A/N: So… I made a mistake. I realized last night that I accidentally posted the chapter after this instead of this one. I skipped poor Arcade! I would've let it slide except there are little things in this chapter that carry on for a bit. Dumb mistake. I'm sorry. But if you look at it positively, it's kind of like two for one chapter special! Sorry for being super confusing, but thanks for reading and please review!

Arcade felt good. Refreshed. Surprisingly refreshed, considering that he and Cass and Veronica had absolutely tied one on at Gomorrah. Damn, that cowgirl could drink. Arcade had tried his best to keep up and ended up losing count after his fourth gin fizz. Cass was trying to find a suitable man to shack up with, not one of the prostitutes onstage, but one of the men losing their money on the casino floor. Arcade enjoyed the Brimstone, but none of the gamblers with Dr. Alex Richards, and well, Arcade was on a mission to hold out for the good stuff. He only had a few prime years left and didn't need to waste it getting diseases from men for sale.

Cass's boy- that was a true statement, he couldn't have been more than nineteen- was a NCR trooper on leave. The trio had pooled their money on a suite to share, not wanting to bring anybody back to the 38 so late at night. Plus, the whole reason behind the outing was to escape the reality that their friend had narrowly avoided dying. Charlie might also shoot them for going out while she was stuck in her room. Veronica argued against it, citing the fact that Charlie had such terrible aim that there was no way that she'd hit one or all of them.

The room was not as clean as the ones back at the Lucky 38, but it would do. Cass spent some time with her friend while Arcade and Veronica wasted a little more money at the slots. It was the only game that he was any good at, if one could be 'good' at slots. Arcade was too transparent for blackjack. He watched Veronica at the roulette table, missing Charlie so badly in his drunken stupor that he could barely stand. Charlie and blackjack, well, that was a match made in heaven. Somehow, in that scrambled brain of hers, she knew how to count cards like other people knew their birthdays. It was all instinct, she said, shrugging, as they counted her winnings in his tent one night. Charlie gave him half, citing that she needed his consistently losing presence at the table to offset their suspicions that she was cheating. He still had a large chunk of those caps inside the safe in his room at the 38. Technically Arcade was supposed to share with Boone, but much preferred the mattress he'd occasionally throw on the floor of Charlie's bedroom.

Eventually, Veronica found a companion at the roulette table and took her upstairs to celebrate. Arcade was alone in a casino at four in the morning. Depressing. He decided that he'd rather sleep on the couch in the suite's living room than pine away at the slot machines, wishing for Dr. Richards to magically appear. Sighing, he took out his wallet, fishing out his room key and heading to the stairs. No, Arcade couldn't do that. Veronica took his key when she disappeared with her female gambler, and if Arcade had just followed them, he'd be inside the suite already. Damn it. Maybe the receptionist would have a spare.

The young woman that had been in charge of the desk must've finished her shift, because a tall man with graying brown hair now was in the same spot, his arms crossed over his chest. Damned handsome. And he was bored. Arcade knew that pose, for it was one that he often assumed whenever Farkas spoke to him.

"I'm sorry. This is going to sound completely stupid."

"I doubt that." The man said, his voice a deep, rich, baritone.

"Is it possible to get another key to my room? I would go and knock, but I know for a fact that both my friends are… occupied."

He laughed. "Sure. What number is it?"

Arcade thought for a moment, catching the man's blue eyes. That's what the ocean must look like, he mused. Surfacing from illicit thoughts, Arcade shook his head. "I cannot for the life of me remember. It's a suite. Christ, I had more to drink than I thought."

"No, problem, sir. What's the name of your party?" The man smiled and again, Arcade fought to keep his composure.

"Arcade Gannon. I'm pretty sure it's under my name. I vaguely remember paying for it."

"Okay. Yup, I've got an Arcade right here, suite 416. You've already got two keys out though. It's all we keep for our guests. I can come up and fix the situation for you though."

Oh dear. It was the only thought running through Arcade's mind.

