Days slipped into weeks and despite the hot, sweaty, boring penance he inflicted upon himself, Boone did not feel his guilt about Bitter Springs subsiding.

The nightmares got worse. Sleeping in the tent near the Courier made that evident. It was almost every night the boy shook him awake, saying he was talking in his sleep or shouting. And he kept reliving the same massacre dream over and over. He figured it was part of being around the families of the people he'd slaughtered. That was hard enough when he was awake and mostly in control of his thoughts.

The days passed slowly. At first, the two of them had ventured throughout the wasteland, making package deliveries for the drug makers. The two drug dealers said that their courier, Anders, had gone missing, and that they figured he was dead, so of course the kid volunteered to go in his place. That took up time, keeping Boone's mind off of the Khans they stayed with. And although Boone didn't love running back and forth, sleeping in the dry desert heat without a roof over their heads, it was better than the alternative, which came after they finished the deliveries.

After he finished the trafficking, the Courier went to the drug labs every day and spent hours talking to the two leaders there about making chems, different techniques for synthesizing new compounds for them to sell. Of course, Boone was useless at chemistry. He hadn't even realized you could make half of the things the kid made, let alone without even the most rudimentary of supplies. So he had nothing to do.

And he hated having nothing to do, because nothing to do meant thinking. Or worse, dreaming.

The little boy with the teddy bear spoke to Boone and then he found himself pulled back into consciousness, his forearm held securely. Once again, Boone was jerked awake by his companion, their early morning routine in the weak light of the tent the Khans had spared them.

"Another one?" the Courier asked lazily, his hand firmly wrapped around Boone's forearm. Boone just nodded, staring at the ceiling of the tent. It felt so real every time.

The boy had moved his bedroll closer to Boone so he didn't have to walk far to wake him up. It was sweet, in a weird way. The kid was caring in his own way, even if that way included stealing - which it did, as was obvious every time he came back with a brand new pack of cigarettes, or more shaving cream when Boone had run out.

Anyway, it was a lot easier to fall asleep to the soft sounds of the blond's breathing compared to the cacophony in Boone's head.

His companion's thumb moved in little circles on the soft skin of his inner forearm. Boone felt the kid's gaze on him, waiting for Boone to get a grip and stop breathing so damned heavily so he could ask him the question he asked every night: "Do you want to talk about it?"

No. No, he did not. He never wanted to talk about it. He wanted it to stop happening.

"You kept saying 'let me go'."

Did he now? Usually the boy only said that he muttered or shouted, not that he said words or phrases. Nothing as ominous as "let me go". Although he had been stuck in the bloody body pit for longer this time, so maybe that was what happened.

"They're not just about your wife, huh?"

Slowly, Boone shook his head. That would be too damned simple, wouldn't it? One trauma at a time would have been nice to deal with. But that was not his fate.

He had an answer to the Courier's previous question. He believed in fate. He believed he had been doomed by some higher power to be miserable for the rest of his life until he died in some miserable, awful way as atonement for his crime. The nightmares were just part of that.

"I'll go get us breakfast," the Courier said. He withdrew his hand from Boone's forearm and left the tent in a flash.

Usually, by this point, the bone-snapping fear would have vacated from his chest. The more he had these dreams, though, the longer it lasted, keeping him pinned to his bedroll and unable to move out from under it.

The blond returned quickly with a bowl of what looked like gruel. The two of them ate in silence, the food cold and tasteless to Boone. The Courier's eye twitched while he stared down at the floor.

Even if he wanted to tell the kid about what he dreamed about, where could he even start? Boone never knew how to word things. It was something he had struggled with since he was a kid. He remembered when he had left to join the army, and his mother wanted him to talk to her, to say goodbye, and he could only choke out a "see you later." It just wasn't him. His dream wasn't straightforward, either. If it was just a recurring fear of heights, or radscorpions, he could almost certainly say that.

Something as big as Bitter Springs, though, that could get Boone killed.

"Are you sure they don't mind me eating their food?"

That was the biggest issue he could articulate. He'd been dwelling on it for the past few days. The two men ate in their tent most mornings, the Courier disappearing to the longhouse alone occasionally for dinner with the Khan elders, so the rest of the camp didn't see him. The hefty guilt of stealing food from the Khans still weighed on him.

