A/N: Soo… I hope nobody else is angry that this female Courier is named Charlie, because one reviewer was quite annoyed with that. Oh well, can't make everyone happy. Plus it's way too late to change her name now. But thanks to the rest of you for the kind reviews!
Her bed in the 38 was neatly made, the sheets tucked perfectly, and it unsettled Charlie. She had not left it this way, she was sure of it. Looking around her bedroom, she began to notice little things out of place- or rather in place, as she was never one to organize her belongings- one wardrobe full of neatly hanging Pre-War clothes, the other full with more practical garments. A footlocker along one wall now had the word Armorstenciled across its lid, while the others bore Weapons and Ammunition. She didn't need to look inside to know that they would be perfectly orderly, sorted and separated. Charlie didn't like that somebody else had taken the time and effort to go through her things, especially when she didn't know who it was. Her bedroom was the kind of messy where she knew where everything was, and now it was all upset.
Sighing, she lay across her bed, which felt all smooth and awkward, her pillows fluffed so well that she was sure that they were not the ones she'd left here a month ago. It was her place, her room in the casino that she'd inherited through murder, as awful as that sounded. Annoyed, she opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand. Empty. That drawer was important. It held all the reminders of the life she'd fashioned in the Wasteland. In the off chance that Charlie lost her memory again, there was a small patch sewn into the inside seam of her backpack, with a prompt to head to the Lucky 38 so that she could reassemble. This time, Charlie was prepared for the worst.
She thought for a moment, pressing upon the hidden memories that curled in her mind, always just beyond her reach, beneath the depths of reflection she shook to summon. It was a ritual before she slept, to squeeze her eyes tightly shut and look at the blackness inside her eyelids, hoping for a tendril of recollection. Always nothing but pitch. The person she'd been before the gunshot, before the scar that ripped across the right side of her face, had vanished. Maybe she never really existed at all. Charlie, born in a ditch near Goodsprings, a woman in her twenties. Never a child. Never a daughter. Never a sister. Just herself. Her name was an assembly of syllables that felt right when pushed together, her nickname, Charlie, feeling perfect between her teeth and tongue. Her last name was lost. A few sounds rattled in her brain, an s, another c. Nothing more. Unimportant. She could be Charlie Courier as she was concerned, as long as her first name sat intact.
It was frustrating, to try so hard to figure out what she was, only to be left with the same absence of information, time after time. She existed, but barely. It was like owning an empty home. She knew exactly what it was supposed to hold and what it was promised to hold, but after it all, there's only space. Charlie knew things, like the familiar lines of her palms, the sound of her voice, how her gait felt, all of that lingered. Just as an vacant house still contained a kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms, Charlie wasn't surprised by those recognizable traits when she awoke in Goodsprings. But in a home, the furniture was what made the house personal, what made other people desire it. Memories. Experiences. That made a person different. How often did Charlie listen to her friends speak about their adventures only to have none of own to offer? Who was she, really, beneath all of the things she wore to seem indifferent to the memory lapse? There was a girl inside her that had lived. She was so sure of it. Desperation reminded Charlie that she was almost certainly gone forever, frightened off by a bullet that entered her brain.
Damaged. It was a badge that Charlie wore, not because she particularly enjoyed it, but because it was what she knew. Maybe it was true.
All she had in this inhospitable place was her name, her health, and the few friends she'd found along the way. Charlie forged a family, to spite the one that she almost definitely lost in Goodsprings. Raul and Lily were her aunt and uncle. Veronica and Cass, her older sisters, always ready to tempt her into trouble. Arcade was her brother, her best friend, and she couldn't have wished for anyone better. She truly loved him. Rex, of course, was the family pup, and Ed-E acted as the strange cousin that everyone liked despite. Boone didn't fit in. What was he? The bodyguard? That was no family member that Charlie had ever heard of. He was alone, even within their contained group. Nobody enjoyed being around him. Raul told her once that Boone had cold eyes, and the only men he'd ever known with that same trait had been murderers. Not the kind of killers that made the world a better place, but humans who had slain innocents. It unnerved her, but she retorted that it was impossible to see past those sunglasses. Raul agreed, and they never spoke of it again.
