her expression wavered at that. “That’s not what I’m doing—“

“It is.” His tone sharpened, just slightly. “You made that decision the moment you walked in here and tried to hide this.”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” she said softly.

He scoffed. “You—”

“I was managing it.” The correction came automatic, carrying with it a stark intention.

“No you weren’t.”

“I have a first aid kid under the desk, I would’ve.”

Arcade exhaled through his nose, tension pulling at his posture. “That doesn’t count.”

“It has before.”

He leaned back slightly, studying her. “And how’s that working out for you right now?” 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.

“I’m still here,” she said eventually.

Arcade’s gaze softened, but he didn’t let it go. “Barely.”

That one landed, striking her in hesitation, and that hesitation said more than anything else had.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“Don’t apologize to me.” His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the red gleam of her NCR helmet resting nearby. “Just stop hiding behind that mask. Take it off for people who care to see.”

Her gaze followed his, then returned to him. For a moment, it looked like she might argue again, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned onto her side, facing him more fully. Her eyes were tired, hollow, but genuine. “Thank you, Arcade.”

Arcade averted his gaze, words faltering as he considered them carefully before sharing. “I understand what it’s like, forcing yourself into a box. Locking away pieces of yourself, even with people who deserve to know better…” he admitted. “It consumes you, and it leaves you with nothing in the end. That’s why…” he trailed off, struggling slightly. “You don’t have to do it. Your sins are not—they’re not like…”

He turned his hand over in his lap, tracing the lines in deep contemplation. “Six, there’s actually something I need to talk to you about.” He turned back toward her, only finding her lax, the tension in her face softened into a fragile slumber.

“…Sleep well,” he murmured, folding himself down until his face smoothed once again. “You’ve earned it.”

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.

“I found the location of the bunker Six went to. We’re going there.” He instructed plainly.

“What?” Arcade had nearly forgotten that’s what Six had originally gone for after hearing the horror stories of the Sierra Madre.

“We are going after Six,” Boone repeated, enunciating each word deliberately, pulling Arcade down to be level with him. “Unless you have other plans, Gannon?”

Arcade shook his head, trying to keep the tone calm. “Well, 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.”

Boone’s eyes narrowed, processing. He didn’t move at first, just stared, as if weighing every word. Then, with careful steps he walked to the bedroom.

“She’s asleep,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Arcade approached from behind, voice low. “And you’d do well not to wake her. It’s been rough, to say the least. She was taken to this place… I’ve never seen her talk about anything with that much fear.” He shook his head. “I know you’ve been worried, but let her work through it for herself before you demand answers.”

Boone’s gaze lingered on her face. “Who took her?” he asked quietly.

“No one you’d know,” Arcade said tiredly, “and knowing Six, she saved a special fate for him.” He studied Boone’s demeanor, the set to his jaw, and the tight hold of his fists. “She doesn’t need you to go find payback or justice for her. Right now, she just needs you here.”

Boone nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t shift, standing unmoving in the doorway like a sentinel.

Arcade exhaled and tried again. “Look, I know you’re 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 you’ll 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.”

Boone’s fingers flexed at his side, a silent acknowledgment. He didn’t move, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

“I’m going to fetch Raul, Cass, and Veronica,” Arcade said, trying a light note. “Help me keep them from disrupting her sleep, won’t you? Your imposing glare is much more effective than anything I could say.”

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.

“Right,” he finally mumbled. “Get the others, I’ll do what I can.” Then, without another word, he moved toward the bathroom.

“And,” Arcade began, catching him. “You should probably wake ED-E.” A long, resigned sigh went through him, annoyed despite himself that he was the one to bring this up. “She’ll probably want to see that Six has returned.”

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 she’d built around herself long before the Sierra Madre had ever carved new scars into her. Of how he should’ve 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 Casino’s 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.

“—swelled up to the size of a baseball, I mean I don’t 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!” Veronica rambled as they stepped into the elevator, using far more hand gestures than necessary.

Arcade let out a small chuckle despite himself. “Just wait until you’re on hour 24 of being awake, and there’s a whole tent of people like that. I suppose it’s comforting to know that things have stayed interesting at the Old Mormon Fort without me.”

“Well you should’ve stopped by,” she said, elbowing Arcade between the ribs. “I don’t know what up here was better than what’s out there. The Lucky 38 is just another hole in the ground.”

“Yes, yes, and you’ve made your opinions on those clear.” 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 could’ve 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 Six’s body.

“Okay, I’m no expert, but this looks like some serious damage,” Veronica said in hesitant surprise. “What happened to you?”

Raul brought his beer from his mouth, resting it in his lap. “Yeah, mija, you haven’t yet graced us with the daring tale of your adventure.”

Six’s smile strained, kept together, but shaking. “Right, yeah, I… I just…”

Her eyes found Arcade’s, and he was ready to step in if she needed him to. But first, he offered one terse nod.

“I’ll tell you all later, just… not right now, okay?” The words were soft, unpracticed in Six’s 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.

“Veronica, why don’t you entertain everyone instead with the story of the woman and her radscorpion sting?” He offered.

“Oh my gosh!” Veronica gasped, remembering the absurdity. “You guys won’t believe it, so this woman—“

The anecdote became background noise in Arcade’s ears, having already heard it once. His gaze lingered on Six, searching for the same shattered pieces he’d 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!)

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