Boone had walked behind me all way, careful to keep distance. I longed for Arcade; to tell him about my groundbreaking realization triggered by the only functioning classroom in probably the entire Mojave. It wasn't as though tons of memories rushed back; the dome-shaped structure which was set on fire repeatedly in my dreams had been my school. There were no desks, but instead several tables, piles of books and objects, a jumbled space and even a fireplace which we had read books by. I could feel my former self there momentarily as well; I was stressed, worried, paranoid even. Like I was waiting for a time bomb to go off.
All these things and more I wanted to talk to Boone about, to ponder about. But the more days had gone by, the more distant he'd gotten. Now we sat by the campfire, me hunched over a book, him laying on a bedroll on his back in the regular hands-behind-head position. I was holding the book up as though reading it, but staring only at him. Between the Legion and NCR, Vegas, Mr. House, the Families, and all my nightmares and quests to discover myself, I never had time to dwell on how I felt. But I realized on this brisk night in the Mojave, with no Arcade around to stimulate my brain, no Rex to look after, and a soldier who was barely speaking to me, that I cared so much about Craig Boone I couldn't even describe it.
The time for ignoring things was over. Without meaning to, I said out loud, "Craig."
He turned, not getting up, a look of harsh annoyance on his face at the name. "What?"
"Why are you acting like this?"
"Like what." The bitterness in his voice was clear. He knew what I was talking about.
"What did I do?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," was his scoffing response.
Though I could have gotten mad, I simply stuffed the book closer to my face, trembling with anger and...ache, and unfairness. His difficult nature was getting to me, and there was nothing I could do or say to change it. Though Oliver Twist was a large book to hide behind, he must have seen the depression seeping through anyway. Boone sat up, and sighed.
"Look. I wasn't going to say anything, and thought I could get over it. Obviously not."
I lowered the book.
"When you told me to pack, I did. I was trying to make sure we had all the necessities, and something fell out of your bag. I wasn't sure if it was something we needed, or something that could stay, so I opened it for the sole reason of checking." His voice dropped, and now the annoyance had vanished, and so did Boone's wall, a small amount. "It was a letter from Benny, that guy who shot you."
Oh, fuck. "Boone-"
"I'm sorry I even opened it," he said, talking over me. "I know it wasn't my business. But. I don't know. I had this feeling...I don't know what it was. I'm not good at saying things like this. My job is to protect you, and I'll do that as long as you want me to. But..." he shrugged, running out of words. And though you may not think so, that is a ton of words in Boone Speak.
Now he lay back down, palms under his head, and though I wanted to say an endless amount of things back, I could think of nothing, and something told me that Boone wouldn't listen to anything anyway. So I put my nose back in the book, my eyes glazing over, my mind a million miles away from London and Fagin and everyone else in the story.