Arcade made her swear to stay inside for the new two weeks, but Charlie wasn't sure how long she was going to keep that promise. Sure, a bloodthirsty Legionary had nearly torn her in many, many pieces, but the solemnity of the casino drove her mad. It was too quiet most days, especially if Veronica and Cass were both out. Charlie missed going out and drinking with them. It'd been a very long time since she'd tasted alcohol, which Arcade had also given her strict orders to avoid. The hour was late, but Charlie wasn't tired. She hardly ever was, because she and sleep did not get on particularly well. Sitting up, she looked at the bookshelf on wall opposite her bed, to the left of the doorway. She was sure that all the Pre-War books she'd scavenged were probably in alphabetical order, maybe sorted into genres. If she had to stay indoors, she might as well read something to pass the time.
Pointing a finger and shutting her eyes, Charlie ran her fingertip along the spines until one volume felt right. Addiction: What Fixer Can't Fix. Nope. She would not be reading that. Charlie knew very well what fixer couldn't do, and didn't need a preachy paperback to remind her. Molly Viper: The Legendary Gang Leader, in a Work of Mostly Non-Fiction. Mostly non-fiction? That might be just entertaining enough to get through the night, she thought, and sat on her couch, ready to toss Benny's coat upon the floor.
The checkered jacket was gone. Damn it. It wasn't in either wardrobe; she would've noticed it. The pattern wasn't exactly discreet. Groaning, Charlie stood again, her wounds protesting just a tiny bit. Arcade had given her a few syringes of med-x to get through the night, but Charlie didn't want to rely on them. The pain wasn't unbearable, and she limped towards her desk. There was a small safe underneath it, never locked. Maybe the perpetrator had placed some of her precious belongings into there.
The only item inside was a crumpled cotton shirt, which bore an odor of sweat as Charlie pulled it free, laying it smooth across her desk. She recognized it, immediately disgusted and faintly intrigued by the shirt that Boone had worn when she first awoke in the Old Mormon Fort, grungy grey cotton stained with her own blood. Its placement was intentional, and that irked Charlie. Why use the shirt and the obvious fact that he ransacked her room as a tool to force a confrontation? All he needed to do was pull her aside and initiate a conversation, not psychologically manipulate Charlie into doing what he willed.
Charlie had almost gotten to the point where she understood how Boone worked. She even thought about trusting him, until he left the Old Mormon Fort and never returned. He promised to bring her some clothes, but had given them to Arcade instead, who she sent to track him down. Honestly, she figured him to be halfway to Cottonwood Cove by the time Arcade got a free moment to get to the 38. Despite everything, despite the two long talks that Charlie had with Boone, they were back at the beginning. It was exhausting.
Boone's bedroom was next to Charlie's; he was the only other person beside herself who didn't have a roommate, which she completely understood. It was probably awkward to divide up the room when the other person refused to speak to you.
The door was cracked, and he sat inside, cleaning a gun at his desk. Not bothering to knock, Charlie pushed the door open with the heel of her hand, slamming it shut as she entered. Her fingers flicked the lock closed, and damn it, if Boone didn't look at her triumphantly while she fumed.
She threw the shirt at him, "What were you doing in my room?"
"Fixing things."
"I didn't need your help. Everything was fine as it was. You threw things away that were important to me."
"No." He held out a large blue pouch. "This contains all the items from your bedside drawer."
Charlie stepped across the room to take it back, snatching it away. Peering inside, she recognized everything as her own. A single chip each from Gomorrah, Vicky and Vance Casino, the Tops and Ultra Luxe. A gecko hide from helping Sunny Smiles in Goodsprings. Jeannie May's key to the safe in the Dino Dee-lite Motel, which Charlie pick pocketed in order to find evidence. A white feather from a Decanus' headpiece. Little things, unimportant to anybody beside herself. An collection to help her remember in case she lost her mind again.