The Courier looked up, his eyes darting to Boone's, and shook his head. "We're earning our way, Boone. Don't worry about that."

"How?"

"What do you think I spend my days doing?" Scraping the bottom of his bowl, the boy smiled to himself before spooning the last bit into his mouth. "We've paid for our food several times over in our deliveries alone. I wouldn't worry about paying our way." He paused. "Is that what the nightmares are about?"

"No," Boone said indignantly. The guilt about the food plagued his waking consciousness, not his dreams. He finished his bowl. His companion reached out for it.

"I'm going to go meet up with Jack," the boy said. "I'll see you back for dinner?"

"I might go for a walk today," Boone said. "See what's around here. Anything good to scavenge." Anything to get out of the damn camp. He knew that the longer he stayed in the tent, the hotter it got, the more he would want to venture out, which meant he would see more Khans. Not an option today.

"Oh, if you see any tape or scrap metal, can you grab it for me? And any broc flowers."

"A what flower?"

"They're these little orange flowers - you know what, never mind. There's a gas station just down the road. You could go check that out. Take ED-E with you."

"Why?"

"Protection," the kid smiled. "I'll see you tonight."

And with that, he was gone, leaving the eyebot and Boone alone once again.

Standing up, Boone stretched. He decided he'd get ready and try to slip out of the camp before too many people were awake. His palm brushed by the eyebot, who beeped indignantly at the imposition.

"Sorry," he said. Then he made a face. Why was he apologizing to a robot? Still, it chirped in response, hovering so it faced him (and to avoid his arm). "You know, he thinks you understand what I say," Boone said. "Do you?"

It beeped twice. Affirmative, if Boone remembered correctly, from the day before.

"Huh."

He got ready in silence, pulling his clothes on and shaving, breaking the silence only to ask if the robot was recording him. In response, the bot did not beep, but instead moved outside the tent, as if giving him space while Boone strapped his pack onto his torso.

So it was, indeed, recording. Excellent. He wondered just how much footage of his naked ass the robot had stored inside of it.

Still, he was grateful for the company as he ventured out of the valley and onto the road below. They'd left early enough and avoided running into any Khans, the sun just barely peeking over the lip of the canyon. Luckily, that meant it wasn't hot, either.

As he walked, the eyebot floated right next to him. "What do you think about me?" Boone asked the robot.

It beeped twice.

"Hey, at least you don't call me names."

A single beep.

"At least not out loud."

The robot didn't have a face to show disdain on. That made it superior compared to the Khans he would run into while meandering around camp. Also, it could fight. That put the eyebot above a lot of others, in his book.

"I can't believe I'm talking to a fucking robot," Boone muttered.

He took his time at the gas station, examining the area around it, looking for the orange flowers his companion had attempted to tell him about. Boone was good at scavenging. He had an eye for valuables, and he moved quickly. Back in Novac, the town had picked him over Manny every time whenever they needed someone to go find more supplies.

The selection was based on skill. At that point, both of them had nothing to lose.

Boone meandered more as the sun beat down on him and the eyebot, looking for anything of use or interest, since he had the time, but the area around the canyon was pretty vacant. He had to clip through a few radscorpions and mole rats, the ones that ED-E didn't get to first, but other than that, the wasteland around him was empty.

As the sun dipped late in the day, Boone returned from his walk out to the gas station. He'd recovered a few rolls of duct tape and a few books, figured he'd give them to his companion to decide if they could sell them or use them. Most importantly, though, he'd found some orange flowers near the cliffs that he'd stashed in his waistband, hoping they were what the boy was looking for.

Even though he'd dawdled as much as possible, the Courier still wasn't back from the drug lab. Boone sat on the cliff, overlooking the battle arena, as he waited for his companion to return. He picked up one of the books he'd taken from the gas station.

"Is that a book?"

He looked up, squinting into the sunset, at the person talking to him. It was a Khan, a young one by the looks of it, looking down at him.

"Yes," Boone said. He finally glanced at the cover. It was some sort of pre-war thing with intact, golden lettering on the cover.

