The interrogation room was poorly lit and dusty from years of disuse, the overhead light flickering every few seconds and casting a green shadow on everything in the modified broom closet. Every time Clarke moved her hands, the heavy shackles on her wrists fell together and echoed loud enough for her to hear it in her teeth. She glanced back over her shoulder at Boone, who was leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest; he met her eyes and gave a reassuring nod.
The Military Police Officer sitting opposite of her at the small card table cleared her throat, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. "So let me get this straight," she said, "The greatest of Caesar's Frumentarii managed to get onto the Strip, and you just happened to recognize him from Nipton, which was razed to the ground weeks ago with only a handful of survivors, one of which you just happen to be, and… then you shot him," she didn't sound convinced. The woman stood, pushing one hand through her short black bob with another huff and turned around to pace in front of the mirrored wall.
"That's correct, Ma'am," the Courier responded respectfully, just as Boone had instructed as he hissed into her ear during her arrest, gripping her arm hard enough to leave bruises, trying to keep ahold of her as she was ripped away by the two officers cuffing her hands together. 'Fuck,' she thought to herself.
The world had devolved into chaos seconds after her bullets ripped through Vulpes' neck and face, splattering brain and bone across the smooth concrete. 'Of fucking course the world went crazy, what did you think was going to happen?' Screams rang out through the Strip and people started stampeding away from the spreading blood as Clarke lowered her weapon, her own blood pumping loud in her ears for several heartbeats before another body slammed into hers, sending her sprawling across the ground. Boone wrenched the gun from her hands and sent it skittering across the pavement, wrestling with the Courier's arms and legs while she fought back, yelling, "What the fuck, man!" The young woman bucked up, trying to dislodge the larger man, but he just curled his body around her tighter. It took her a few moments to realize that the sniper was covering her body with his protectively, trapping her in a bear hug with one arm curled around her head, just before he was hauled off of her by NCR personnel. He could have been killed in they had decided fire instead of congratulating him on his quick thinking.
"Shit," the NCR soldier muttered under her breath, stopping her anxious pacing to brace herself against the back of her vacated chair. "That's probably why the Securitrons didn't open fire, then…?"
"Must be, Ma'am," Clarke agreed plainly, though she knew that that was hardly the reason that she remained unmolested by Mr. House's security forces; he desperately wanted the heavy chip laying in the Courier's breast pocket, next to her heart. She could have cut through half of New Vegas before House decided to throw away his weighty investment in her. There was no love between herself and the oversized projection screen that flickered with the likeness of an Old World gentleman, though, the smooth voice that was accusatory of her engaging in the high-stakes game he himself had thrust her into, the bastard.
"That doesn't mean that this is square," the woman accused with a finger jabbing towards the Courier's face. "You could have caused a serious diplomatic issue with Mr. House; every citizen of the NCR is bound by our laws and if Mr. House demands any reparations…"
"I'm sorry, Captain," Boone interrupted, raising himself from his slouch against the wall. "But she's not NCR. The Republic doesn't have jurisdiction." His baritone was even and moderate, obviously seasoned by years of responding to superiors in the military, leaving the Courier feeling encouraged – the 'diplomatic issue' here would her detainment, if anything. Now that she knew what the Platinum Chip was capable of, she knew at what lengths Mr. House would go to recover it, up to and including spending hundreds of millions of caps to find it. If the NCR took possession of the Chip, there was no telling what sort of bloody clash it would result in.
"And you!" The Captain turned her sharp eyes to the sniper, not missing a beat. "I wouldn't be surprised if you end up in the stockades after your superior officer hears about your involvement with this, soldier. First Recon is held to a higher standard than this."
The air instantly changed, Boone narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses and setting his lips into a hard line, but the woman continued. "Anyway, I have orders to detain you both until Ambassador Crocker arrives, he wants to speak to you," she pointed at the Courier, " specifically."
The trio sat in stiff silence for several minutes after that, Clarke not willing to speak for fear of incriminating herself further and Boone wafting up dark clouds from his corner. This had to be big if an ambassador had decided to become involved; she had assumed that dispatching a high ranking Legion spy would have gained her more friends than enemies on the Strip and in the NCR, but it was looking like that wasn't the case.
She really did prefer the wasteland – despite Mr. House and his cavalier attitude about her preferences. Things were much simpler outside of these walls.