Boone shook his fist, and a small sound not unlike that of marbles shuffling rang out, Charlie realizing what he held. Four casings, from the silenced .22 she'd used to shoot Benny. Charlie had collected them afterwards, to hide any evidence that could point to her, and kept them.
"You need me. It shouldn't take four shots to kill anything."
"How do you know they're from a single shooting?"
"I gave you that gun, remember? You returned it two days later."
"I did what I had to do. Maybe I didn't have to kill him, but…" Charlie sat on the edge of his bed, feeling drained.
The uncertainty of his murder was the reason why she kept them. She hadn't had enough guts to search for the casing from Jeannie May Crawford's execution, but Charlie would've held onto that one as well. Charlie couldn't undo their deaths, but she could certainly make sure that she remembered that maybe she hadn't done the right thing.
"Benny deserved to die, Charlie. He tried to murder you. He wanted to kill you just so that he could rule this place. His aspirations were dangerous."
"And? I killed him, and I killed House, and now this place is mine. I could've worked with both of them. I could've let them live." She paused, "I'm the same as Benny. I am."
"No. You exacted revenge."
"I don't know. Maybe if I had slept with him, I could've gotten the platinum chip back without killing anybody else." Charlie said it without really thinking, an internal conversation she'd had dozens of times finally spoken aloud.
Boone pulled off his sunglasses, looking her straight in the eye. "No. If he touched you, I would've killed him."
"Boone." She said his name softly, mostly because she wasn't sure what else would suffice.
"If Benny walked out of the elevator after you, I would've shot in him the lobby. People like that, they don't deserve to live. He doesn't get your mercy."
Charlie nodded, knowing that whatever she'd say, he would just keep disagreeing with her. She didn't see things the way he did, always black or white, right and wrong, life or death. Why he thought like he did, she had no idea. Charlie only had the barest understanding of why Boone did anything. Carla, of course, had a lot to do with why Boone was so melancholy, but there had to be more to it. Why hadn't he ever looked for her? He lived to throw himself inside of dire situations. Boone and Charlie hunted the Legion every chance they got, and yet, he never searched for clues to Carla's whereabouts. He knew something that he wasn't eager to share.
"I did what I did and now I can't take it back. That's why I'm unsure, that's why I keep these things. I made choices that can't be undone. I already got a retry, Boone. I received a do-over and I'm afraid that I'm still doing everything wrong."
"You're fighting for the greater good."
She shrugged, falling back onto his covers. The bed was made in the same neat manner as her own. Faintly, she thought it strange that a man was so tidy, but it made sense for Boone. He was so rigid, so structured, that it fit. The sound of his chair creaking made Charlie raise her head, just a little, to watch him as he sat next to her. She'd never been this near to Boone before, his skin only inches away from her own. Quelling the urge to shift away from him, Charlie looked at the shirt in his hands.
No, she'd been closer. He brought her to Arcade, so that he could try and save her life. He wore a shirt covered in her blood for weeks. Boone stood by her bedside, ever vigilant. How did he do it? He was constantly surrounded by death, by tragedy, but he never flinched. If it'd been Boone in the hospital bed… Could she be that loyal? Charlie didn't want to think about it.
Charlie closed her eyes, listening to the silence. She was completely comfortable, even though Boone loomed above her. For once, she didn't instinctively flex away from Boone, Charlie wasn't so unnerved in his presence that she needed to go far, far away. She was sure that she'd made the right decision, asking Boone to leave Novac with her. Charlie wouldn't be alive if she hadn't. She'd done something right for once.
"Why did you keep it?" She asked, rolling onto her side.
"To remind myself of the one good thing I've done since Carla got taken away. To convince you that we're in this together. You need me. I need you." He placed the shirt back into her hand, along with one of the four casings. "Keep it. Add it to the pile of memories."
"What about the other three?"
"I still need them."
It didn't seem to matter anymore.