"Can I look at it?"

Without a word, Boone handed it over to him. He accepted it quickly, immediately flipping through the pages. "Do you read a lot of poetry?" the kid asked without looking up, his dark hair obscuring his face.

"No," Boone answered.

"You're missing out," he said. "It's worth reading. It says so much about the world, about what it could be. What it once was." He flipped through the pages in the book. "Can I keep it?"

Boone did not say anything, just nodded shortly.

And then he looked up from his book, and Boone waited for him to realize who he was, the dawn of understanding and disgust and fear evident on his face.

But it never came. "You don't talk much," the kid said.

"Hm."

"Thanks for the book," the kid said, walking off.

A few seconds later, the Courier approached him, his shirt off and sweat dappling his forehead. He smelled like Brahmin dung. "Who was that?" the Courier asked, grinning down at Boone.

He shrugged. "A Khan, I think."

"Talking to you?"

Boone nodded. He found himself smiling a little bit at the thought. "I don't think I've ever talked to a Khan who didn't immediately call me a murderer," Boone admitted. The kid sank down next to him on the hill. In the ring, two young men sparred, using only their fists. One of their commanders barked orders, correcting their form, tapping their too-straight arms and sloppy defensive postures into perfection.

"They'll come around."

Suddenly, his throat was dry. They shouldn't come around. Boone certainly wouldn't if he was in their shoes. "They think I'm… horrible. Like a demon." Because I am. He saw it in the Khans' faces, every time they caught a glimpse of him. Knew what was running through their heads, because it was running through his head, too.

"To demonize is human. To humanize is divine."

Boone turned to look at his companion, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Maybe… they're right to demonize me," he said carefully.

The blond's eyebrows knitted together with concern. Boone wished he could reach out and wipe the expression off. He didn't need pity, he needed to move past it, to stop thinking about it every second of the day.

He remembered what he had packed away from the gas station. "Oh, I found you some of the supplies you asked for," he said, grateful for the distraction. He dug in his pack and withdrew the duct tape and the other books.

"You got me a present?" the Courier said in mock surprise. At the sight of the flowers, the kid gasped. "And flowers too. You really know how to treat a man." His lips twitched into a smirk as he tucked the bundle into his waistband. The flowers trailed pollen down his bare side.

Below them, a boy grunted while he attacked the dummy. Boone listened as the commander told them they did well, that they would work on guns next until dinner.

"Are they the right ones?" Boone grumbled.

"Yes! This is excellent. The tape, too. Thanks for going, Boone." Genuine thanks, as if Boone had done it as a personal favor and not a selfish distraction. The kid chewed on his lip, returning his attention to the ring below. "I can make a few more Stimpaks tonight before we go to bed."

"I hope you'll wash yourself off first," Boone said. He hadn't meant to say it. If he hadn't been so hot, sweaty, traumatized, hungry, whatever excuse he wanted to use, he wouldn't have. But the two sat so close to each other, and Boone could smell the sickening mixture of sweat and animal manure wafting off of him.

Like a duck, the insult slid off his back. The boy smiled deviously. "Why, you don't like my new cologne?"

"It's not cologne. You smell like shit."

In a flash, the kid slammed his arm into Boone's, laughing like he'd told a joke and hadn't just clocked his companion. "Now you get to smell like shit, too." He picked up the books and leafed through the pages. "It's part of the drug manufacturing process. It'll wash out."

"It had better," Boone muttered. Next to him, the kid just chuckled.

Gunshots. Both of them startled, but relaxed once they saw the ring. "I need training like that," the kid said, pointing down at the two boys who were aiming guns at a target in the center. "I think not fighting at a distance puts me at a disadvantage, you know?"

As always, the Courier had a point. The kid was very sharp. The entirety of the NCR's advantage came from fighting at a distance, since the Legion condemned sniping as a loser's battle. According to the Legion, only real men, brave men, fought hand-to-hand. Boone thought that was a load of brahmin shit, of course, since soldiers die the same if they're shot or beaten to death.

However, Boone had trained like the Khans below. More intensely, but similarly, with regular target practice, his commander barking at them to straighten an arm, close an eye, pay more attention, use the sight, get your heads out of your ass Vargas, goddammit!

