In a bar that's always closing
In a world where people shout
I don't wanna talk this over
I don't wanna talk it out

Chapter One: "I Was Wrong"

The night was unusually chilly. Wind whistled through the teeth of the giant dinosaur head he perched beneath and he shivered, pressing his back to the door. His hunting rifle was discarded, propped up against one of Dinky's faded white teeth. It had been an uneventful shift. Novac had been rather peaceful in the past few months, with only a few ghouls and a handful of raiders to pick off. At least, that's how it appeared in the late hours of the evening. Serene, quiet; with only the twinkling stars and a cacophony of coyotes to keep him company. He sighed, tilting his head until it was flush with the door.

Man, he was bored. It was nights like tonight that made him contemplate reenlisting with NCR. At one point in time, he relished in the silence of Dinky's bereft wooden head. He found the night shift calming, a place for him to recharge and escape the public for a little bit. But now, since the REPCONN facility was devoid of any ghoul activity and the local Nightkin all but obliterated, the night shift seemed to drag on. The tranquility he once cherished was no longer fulfilling and there he sat, twiddling his thumbs until the sun peeked over the mountain range and he was dismissed.

Not that his days were any more exciting. That hotel room began to feel more and more like a cage the longer he resided there. He thought that once the courier recruited him, he'd never see this infinitesimal town again. But of course, things never go as planned. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, his hands reaching far above his head, his fingertips gracing the splintered ceiling. As he opened his eyes, still reeling from the euphoric sensation of his muscles expanding, something moved. He froze. With a slow, methodical sweep, he removed his sunglasses and crouched.

It was a small silhouette, bobbing and shambling down the road, heading from the eastern mountain range. With steady fingers he reached for his gun and hoisted the barrel onto the ledge of the balcony, peering down the sites. It took only a fraction of a second for him to catch the interloper in his cross hairs, his finger ghosting over the trigger. The figure was lithe, a large pack hoisted over their shoulder. The gait of this figure quickly ruled out ghoul or any other irradiated creature. This could only mean that it was human in nature, possibly a trader, due to the heavy amount of equipment they were carrying.

But traders never traveled at night. It was far too dangerous, seeing as the roads were littered with petty thieves eager to strike at unsuspecting, ill-guarded travelers. So this led him to conclude that this person was either a very dumb, amateur wastelander looking for a night to stay, or... no, it couldn't be her. He swallowed.

The figure grew closer, coming to a stop at the intersection adjacent from the hotel lobby. They seemed on edge, their body language going from languid and relaxed to rigid, standing a little more erect than before. They adorned a long, tattered duster, accompanied by a shabby looking scarf wrapped around their face. It unnerved him. The shredded fabric of the duster fluttered in the breeze, the figure ominously still in the barren streets, the moonlight glinting from two golden slits from beneath their hood. He'd prefer a ghoul to this spooky mother fucker.

As if they could sense his gaze upon them, they snapped their attention towards his position. A few beats passed and he remained still, his eyes never leaving the trespasser. Then they raised their hands, their palms facing outward in a submissive manner. Were they trying to show that they weren't a threat? He quirked an eyebrow. Also, how did they figure out his position so easily? He felt his stomach churn with unease.

Slowly, as if not to spark any alarm, the person removed their hood. Flaxen hair spilled from the hood and toppled to their shoulders. The scarf followed shortly, the person tugging it downward with their index finger. It hung loosely from beneath their chin, their face now exposed to his hungry stare. And just like that they kept walking, their military style combat boots scraping against the uneven tarmac.

It wasn't until they were fifty yards away that he was able to make out their characteristics. It was a woman, her delicate features swallowed up by the shadows. She reached for something in her duster, pulling it from a hidden pocket and patting it a few times with care. Swiftly she donned the item, adjusting it from side to side, ensuring that it was in place. In the moonlight it seemed to glow, its dull red fabric a beacon in the ominous darkness. His jaw went lax as he stared, his hazel eyes locked on this tiny person in the red beret.

After a few measured strides she came to another stop. She placed her hands on either hip and looked up at the mouth of the dinosaur expectantly, her sandy hair fanning around her shoulders like a halo.

"Hey, you can put the gun down," she bellowed, the sheer volume of her voice pulling him from his trance. "I think I've clearly established that I am not a threat."

Oh, no. He knew that raspy timbre and suave, but irritating, cadence anywhere.

