Arcade was old enough, of course, to have experienced true romantic love and lost it all within his tiny moment on the Mojave. He’d had many men and he’d banished them all in bright flashes of stupid insight as he watched his life become more and more insipid over the years. A part of him no longer cared for the chase that it entailed. He loved too frequently, too naively, even for his age. And when the Courier had come along, he’d known that she was his shot in the dark, his last chance at anything meaningful and real. The fact that she lacked a handsome face that made his heart stir had only been a plus. He was too tired to try anymore and he was starting to feel his age.
The Courier, really, she didn’t love. Well, she said she didn’t want to. At least not romantic love, supposedly. Yet she’d built up fantastic walls anyway that it only took him moments to tear down, because he liked the look she gave him when he flashed her that stupid smile and they exchanged something witty and scathing, even as he peered in at her soul.
His hands on her, when she was broken by battle, they were always gentle. She told him once that if she’d ever been prone to a lover, which would never happen, may God have mercy on the Mojave, that she would want that lover to have hands like his. He had large hands, but his fingers were long, and swift, and always warm against her flesh when he pieced her back together. He occasionally managed to get the upper hand when she would make some dark comment about how his bedside manner needed work, but he had the sneaking suspicion that all of those times he had thought himself the victor, she had really just been handing it to him.
She could also lie like nobody he had ever seen, though she did so rarely and never to him. He remembered her caressing Benny’s cheek once, telling him how badly she wanted his body. They had slipped upstairs as two, but only she had returned a few hours later, smiling, the muzzle of a .9mm with the likeness of the Virgin Mother herself on the grip, slipped into the belt of her pants like a prize. Even then, he was sure she had simply killed him, not slept with him. She loaned so few intimate parts of herself out to people, even when she helped everyone she could.
At times, he often wondered what it was she wanted from him, even if they did respect one another and feel the call of companionship. The Courier was prone to worrying about little things he didn’t understand, even when he was absent from her side. She would leave him notes sometimes at the Novac hotel room, occasionally in Latin, her spelling atrocious (the Latin actually better than the English, which he never could understand), about stupid things that she expected him to do before she got back. He normally did them, she did so much for him.
When he inevitably told her about the Enclave, about his father, about the Remnants, she had gotten very quiet. They had been skirting the ruins of Boulder City, Rex running on ahead and sniffing at everything as if he owned the world. She had just killed House that morning, and didn’t feel much like talking.
“So, is this a dark secret,” she’d finally asked when he’d become sullen and sad at her insistence that they not talk, “because I always thought you had one.”
The depth with which she knew him, with which he understood her, was instantaneous and rare and soon far better than any sort of romantic love life he’d ever had. And friendships, he wasn’t the type to create many of those on his own, so he had no words for what they were. The Courier, though, she made friends everywhere she went unless it was with the Legion. She entertained the ideal that there was nobody in the universe that didn’t deserve a moment of her time, and most everyone and thing interested her, even the native wildlife. She was enamored with night stalkers and bighorners and the giant rats and rabbits that the Co-op in Westside raised for food, and the first time she had seen a seed she had planted, a slip of maize, rise up toward the sun, she had thought it was a miracle.
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timeasmymeasure
Doors Unlocked and Open (1b/?)
Date: 2012-10-19 07:24 am (UTC)The Courier, really, she didn’t love. Well, she said she didn’t want to. At least not romantic love, supposedly. Yet she’d built up fantastic walls anyway that it only took him moments to tear down, because he liked the look she gave him when he flashed her that stupid smile and they exchanged something witty and scathing, even as he peered in at her soul.
His hands on her, when she was broken by battle, they were always gentle. She told him once that if she’d ever been prone to a lover, which would never happen, may God have mercy on the Mojave, that she would want that lover to have hands like his. He had large hands, but his fingers were long, and swift, and always warm against her flesh when he pieced her back together. He occasionally managed to get the upper hand when she would make some dark comment about how his bedside manner needed work, but he had the sneaking suspicion that all of those times he had thought himself the victor, she had really just been handing it to him.
She could also lie like nobody he had ever seen, though she did so rarely and never to him. He remembered her caressing Benny’s cheek once, telling him how badly she wanted his body. They had slipped upstairs as two, but only she had returned a few hours later, smiling, the muzzle of a .9mm with the likeness of the Virgin Mother herself on the grip, slipped into the belt of her pants like a prize. Even then, he was sure she had simply killed him, not slept with him. She loaned so few intimate parts of herself out to people, even when she helped everyone she could.
At times, he often wondered what it was she wanted from him, even if they did respect one another and feel the call of companionship. The Courier was prone to worrying about little things he didn’t understand, even when he was absent from her side. She would leave him notes sometimes at the Novac hotel room, occasionally in Latin, her spelling atrocious (the Latin actually better than the English, which he never could understand), about stupid things that she expected him to do before she got back. He normally did them, she did so much for him.
When he inevitably told her about the Enclave, about his father, about the Remnants, she had gotten very quiet. They had been skirting the ruins of Boulder City, Rex running on ahead and sniffing at everything as if he owned the world. She had just killed House that morning, and didn’t feel much like talking.
“So, is this a dark secret,” she’d finally asked when he’d become sullen and sad at her insistence that they not talk, “because I always thought you had one.”
The depth with which she knew him, with which he understood her, was instantaneous and rare and soon far better than any sort of romantic love life he’d ever had. And friendships, he wasn’t the type to create many of those on his own, so he had no words for what they were. The Courier, though, she made friends everywhere she went unless it was with the Legion. She entertained the ideal that there was nobody in the universe that didn’t deserve a moment of her time, and most everyone and thing interested her, even the native wildlife. She was enamored with night stalkers and bighorners and the giant rats and rabbits that the Co-op in Westside raised for food, and the first time she had seen a seed she had planted, a slip of maize, rise up toward the sun, she had thought it was a miracle.