Long after Clarke had started fiddling with her shackles again, the door opened and a man in a much too crisp suit sat opposite of her, setting a manila folder on the table between them. He frown at her hands. "Captain Pappas, can we get these cuffs off of our friend here? This is really no way to treat a guest," he said, gesturing to the irons around the Courier's wrists. Once free, she rubbed at the raw skin and nodded at the diplomat.
"Ambassador Crocker, I assume?"
"And if it isn't our talented third-party negotiator. Welcome to the Embassy," he replied, smiling at the girl. She schooled her features into a neutral mask and bit her tongue. The assumption that she hadn't been operating anonymously hadn't really occurred to her before today; between both Securitron and Legion spies, and her involvement with the NCR, she was no longer a nobody here in the Mojave Wasteland. "I'm glad you made it to the Strip. I've had something very important I've wanted to discuss with you. I think you might be the perfect person for the job with your background and reputation."
Clarke laced her fingers together and leaned forward, weighing her options. They were few. "I'm listening."
/hr
It was late afternoon by the time they left the embassy, Clarke's back and ass sore from sitting on a hard plastic chair for so long. She rubbed her face with one hand, feeling incredibly weary. Waking up in the Old Mormon Fort that morning felt as if it had been years ago instead of mere hours, and exhaustion weighed heavily on the Courier's shoulders like a wet blanket. She felt agitated and ready to rabbit off back to the wasteland, where she felt much more comfortable, but she wasn't quite ready to face artillery barrages quite yet. What had she just agreed to?
"Back to the Lucky 38?" Boone asked from behind Clarke's shoulder, leaning over her to glance at her profile, raising his eyebrows with his question.
The Courier groaned and shook her head. "No, fuck no," she laughed humorlessly. "I need a stiff drink or twenty before I do anything. House has been waiting two hundred years for this stupid fuckin' chip, he can wait 'til after we hit up the Wrangler."
In truth, she wasn't even sure if handing over the Platinum Chip would be the best course of action, but she couldn't seem to think of an alternative that wouldn't end up with her being shot in the head again. Mr. House had hemorrhaged wealth over the last two hundred years for the Chip, he wouldn't hesitate to shell out more caps to find her, and given the number of people that had already sought her out, she apparently wasn't very good at hiding her trail.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Boone sounded dubious, and Clarke couldn't decide if he was questioning her leadership or her mental state.
"Benny had possession of this bad boy for goin' on a month, I'm sure I'll be fine. Besides, I don't want to stumble back to the Followers drunk – I bet Julie has one mean disappointment face," Clarke made a face herself at what she was about to say. "House gave me access to a suite in the Lucky 38, so we'll head there once we're ready tonight."
Boone gave a look that could have been interpreted as shock, but it quickly faded into his signature scowl. 'Surprise fuckin' surprise,' she thought.
The Courier grimaced again, trying to ignore the frustration that was bubbling up in the pit of her stomach – she hated being told what to do, and right now, three governments were doing exactly that. Her strings were being pulled in several directions at once; to the north and Nellis Air Field, to the East, across the Colorado, and then her selfish desire to do what she wanted throughout the Mojave, adhering to nobody else's plan but her own. That was one of many things that she appreciated about Boone – in the month that they had been traveling together, he hadn't really told her what to do. He was content to trust in her capabilities, and she liked it. Now, if he could show emotions other than 'constipated', that would be great. 'You're not being fair,' a voice said that filtered unbidden through her head. 'He's just hard to read, but you're getting better at it.'
The walk to the Atomic Wrangler was a quiet one, the tense silence following them down the main drag and all the way up to the steps of the second-rate casino. The Wrangler wasn't a very pretty place, but most of the walls were intact and some of the chairs even had cushions. Sliding her body into one of said chairs at the bar, she waved a hello at Francine and let a friendly smile settle onto her face. Julie Farkas had no good things to say about the square-faced twins, but in truth, Clarke was fond of them. Their drinks were strong and they paid well, and given the proper motivations, could be easily convinced to help their local community as opposed to hinder it. They weren't bad people, really, they were simply peddling to the masses.
Francine slapped a moist rag down on the counter in front of the Courier, looking peevish. "Well if it isn't the high-roller," she said, leaning her elbows against the false marble. "I didn't think we'd ever see your skinny ass 'round these parts again, what with the kinda folks you runnin' with now."