His lips tugged into a scowl and he stood, his gun still poised. "Give me one good reason not to shoot you."

The woman scoffed. "Come on, Boone. You can't be upset with me still."

His scowl deepened.

"Oh, who I am kidding? You can hold a grudge better than most," she relaxed her shoulders and continued to walk towards the dinosaur. "Can we talk about this?"

"No."

"I'm coming up."

"No, you are not."

"Yes, I am!" She called out in a sing-song tone, quickly changing her direction.

Her pale head disappeared behind the hotel gate and he inwardly groaned. Of all the damn nights she had to show up. It took only a few moments before he heard her jimmy the door to the souvenir open, her boots clambering up the shaky wooden steps. He kept his rifle raised, the long barrel pointed towards the door, watching with trepidation as she jiggled the small golden handle. Boone had the foresight to lock it, because he hated being surprised, but locks were only a momentary road bump for this woman. Locks could never stall her for long, which made hiding from her incredibly hard (and frustrating). The handle stopped for a brief second before he heard a triumphant "a-ha!" from behind the doorway. To his horror, the door creaked open, and he was met with a glinting pair of yellow eyes.

"Put the gun down, Boone," she said sternly, her eyes narrowing an imperceptible amount.

"No."

"You are being such a drama queen," the woman whined, pushing the door open a bit more with her boot. "Are you seriously pissed off?"

His face was growing hot, he could feel it. Whether it was ire or embarrassment he wasn't sure, but he kept his face hidden behind his scope, his scowl deeper than ever. "Yes."

She threw her hands up, exasperated. "Okay, so I was gone longer than anticipated. But I honestly had no control over it," she started, folding her arms across her chest. "You see, I-"

"I've been stuck here for three months," he bit out, cutting her off. "You said you'd be gone for only three weeks."

"So you're going to shoot me... because I took a while getting back?"

"...yes."

"Drama queen," she repeated with a snigger. With a steady extension of her arm, she wrapped her slender fingers around the barrel of his sniper rifle, pushing it towards the floor. "Besides, it's not like I was forcing you to stay here. You could've gone anywhere else and waited for me."

"Then it would have taken another three months for us to find each other if we had no definitive meet up point."

She pursed her lips. He was right, and the way she drew her lips into a thin line only proved that she agreed.

With a heavy sigh he put his rifle away, pulling the strap over his head and letting the weapon hang against his back. He pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them back on, staring at the woman through foggy lenses. She hadn't changed much, maybe a bit more tan, if that were even possible. Her hair had grown out a bit, which he liked. It was wavy and sun-bleached, streaks of white stretching outwards from her scalp and trailing along her golden tresses.

"It's almost six," she commented lightly. "I'll walk you back to your hotel room."

Boone looked at his cracked, derelict watch. "I have to wait for Manny to arrive before I can abandon my post."

"Fuck Manny," she said sweetly, her eyes wide as she flashed him an innocent look. "That asshole can get over it. It's not like anything major will happen within an hour, this place is pretty much a paradise now that all of your threats were removed," she coughed and added, "by yours truly."

He rolled his eyes so hard he could see the inside of his skull.

They walked in companionable silence to his hotel room. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and tilted his head back, his eyes remaining transfixed on the sky. The sun was beginning to rise, the predawn clouds melting together in a stunning array of orange and pink hues. The desert was a dreadful place at times, but he adored the sunrise. Something about the tones seemed innocent and pure, and for a moment he could forget about how awful this post-apocalyptic wasteland was.

They closed the gap between them and the hotel room and Boone fumbled for his keys. The room was dingy and dark, the only source of light being a forlorn lamp on the night stand.

"Good to see this place hasn't changed," she ran her finger along the dresser top, grimacing when she inspected her dust laden fingertip. "You could dust it, at least."

"No point," he grunted, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. "I'm never here."

"That's true," she shrugged.

There was a brief moment of silence.

"Look, I really am sorry it took me so long to get back," she started. The awkwardness between them was palpable and he watched as she paced around the room, her hands locked behind her back. "I wouldn't have kept you waiting if it weren't really important."

He remained quiet.

"My trip to Zion was not, ah... it wasn't easy," she said in a measured tone. Her eyes fell to her feet and she stared, her thin brows furrowing together in thought. "I'm sure you don't want to hear of it, but just know that I thought about coming home every day."