"Sure. Okay. Whatever." And now he sounded like a fucking rocket scientist.

They walked to the elevator together, the man leaving his desk. He even smelled nice, which was really saying something. Most people living in the Wastes didn't think about their body odor.

"Can I ask you an invasive question? I'm Hank, by the way." He stuck out his hand, and Arcade took it in his own, barely able to close his fingers for fear of doing something else idiotic.

"Sure. I love questions." Oh dear. Arcade was proving himself to be quite a catch. He should mention something about being drunk. "I'm really drunk."

Maybe not that.

But Hank just chuckled again. "I saw you at the bar with those girls. I understand."

"Thanks."

"Do you work at Old Mormon Fort? With the Followers of the Apocalypse?"

Arcade nodded. He didn't remember ever treating somebody named Hank though, and Arcade had been with the Followers for a long time now. "Yes. I research mostly. I help with some of patients occasionally."

Luckily, he managed to say 'patients' and not 'addicts,' which was a mistake that he often made in front of Farkas. Okay, maybe it wasn't really a true mistake.

"I thought your name sounded familiar. My brother's name is Deacon. He had a really bad problem with mentats for a long time. My parents sent him to the Followers to get cleaned up. He said that a man named Arcade helped him a lot." He cleared his throat. "Deacon's got a good job now. He's alive. That's more what I'm thankful for. I appreciate you having a part in that."

Deacon. He did remember Deacon, because he was one of the few addicts that came in trying to fix a problem and not just cover it up. It'd been a long time since Arcade saw Deacon anywhere close to the fort. For the first time, somebody acknowledged Arcade's efforts. It felt wonderful. Especially since it was an attractive man who offered the praise.

"I liked him. He was a good guy and truly wanted to get off the drugs. That made the difference. I'm glad he's doing well."

The elevator opened and Arcade followed Hank to the suite. He'd opened the door easily, too quickly, and turned to face Arcade with a smile.

"There you go."

"Thanks a lot." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of caps. "This is for you."

"You don't need to pay me, Arcade."

His lips caught Arcade's so forcefully that he couldn't track their movement into the room, and by the time that they settled onto the couch, Arcade was missing his shirt. Hank's hands gently undid his belt, and soon, they made love. He wasn't Dr. Richards, but he was sweet and gentle, and so fucking good looking that Arcade didn't care. Richards was not real, not to Arcade. He couldn't see or touch him. The doctor was just a fantasy.

In the morning, or rather early afternoon, Hank was gone. So were the girls, probably gone back to the 38 in order to leave Arcade the tab. He didn't mind, not after last night. Plus, he was eager to visit Charlie. They had plans to play caravan with Raul, a game that Arcade always enjoyed beating her at. He'd have to tell her about Hank, maybe when Raul wasn't around, because Charlie knew about all the boys in Arcade's life, even if he barely knew about any of hers.

Arcade still didn't know what Pacer wanted. As far as he could tell, Charlie still hadn't seen him. Boone threatened the addict, Arcade pretended not to see that from the mess hall, but it'd been unmistakable from across the yard. It was for the best, because she seemed very uncomfortable when Arcade brought him up. Charlie hadn't kept a secret from Arcade until then. Maybe she wasn't as forthcoming as he'd previously believed. She'd said that if Arcade knew Pacer, then he would know why their relationship had ended. Pacer was hooked on jet, and it was slowly but surely eating away at his heart. He hadn't believed Arcade when he told him the diagnosis, threw things around Arcade's tent, making a scene. Arcade didn't know what he was talking about, he was just trying to trick him into getting clean, Pacer screamed, chucking a coffee mug against the ground.