"I beg your fuckin' pardon, Madam Garret?" Clarke asked, looking over to Boone in the seat beside her, as if he would answer, but he only shrugged his shoulders unhelpfully.
"Ain't it been somethin' like two hundred years since anybody's been inside the 38 casino, James?" the woman asked her twin as he sat a beer in front of Boone. Both men nodded, and she turned her attention back to the Courier. "Now why you gunna be slummin' it with us poorly folk if you could be rubbing elbows with New Vegas' finest?"
Clarke sighed and shook her head, her smile turning agitated for a moment. The wasteland operated on three things; debauchery, death, and rumor. It wasn't a surprise that word had filtered past New Vegas and into Freeside. "There was no 'rubbing elbows', that's for damn sure," she said, rubbing her face with her hands. "House – he talked to me through this big… intercom, thing. It was… unpleasant. Not nearly as nice as chatting with a handsome woman such as yourself."
It was too embarrassing to admit that she ended to chatting with a giant television set instead of the man himself, a fact that Clarke had decided not to examine too closely just yet. Ever since she had walked through the gates to New Vegas, her day had taken a decidedly surreal turn.
"Well then," Francine's annoyance looked quelled at Clarke's words, "Since you're allowed to start slingin' bullets on the Strip, I might have a job for you. It'll come with a nice chunk a' caps."
Clarke groaned and shook her head. "No, no, fuck no, I'm not looking for another shootout, like, I got arrested and everything. It was fuckin' shitty," she complained. Besides, there was no way that she was going to gun down someone at the Garret's behest, but she wasn't going to vocalize that just quite yet. "I'll hear you out later, but right now, right now I need the good stuff. The day we've had and all."
"We have some Atomic Cocktails in the back," James piped up, waving a hand in the direction of their stockroom.
"I think I'll go straight up tonight, I'm not trying to make Boone here carry me to bed," Clarke responded, chuckling and looking over to her companion. The sniper ducked his head and avoided her eyes, his cheeks turning a splotchy red that creeped down his neck and to the tips of his ears. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, the Courier shook her head. Boone was painfully shuttered around other people, but bold when the two were alone, comfortable enough to casually tease and banter. Talking would have to take place away from the bar if she wanted to actually hear Boone's opinion on their situation. "I know you don't do tabs, but…"
Francine curled her lips up and gave an , 'ehhh…,' sound, but James interrupted her smoothly, waving off his sister. "But you're getting wasted tonight. We have some new stock, tequila from a local retailer that I think you'll enjoy…"
Ten minutes later they were settled around a corner table with drink in hand, Boone's posture predictably relaxing the longer they were ignored by the other patrons of the casino. Clarke passed the bottle of tequila back and forth between her fingers before pouring herself a generous shot. She took another before her companion decided to speak.
"So," he said, looking at her pointedly.
"So," the Courier echoed back, lifting her eyes to try to meet his, but the light was too low in the Wrangler, turning his aviators into black mirrors. Her own eyes blinked back at her, weary and bloodshot, sunken into her cheeks and giving her a haunted, malnourished look.
"We didn't leave Vegas for drinks," his tone was soft and incredibly casual, but his gaze over the top of his glasses was a weighty one, his green eyes boring into hers intensely.
"Fuck," Clarke chuckled, shaking her head. Due to his quiet nature, it was easy to forget how perceptive the sniper actually was. It was foolish of her to think that he had bought her flimsy excuse to leave the Strip – if she had just wanted to drink, they would have never left New Vegas. "You're right, of fuckin' course. I wanted a chance to talk, away from Mr. House's many ears."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you don't trust the man," Boone murmured from behind the neck of his beer, taking a slow sip.
Clarke thought back to the smiling graphic that stood ten feet tall, tracking occasionally before settling back into crisp HD. In truth, she didn't even trust that Mr. House was a man at all and not a highly advanced artificial intelligence; she poured herself another shot, spilling tequila onto the linoleum tabletop as her fingers shook. "I don't fuckin' trust him," the Courier affirmed. "Come and find out he's been monitoring me since before Goodsprings, and what's more, knew I was in a world of trouble back there and could have fuckin' done something but didn't, the bastard. Far as I'm lookin', he's just as culpable as Benny for my near assassination."
Boone's jaw tightened a bit then he shrugged nonchalantly. "Mind if we take down a few more Legionaries before we try to kill him?"
