About the only thing in the Mojave that scared her were centaurs, though he had to admit they frightened him too. He never confessed this outright to her, of course, except for the time he became trapped under a trailer and was swarmed by three of them. But she’d been there in time, and he’d tried to pretend it hadn’t caused him to almost need a new pair of pants. Later that night he had seen her trembling in her sleeping bag, and it took him only a moment to inch his lanky form around her, and realize that she was actually still afraid.
He didn’t know what this was, this thing between a man who liked men and a women who craved nobody. She favored him, she delighted him and though she wasn’t possessive he couldn’t help but want to be close to her. He felt odd about it some nights, when they would occasionally book an actual hotel room and curl up together under the same sheets, but he didn’t want to be alone. He wondered, as he lay spooned against her or felt her trying to shift into a comforting position against his long back, if she wanted that closeness as well.
Time passed, and the hell that was the Mojave changed seasons but either they were imperceptible or else neither noticed. The Joshua trees were in bloom when she finally parlayed with Caesar, far more scarred than when they had started but still infinitely wild and beautiful in an alien way that the Wastes made all who traveled the most barren stretches.
He had watched her climb aboard the ferry bound for Caesar’s camp with Lucullus and Rex and strongly protested when she asked him to stay behind.
“No, it’s better this way,” she’d told him, “I’m only going to see what he wants, and I know how you hate him. I’ll be right back.”
Arcade’s questions about what she would do if attacked fell on mute ears.
“I’m taking Rex,” she had said, “and you know I’m better even with my bare hands than you are with your plasma defender.”
It had stung, the truth, in that moment. He knew she hadn’t meant to hurt him, to break down his pride beneath her boot when so often pride was all a man had. But it still burned, cold and bitter, like the feel of a favored sister’s rejection. But he trusted her, believed that she truly wouldn’t need him and for once doubted that she ever had.
So it came as some small surprise, but a surprise none-the-less, when she didn’t return from the Legion camp and hours turned into a day and a half.
At first he had been frightened and anxious and he’d paced the floors of the Lucky 38 cocktail lounge and considered packing. Because Arcade Gannon thought about running when things became too frightening, and he had a lot to run from by now. Then that fear had turned to confusion, and that confusion to anger. She had said she would be right back, and she always meant it. Was she even okay?
He had donned his metal armor and was headed for the elevator when she met him in the hall.
“Caesar,” she told him, never needing an introduction when they spoke, “Caesar’s my father. He knew, Arcade, he told me things…things that only my father would know and I had no answers for until now. He used to own Rex…it’s, since the beginning it’s been rigged and-”
He couldn’t help thinking what an awful irony it all was. The Mojave’s very own ‘Wasteland Messiah’, fighting against the one man who held all of her secrets but she hated more than anyone. The first man to ever hold her, squalling, as she came into this sad, ruined world. It had been Edward Sallow, and Arcade wondered at the perversity of it all.
He let her have her silence, her moment to mourn for the father she could never have. He wondered then, glancing at her, putting an arm around her shoulders as she sank against his ribs, if having a father that was present but unreachable, or a father that was gone and one could never reach were not one in the same.
“I don’t have time for this,” she finally said, pulling away, “I have that meeting with Cachino about the NCR, and I’m already late. Come on, Gannon, get your suit on we have to go.”
Doors Unlocked and Open (1c/?)
He didn’t know what this was, this thing between a man who liked men and a women who craved nobody. She favored him, she delighted him and though she wasn’t possessive he couldn’t help but want to be close to her. He felt odd about it some nights, when they would occasionally book an actual hotel room and curl up together under the same sheets, but he didn’t want to be alone. He wondered, as he lay spooned against her or felt her trying to shift into a comforting position against his long back, if she wanted that closeness as well.
Time passed, and the hell that was the Mojave changed seasons but either they were imperceptible or else neither noticed. The Joshua trees were in bloom when she finally parlayed with Caesar, far more scarred than when they had started but still infinitely wild and beautiful in an alien way that the Wastes made all who traveled the most barren stretches.
He had watched her climb aboard the ferry bound for Caesar’s camp with Lucullus and Rex and strongly protested when she asked him to stay behind.
“No, it’s better this way,” she’d told him, “I’m only going to see what he wants, and I know how you hate him. I’ll be right back.”
Arcade’s questions about what she would do if attacked fell on mute ears.
“I’m taking Rex,” she had said, “and you know I’m better even with my bare hands than you are with your plasma defender.”
It had stung, the truth, in that moment. He knew she hadn’t meant to hurt him, to break down his pride beneath her boot when so often pride was all a man had. But it still burned, cold and bitter, like the feel of a favored sister’s rejection. But he trusted her, believed that she truly wouldn’t need him and for once doubted that she ever had.
So it came as some small surprise, but a surprise none-the-less, when she didn’t return from the Legion camp and hours turned into a day and a half.
At first he had been frightened and anxious and he’d paced the floors of the Lucky 38 cocktail lounge and considered packing. Because Arcade Gannon thought about running when things became too frightening, and he had a lot to run from by now. Then that fear had turned to confusion, and that confusion to anger. She had said she would be right back, and she always meant it. Was she even okay?
He had donned his metal armor and was headed for the elevator when she met him in the hall.
“Caesar,” she told him, never needing an introduction when they spoke, “Caesar’s my father. He knew, Arcade, he told me things…things that only my father would know and I had no answers for until now. He used to own Rex…it’s, since the beginning it’s been rigged and-”
He couldn’t help thinking what an awful irony it all was. The Mojave’s very own ‘Wasteland Messiah’, fighting against the one man who held all of her secrets but she hated more than anyone. The first man to ever hold her, squalling, as she came into this sad, ruined world. It had been Edward Sallow, and Arcade wondered at the perversity of it all.
He let her have her silence, her moment to mourn for the father she could never have. He wondered then, glancing at her, putting an arm around her shoulders as she sank against his ribs, if having a father that was present but unreachable, or a father that was gone and one could never reach were not one in the same.
“I don’t have time for this,” she finally said, pulling away, “I have that meeting with Cachino about the NCR, and I’m already late. Come on, Gannon, get your suit on we have to go.”