Arcade wasn't wrong. He'd heard the murmur one morning after examining Pacer, a practice that Arcade was forced to carry out every time the man entered the fort. At first, he was sure that his stethoscope was malfunctioning, after all, he'd only seen Pacer five days ago, and everything was fine then. He borrowed Farkas' since she was too busy bossing people around to actually use her medical knowledge. Nope. It was the same sound, the same inorganic noise thumping over and over again. Pacer and Arcade went to New Vegas Medical, since they were equipped to take x-rays. Usanagi examined Pacer and agreed with Arcade's discovery. There wasn't anyway to fix the problem, Pacer's heart would remain pockmarked for the rest of his life. He could stop the damage though, very easily. Just cut out the jet and the rebound, and the damn rocket, and Pacer could live pretty decently. He wouldn't stop though, and Arcade almost felt bad for him. Pacer ruined all his relationships and all he had left were the drugs. He lost the King, he lost the respect of the rest of the gang, and somewhere along the way, Pacer lost Charlie too. If Pacer didn't change his ways, he'd die within the year, Arcade was sure of it. The heart went first, but Pacer's lungs weren't faring any better. They were filled with scar tissue, which in turn, severely constricted his breathing. He ran the risk of cutting off the oxygen supply to his brain every time he inhaled that shit. Pacer still didn't care. He was going to do what he wanted and nobody else was going to be able to change that.

The Lucky 38 was bustling with activity, besides card playing, there was a party planned for the evening, to celebrate Charlie's return. It was Raul and Arcade's job to keep her in the casino, so that everyone else, excluding Boone, could decorate the penthouse suite for the festivities. They'd found a nice spot, away from Yes-Man, in front of the floor to ceiling windows. The whole strip glittered at night and there was no better place from which to watch it.

A quick knock was all he offered before opening the door to her bedroom, Rex leaping off the floor to greet him. For mostly metal, he had perfect canine manners, and licked Arcade's hand as he entered. For a moment, Arcade was sure that maybe he had the wrong room, Christ, the wrong goddamned building, but the dog sitting at his feet convinced him otherwise. It was so… clean. Charlie was never this organized. She might be meticulous when she explored, but she was not so tidy with what she managed to scavenge. He'd seen her pack, all rumpled up with hair ribbons and stimpaks and whatever else she managed to shove in there. Now, things were clearly labeled and put away. One day back and she accomplished what Arcade had been dying to do for months. But she wasn't home, and she wasn't in the casino. Arcade had already been up to the penthouse suite check out the progress, and Charlie hadn't been there either.

The kitchen and the bathroom were empty. So was the girls' bedroom and the one that Raul and Lily shared. Fuck, maybe Boone would know if Charlie squirreled her way outside. Three days, and she'd already escaped, despite what Arcade told her.

Boone's bedroom was really his too, and he awkwardly opened the door as loudly as he could, as to not surprise the sniper upon entering. Arcade had seen what that rifle could do, and did not relish experiencing the damage first hand. He wasn't there either. Must've gone out, although where, Arcade couldn't imagine. Shopping? Ha! He grinned and turned to leave, forgetting for a moment to be worried about Charlie.

Who, coincidentally, was sleeping a bed that was not his and certainly not her own. A lump within Boone's covers, breathing so quietly that Arcade had not noticed Charlie before. It was quite different from the nights at the Old Mormon Fort where she frequently screamed and flailed whenever she could manage to slumber, which wasn't often. Rarely had Arcade observed Charlie sleep through a whole night. Farkas wanted her continuously strapped to the bed, but Arcade didn't want his best friend treated like a mental patient right after enduring physical trauma.

Even though Cass told him last night that Charlie always slept like that, when they camped in the wilderness, even when she was at home. On bad nights, Charlie could be heard through the walls. But here she was, wrapped up in Boone's covers, dead to the world. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"You'd better have clothes on under there," Arcade whispered, shaking her. "Wake up."

She rolled over and looked at him, confused, then at the room. "Holy mother of… Where the fuck am I?"

"You're in Boone's bed, sweetheart."

"Oh shit. I can't believe that I fell asleep here." She sat up quickly, sliding her feet from under the covers.

"You didn't sleep with him right?"

She cast such a glare at him that she didn't need to answer.