The laugh that fell from Clarke's lips was bitterly sharp and she shook her head. "I'm not looking to raze New Vegas to the ground over House's proprietary judgement. I'm hoping I can just hand the damn Chip over and be done with him and his city."
Boone's look was as skeptical as she felt but he made a sound of assent low in his throat. The man disliked the lazy bustle of the city just as much as she did, if he surlier that usual disposition was any indication of his feelings for the Strip. He had mentioned meeting his late wife during R&R in the city, she imagined that being back would bring up some painful emotions. Clarke cleared her throat uncomfortably and poured another shot. "Besides, I'm sure that you're getting sick of the city, with me hogging the Legionnaires to myself and all."
Snagging the fifth from between her elbows, Boone tossed back the dusty dregs from the bottom of the bottle then waved it over his head, motioning for another. "About that," he murmured after James set down a fresh pint and another shot glass. "Thought you told Yes Man that we were laying low."
"Yeah, well, bastard called me 'child', what was I supposed to do?" Clarke complained, waving one hand flippantly while tipping out two shots with the other. She raised her glass to Boone in a silent toast, who sighed and palmed his glasses off lazily before lifting his own glass. The tequila was smooth and silver, leaving her nose clear with sweet aromatics – she would have slapped James silly if it had been shitty wasteland tequila at twenty caps a pint.
Boone eyed her with his lips set in a solid line across his face, but he couldn't quite hide the twitching at the corners of his mouth. "It was stupid," he said, obviously pleased despite his words. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, stretching the wiry muscles in his forearms in a smooth flex. Clarke could feel the burn in her throat creep up onto her face but she didn't look away from her companion, taking a moment to appreciate the sniper's impressive physique. Boone cocked his eyebrow but didn't comment on the slow appraisal, for which the Courier was grateful. With the death of Benny, everything seemed so much less rushed and frantic; no restrictive, time sensitive mission to throw herself into headfirst. The sniper's earlier flirtations back at Cerulean Robotics came to mind, doing her best to brush him off while shouting at herself to just focus. She didn't need that same focus any more.
Eyeing Boone from across the table, she decided that her 'appreciation' had to be entirely rhetorical, though. While she might not have needed the same sort of focus required to assassinate Benny, she still needed some focus.
Clarke thought to New Vegas' – and Freeside's – many commodities, some of which she had just helped acquire. The Atomic Wrangler boasted a relatively impressive docket of whores for hire, but the Courier couldn't exactly remember what sort of sexual experience she had behind her; it would be the pinnacle of embarrassment to take a tumble with Fisto and lose her virginity. Something in the pit of her stomach told her that no, that wouldn't be a concern, but she didn't want to bet on that gamble.
There were other, safer ways to go about working those things out, anyway. Julie Farkas didn't have the resources, but she had mentioned another doctor in the area that Clarke could probably see for a basic gynecological exam for a nominal fee. 'Sexy thoughts,' she said to herself sarcastically.
"Everything okay?" Boone's voice broke through her reverie. He was still leaning back in his chair, but there was fresh beer between the two, making Clarke wonder how lost in her own head she had just been.
"Um, yeah," she said, reaching out of the tequila again before chasing it down with the yeasty wasteland beer with clumsy fingers. "We should take a trip to the New Vegas clinic soon to see a doctor with actual facilities."
"Doctor Usanagi," Boone replied, his lips settling back into a hard line across his face, "I know her, I saw her after Bi – after a tour. Why the clinic? Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Clarke waved her hand dismissively, filing away Boone's halted words for later. "I just want to touch base with the clinic to see if everything is healing well," she lied easily, gesturing to her arm. Anything other than injury really wasn't any of Boone's business, and she really didn't want to explain why she wanted a doctor to examine her vagina just about now. The Courier tipped the bottle of tequila towards her companion, but he held up his hand and shook his head, palming his beer. "Suit yourself," she mumbled, forgoing the shot glass this time and tipping back a shot straight from the fifth. Boone watched her closely, raising both of his eyebrows after Clarke wiped at the moisture clinging to her chin with the back of her hand.
"Wanna talk?" he rumbled out, looking at her over the mouth of his beer.
"Whatta'bout?"
"Didn't expect things to go that way with Benny today, kid," he snapped, voice a little sharp, immediately annoying Clarke. She tried to push it down but it rose up in the back of her throat in the form of a cutting retort.