Suddenly he had an idea.

"Do you have your pistol on you?" Boone asked.

"Always."

Boone stood. "C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"Try to teach you to shoot."

The Courier stashed his bag in their tent and followed Boone down into the canyon, out of earshot of the Khans. Boone did not want to know what unprovoked gunshots would do to the tribe, especially if they saw his red beret in the distance.

They made it to a clearing. Boone squinted, finding a target for the blond to hit. He should have grabbed some empty bottles before leaving. There was a big rock sticking out of the ground, though, and rocks shattered when they were shot at.

"Show me how you shoot," Boone said. "Hit that rock over there, the top of it."

The Courier nodded, withdrawing his pistol from his waist, aiming with one hand, and shooting. Missing completely, of course. The bullet hit the canyon to the right, probably six or seven feet off from the target.

"What if we tried something different? With the gun," Boone suggested.

"Like what?" He let the pistol drop to his waist. Boone watched his forearm wriggle again.

"Two arms on the gun," Boone directed. "It'll steady you." Hopefully it would dampen the fasciculations in his forearm, too.

The kid nodded, holding the bottom of the gun steady with his left hand, and shot again. Same outcome. Boone clicked his tongue, thinking about what else to do.

"Stay where you are."

He stepped forward to the Courier, so close to him he could smell the sweat on his head, the cigarette smoke entrenched in his hair. Heat radiated off of him. Boone could feel it through his shirt. Just like his dad had shown him to shoot when he was only four, he wrapped his arms around the Courier, loosening his right arm, angling his own head so he could look down the pistol like the blond was. He aimed too far off, Boone realized. The reason his shots ended up six or seven feet off was because he aimed like that.

"Close your bad eye," Boone directed.

"Why?"

"You lose your depth perception, but it might help you to focus," he said.

The Courier nodded, repositioned himself, pressing his body back into Boone's, and shot. Much closer, but still not close enough to hit the rock.

"That was closer!" the kid said.

"You're still off. One more time," Boone directed, bending his elbow again. "Relax."

Another shot. It was, again, close, but not there.

"You're shooting. Your head is inside the barrel. But you don't control the barrel."

That line was straight out of his commander's mouth. One of his First Recon mates, Pete, had struggled with this too. He would aim and fire his gun, the bullet always landing too high. He forgot about recoil, too excited at the prospect of hitting someone that he forgot about the mechanism behind shooting the gun in the first place.

Valentine, you're shooting. Your head is in the barrel. But what do you control, soldier?

And then Manny would make a sexual comment about shooting his soldiers too quickly, and the commander would shout, Vargas, at least his head isn't up his ass! Everyone run ten laps. Now!

"I control the trigger," the blond whispered. "Aim, breathe, squeeze, right, tough guy?" The Courier's laugh buzzed where his back met Boone's chest.

"Right."

He felt the kid resume his stance, take a breath, and shoot.

The rock shattered.

"Oh, fuck yes!" the kid shouted triumphantly. He peeled himself away from Boone, grinning wider than Boone had seen in the months they'd been together. "Let me try your sniper rifle next."

"I think we should make sure you can shoot from a distance first," Boone said, but he smiled, just a little, nonetheless. "Let's try it again with the pistol."

A magazine later and Boone doubted the kid would be picked as a First Recon sharpshooter, but he managed to hit more than he missed. Although Boone wouldn't classify him as useful with a gun, he no longer thought of him as useless. And the Courier beamed so brightly that Boone couldn't help but smile a little bit, too.

"Do you want to get dinner?" the kid offered.

As the two retreated back to Red Rock, the Courier withdrew his bottle cap again. Boone watched as he spun it between his fingers. He realized that his companion did that when he was thinking. "We should leave tomorrow," the blond said. He scratched his bare back, raking his fingernails on the flesh. "We need to move on. I want to find the guy who shot me."

"And where might he be?"

Turning back to Boone, the Courier grinned. "Hope you brought your caps, Boone. We're going to Vegas."

A/N: end of part 1! Very disappointed it has taken 56 pages to get here.