He peered at her from beneath the brim of his sunglasses. She tucked a strand of errant hair behind her ear, trying hard to look anywhere but at him. He wanted to push away the growing dread in his stomach, to swallow the lump of regret that began to build in his throat. He wanted, so badly, to let his spite fade into understanding and empathy... but he couldn't. It wasn't in his nature. As he stared at her penitent, crestfallen features, all he could think of was when he saw her last.

He had left her at the mouth of the Northern Passage, where they had a lengthy spat about whether or not she were to continue on without him. Obviously, she left him behind. The last time he saw her, he was staring daggers into her retreating form. Boone didn't want to admit it, but he was a bit miffed at how easily she just shooed him away. As if he had nothing better to do than wait for her with his thumb up his ass. So, try as he might to look upon this woman with clemency, he couldn't get past his own petty grudge.

"You have to understand, Boone," she was whispering now. She raked a grimy hand through her hair, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. "I was overwhelmed. I didn't know what to do."

"So, you left." It wasn't a question.

She swallowed and licked her lips, "I know it wasn't right." She leaned against the dresser, crossing her arms over her cuirass. "But you can't say you wouldn't have done something similar, if you were put in my position."

The old saying, "do as I say, not as I do" drifted across his mind but he kept his mouth shut. He couldn't admit to her that he was mad that she left him, because then he would have to admit that he liked having her around... that she mattered enough in his otiose existence to get under his skin. There was no way in hell he would give her that power.

"I don't know why I thought I could talk to you about this," she pushed herself away from the dresser and began pacing again. "How can you remain so angry and then refuse to discuss the issue that is bothering you? It's almost like you enjoy stewing in your own bitterness."

"I'm angry because you... you," he ground out, biting his tongue to stop himself from blurting out something awkward.

"Because I what... went somewhere without you?"

"Yes," he flashed her a steely look "A soldier never abandons his comrades."

"'Abandoned' is a bit harsh," she mumbled.

"Please, Avery. You were so eager to get rid of me that you didn't look back once when you left."

"Of course I wanted to get rid of you," she said, exasperated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "After what you did, or rather what you tried to do... I couldn't escape fast enough."

"I was drunk," he answered flatly, trying to ignore the prickle of embarrassment that coated his skin.

He wanted to push the memory of that night away. They had been celebrating their success in wiping out a Legion raiding party at Bitter Springs. Avery had gone far out of her way to help mend his past wounds, going as far as taking him back to the place that forever changed him. He had never had such a devoted friend and partner. He was unable to express his appreciation with words, but in some way he knew that she understood. So when he had one too many shots of liquid courage, he tried to show her how thankful he was, albeit the way he went about doing so was unorthodox. And maybe a tad inappropriate.

Little did he know a drunken kiss would be construed as the most heinous of insults on her part.

"Being drunk is not an excuse. Besides, how did you expect me to react? You freaked me out, Boone," she stopped pacing. "I thought the only way to reestablish the friendship we once had would be to get away for a while."

"A while is an understatement," he couldn't stop himself.

"It was three months, Craig," she said his first name with vehemence, like she was scolding a petulant child. "I was offered a permanent residence there and I declined. I could've escaped everything here in this putrescent desert, but I didn't. I left and I came back. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"You shouldn't have left the Mojave in the first place," he barked at her. "We had work to continue, and instead of moving past that... situation, you ran away."

"Much like you ran away from what happened at Bitter Springs," she turned on him, "and like you ran away from what happened to Carla."

He jumped to his feet, his hands clenched at his sides, "You leave her out of this."

He hardly ever lost his cool. He found outbursts were counter intuitive and often refrained from them. But whenever someone brought up Carla, especially when they use her to further a point or to antagonize him, he found it difficult to keep his anger at bay. Avery was not accustom to seeing him this way either.

She stared at him, her amber irises wide, her pupils tiny onyx dots swallowed up in a sea of gold bullion.

"Get out," he pointed a stern finger toward his hotel door.

Avery took a step back and gave him a quizzical look, as if he had just slapped her across the face. She paced slowly to the door, giving him time to recant, to retract those awful words. But he wouldn't.

As she pulled open the decrepit, rickety door, she threw a glance over her shoulder. "I'll be in Freeside. You're welcome to join me once you've gotten over yourself."

The door slammed behind her, leaving the room draped in darkness and heavy silence. He watched her leave his life a second time and, hopefully, it was the last.