"The fuck did you expect me t'do, Boone? The man shot me in the fuckin' head for fuck's sake, it's not like I was going to, what, hop on into his bed and smother him peacefully in his sleep? Fuck," she retaliated defensively, pulling up her lips, but Boone didn't take the bait, frustrating her further.
"I just want to know that you're okay," Boone said, voice losing it's sharp edge, but Clarke was too riled.
"What I want is for you to stop fucking asking me that," she bit back, quite a bit louder than she had intended, turning several heads their way. The Garret twins were glaring from the bar, gauging whether or not the duo were about to cause trouble. The Courier was doing her best to avoid giving Benny any thought and Boone wasn't helping. Every time her mind wandered back to the Tops Casino, something in her mind grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved images of his broken, mangled body down her throat while whispering, 'you did that.' She felt horrified by herself, couldn't seem to sit still in her own skin, but every time she recalled his dead eyes, she couldn't help but feel a warm rush of pride and adrenaline.
He had taken everything from her, but she went and took more. That vengeance tasted sweet on her tongue.
"M'sorry, my good man," she apologized quietly, her temper suddenly cold. "I just dunno what to say."
Boone nodded at her as if he understood. "So am I."
Clarke rolled her eyes good naturedly, pushing her tequila at her companion with a strained smile, longing for the return of their easy silences over this tense, uneasy air that required effort to maintain. It was a relief when Boone reached out and poured out another finger into his glass. "Last one," he mumbled under his breath, as if he was telling himself as opposed to her, but she huffed out an ,"okay," in return anyway.
The uncomfortable silence settled that settled around them lasted while Boone swirled his tequila in his cup and Clarke tipped the bottle against her lips to take long, languid sips that she didn't bother to chase. Her mood was sullen, their quiet sipping far from the celebratory drinking that had taken place after their first true victory, back in Boulder City. It made the space between her shoulders itch with irritation; this wasn't going the way she wanted, and she tended to get agitated when her plans didn't come to fruition, even when she wasn't a halfway through her second fifth of hard liquor.
Boone was still shooting her wary looks from over the mouth of his bottle, following her hands with his hooded eyes, quite obviously a good deal less inebriated than herself. This, too, sent a tremor of irritation down her spine. Where she was feeble, he was stone. Damnit.
"So," she drawled in a desperate attempt to fill the silent void between them, "you know pretty much everything there is to fuckin' know about me, right? …and I don't know much of a damn 'bout you. How's that spell out t'be fair?"
Boone gave her a grunt and shook his head, eyes flicking to where Clarke's fingers were still wrapped around the bottle. "Think we can chat about that later? Less liquor involved?"
The Courier narrowed her eyes, but kept her tone conversational, albeit sarcastic. "Ain't the sort of thing people talk about over a few drinks, is it?"
The sniper heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Clarke was startled by the sudden weariness in his face; suddenly he wasn't keen on watching his companion, gazing off somewhere past her elbow. It was several long moments before he looked at her again, weariness replaced with a fair amount trepidation. "There's… a lot that you're not going to like," he said, voice thick and rough. He tipped the beer back and took several long guzzles.
Clarke could only come up with an impotent, "Oh," no longer peevish.
Boone settled his eyes on her collarbone. "So, later?"
"Later."
The small hours of the morning found the duo leaning heavily on each other while shuffling down the main drag towards New Vegas. Boone had one arm around Clarke's middle, his other hand grasping her forearm where it was slung over his shoulders, taking the brunt of her weight with every step. If the Courier was honest with herself, she was doing most of the leaning, but Boone had at least half of what she drank, so she was helping. Being a good friend.
"Yer a'good friend," she slurred out, as if he had been privy to her little internal monologue, but Boone just made an amused sound deep in his chest, squeezing her wrist gently.
"Thought you weren't gunna make me carry you tonight," he replied instead, glancing down to where Clarke was peeking out from under his armpit.
Clarke cleverly retorted with an, "Mmm," sound, hanging her head down, hair falling into her eyes and mouth. "Blech," she spat, twisting her head to free her hair. The neon lights of the King's School of Impersonation caught her eye and she sighed, shaking her head again. Something told her that she was far from done with the Kings and their problems, and they seemed to have problems aplenty.
"Got a King on your mind?" Boone asked, sounding bemused as he tightened his grip on her waist to heft her back up a few inches on his shoulder, but he didn't loosen his hold after repositioning her. When had she started to slip?
