The Courier was easy to intimidate. He knew this when he met her. She was never the smartest, never the bravest, never the strongest. Hell, she wasn't even much of a charmer. She had phobias and disorders - and any flu or cold you could think of, you could be damn sure she had it.
He also knew she wouldn't make it in the wasteland without him, though she'd tried. He'd like to have thought that she would be the death of him, that it was the only thing left for him to do.
Looking down at her, through his scope, it made his teeth grit. There she sat, on the desert floor, chained and gagged to the nearest fence post. And all he had left was a busted Stealthboy and half a clip. He refused to take the mercy shot this time.
She still had a chance. A small one, but it was still a chance.
The Courier meant nothing, but that didn't mean that her life wasn't his own. He couldn't bare to lose that life. Not again.
Caesar was there, he could feel it. The bastard was a mere feet from his barrel. He could end it all right then and there.
Boone was behind her, his rough hands taking her wrists and tugging at the chain. She was jumpy - anxious, shaking him off with a fury he'd not yet seen from her.
"It's just me."
"Boone."
"Yeah," The chains were gone, her hands free to aid in her own escape. Yet, she made no effort to move them. He removed her collar for her, her objections falling upon deaf ears. His practice was similar to that of the slave boy at the Dam; precise.
He tossed it aside, leaving the camp with her closing in tight on his heels.
And no one was going to get in his way.
Overly optimistic.
That was one way to describe the Courier in all her uncharismatic glory. She never shut up. Always asking him questions, always on a 'road trip' with the radio humming from her Pip-boy. Cheery. Affectionate. Ecstatic to be alive and somewhat healthy.
So many words that used to describe her that she'd all but done away with.
When they made it to Hoover Dam, they'd put her down as a refugee. They apologized, they couldn't do anything more than that. Hoover Dam was a war front, not Bitter Springs. They were advised to head in that direction. They even pointed out stops along the way, just in case help was needed.
They didn't need it, Boone had assured them.
By nightfall, they had set out to set up camp. ED-E floated behind them, scouting for any signs of the feral, hostile creatures of the wasteland. The fire was set with leftover flint, their mats rolled out beneath the thin sheet they called a tent.
The Courier had said surprisingly little, not since the Dam. She'd just sit and stare at the ground, like she was still tied to that rotted fence post. The dinner, sloppy bits of beans, remained untouched by her. He finished off the meal himself for fear of wasting it.
Before, when survival was in their best interest, their mats laid mere inches apart. In a close knitted team, they worked better. Now, she was feet away, skirting the outside edge of the tent. Not even at arm's length.
It would seem she was no longer interested in their best interest.
On the days that followed, that interest never peaked. It was always the same. They walked, he ate and she slept as far away from him - and his loaded gun - as possible. She never said a word, never asked anything of him, never looked him in the eye.
He couldn't get her to eat. Whatever it was, she didn't want it. She was starving herself, and if he didn't know any better he'd say she was doing it out of spite.
The Courier was always compulsive. She would pick and prod at everything, be it lint on her clothes or rust on ED-E. The Courier used to bath once a day, something he'd never seen from someone who traveled. Albeit, it was usually a bird bath. Now, she acted as if the mud caked to her pants complimented her and the cockroaches in the motels had every right to live as she did.
She was going to Jacobstown, whether she was aware of it or not, and he was going to save her. He was going to see it through until the bitter end.
It was made known to him early on that the Courier didn't like soldiers. She didn't like how they drew in close, or how they never cared to think and their fights had little rhyme or reason. Ironically, she found her home while nuzzled in broad arms of mutants and the occasional bucket of bolts.
It was almost endearing.
The mutant who Boone knew to be Marcus, for he had met him once before, nodded as they entered, knowing perfectly well who they were. Or at least, who she was.
Boone took her by the shoulder, guiding her up the stairs and into the lodge. Inside was a man that went by the name of Doc Henry. They had helped him with his research only a year earlier, the Courier having a softer spot for anyone who struggled with controlling their own mind. Boone knew little else about him, only that he was the one man he would trust with the job he had to offer.
"Can you fix her?" The Courier had fallen asleep, drugged with a stomach full of meat.
"There is nothing I can fix," he replied. "This is a delicate matter, it takes time and acceptance. Until she decides there's something wrong with her, and until she decides she wants help - she will remain an enigma."
"We had a run in with the Legion and she's been like that ever since. I don't need her to tell me what's wrong. Now fix her." Boone barked, impatient.
Henry sighed, rubbing his temples. "That's not how things work, 'like that' is not something that can be treated."
"Depressed," The sniper tried again. "She's been depressed."
"Right now, the only thing we can do for her is ease the pain, keep her fed and wait it out. She's like every other patient here. She will be helped, but only if she chooses to help herself as well."
"She is nothing like them."
"More so than you think."
Boone decided he was not in the mood.
He watched her, day after day. She was lost, and she wasn't coming back anytime soon.
Before, he had cursed under his breath about how often he'd caught her rambling. She wanted to get to know him, she'd said. She'd tease him, laugh at him, blame him for everything that happened; the good and the bad. He'd wanted her to change, and now he wanted nothing more than to have her back. Back to how she was before time tore her apart.
He was watching her die, day after day.
She was hooked on whatever Henry was giving her. Eating and sleeping were secondary, though it was all she ever seemed to do. That, and talk to Marcus. He would talk and she would listen. Same with Lily.
Boone, shrinking back into his coat as the cold flushed his sinuses. Leaning against the railing, he flicked bits of snow off the wooden lodge, watching it fall and land on the bushes below.
Lily had decided that the Courier had listened to her for long enough. It was time she learned to feed the brahmin. She did as she was told, always. Once the brahmin warmed up to her, she began giving them to pats on the head, and later scratches behind the ears or rubs on their backs.
Boone huffed once more, leaning his body fully against the porches wooden column as he watched the two. He pulled the hood of his coat over his head, his hair catching up to their stay in Jacobstown. He crossed his arms, doing his best to rid himself of the chill.
Suddenly, something wet and malleable crumbled against his chest.
The sniper turned to her slowly, raising an eyebrow at the gloved Courier. She gave him a shrug, rubbing her mittens together to brush off pieces of the snow. In that moment she did something he'd only expect from the woman he'd met in Novac.
She blamed the Brahmin.