"Smug… pompous… stupid… flirt," she managed to slur, ineffectually trying to string together a comprehensive insult, turning her head to mumble into the sniper's defined chest, rubbing her cheek against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He made a sound low in his chest that might've been annoyance or amusement, Clarke couldn't quite tell. It was pleasant either way, a deep, masculine baritone noise that made her want to press closer into him. Instead she tripped over a jagged bit of broken concrete, throwing all of her weight into Boone's side. The man stumbled but didn't fall, bearing her bodily to set her feet to right underneath her.
"Kinda useless here, kid," he huffed under his breath, sending a sideways glance at the drunk under his arm, but there was one of his rare smiles plastered plainly on his face, belying his own inebriation. This was much better than the leaden atmosphere that had been hanging over them just a few hours past. The Courier just hoped that it would last past the hangover. "'Ey," Boone puffed as he lifted her into the air to avoid another gap in the road. "I… I, uh, wanted to say, um. Say thank you."
Clarke lifted her head, a warm feeling filling her chest as she smiled lazily up at her ally. What she wanted to say was, 'You're welcome, my friend, for whatever you're thanking me for. Thank strongyou/strong for having my back for these past few weeks,' but what came out was an inelegant, "Whuh-haha, 'fanks."
Boone chuckled, but other than that ignored the Courier's slurring. "I mean, for taking out that Legion camp… and, and, uh, that Frumentarii, thank you," he said, not looking down at Clarke at all, keeping his eyes trained on the glow of the reinforced gate of New Vegas. Splotchy patches of pink appeared high on his cheeks to join the ruddy red of his nose, courtesy of the several beers he had consumed over the night.
"Oh," was her response. Did he do this on purpose? Wait until she couldn't chatter his ear off to open up? He had said less liquor, not more. Most forms of communication were out of her reach; she was much too limp for a hug and his limbs were too far out of her reach for a reassuring squeeze.
Later, in the sparkling tower of the .38, while Boone held her hair back as she heaved into a fancy porcelain toilet, regretting the second bottle of tequila, she managed to muster up out a strained, "It's… cause yer my friend, asshole."
Boone must've known exactly what she was referring to, because he just chuckled and rubbed a broad hand up and down her back before tightening his grip on her hair for the next round of vomiting.
Clarke woke to luxurious sheets against her skin and a heavy blanket wrapped up tight to her neck. She was sunken into several downy pillows, creating a valley in the mountain of opulence rising up around her. The duvet was a lavish crushed velvet that ran under her fingers unlike anything available out in the Wasteland, but a glance to the bedside table showed a thick layer of dust on the polished wood. The Courier suddenly felt as if she was sleeping in a tomb.
A quick visual sweep of the room revealed Boone spread out across one of the couches in the room, still sleeping. Beret pulled down over his eyes and socked feet propped up on the far arm, his own arms threaded through each other across his chest, he still looked like a sentinel, even in sleep. He hadn't even bothered to pull the afghan off of the back of the couch to cover himself. 'No rest for the weary,' she thought to herself.
Her head hurt, the pain pulling tight against her temples, as if something was pulling at her short hairs, but it wasn't as bad as she would have expected. Credit to top shelf tequila, that was for certain. She'd have to buy a few more bottles off of the Garrets before they sold out of their stock.
As if he somehow knew that she was awake, Boone began to stir over on his couch, making a small, "mmph," sound as he palmed his beret back into it's proper position. Clarke watched him with equal amounts of interest and anxiety. This was the first time she'd witnessed him wake naturally. Every time she woke him for his watch, his eyes would snap open, his body jerking forward as if he feared those waking moments and was trying to push away sleep as quickly as possible. This time, though, he lay there with his eyes closed, bringing up one hand to rub leisurely against the back of his neck, yawning slowly. He seemed to be in no rush this morning.
Would the heavy, unpleasant air from last night return once he woke completely?
The Courier didn't have to wait long for her answer, the first thing Boone swung his gaze towards was her prone figure on the bed. A vague half smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and his voice was soft as he asked how she was feeling.
"Like you tossed me off the top of the .38 for puking of your hand last night," she groaned lightly, allowing herself to sink back into the bed.
"You were having a hard enough time having to wash it out of your hair in the sink," he chuckled. Clarke laughed along with him.
"Yeah, well, you're the ass who wiped your hand off in my hair."