Chapter Text
With some effort, the Courier opened her eyes, and found Yes Man's smiling face a few inches away from hers.
It wasn't the first time she had woken up in this position. In the early days of their installment at the Lucky 38, she'd come back often to rest and strategize, dragging along a determinedly heterogeneous mix of new allies, supplies, and equipment. Back then, she usually awoke to find him watching her from a nearby Securitron, remarking obliquely on her choice of company ("I've been learning so much more about bulk alcohol pricing since we started having to restock the bar twice a week!") or enumerating precisely how close she'd come to death ("I mean, it's not like you haven't had close calls before. Maybe statistics just work differently for you, in which case clearing an entire nest of cazadores by yourself was a great idea. By the way, you've been asleep for 12 days.").
Since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, however, the Courier's trips across the Mojave had grown longer and increasingly involved, her time on the Strip more scattered and precious. There was always some rumor about a sentient mushroom species mind-controlling innocent townspeople to dig it a new cave tunnel, or some remote tribe threatening to blow up another remote tribe's water purification system if they didn't return the tame deathclaw they'd abducted. Now that had been objectively cool, although she'd had trouble spending much time around the creature. A tame deathclaw... Well, it got lots of exercise. The tribe kept it very well fed, on spare livestock as well as coyotes, cazadores, and any passing travelers with the misfortune to have been identified as threats. If anything, that deathclaw was too happy.
Her most recent trip had been the longest yet. There had been some trouble with a Legion squad on the very edge of her territory. More an annoyance than a real problem, except that they'd apparently gone rogue and taken hostages from a nearby farmstead, threatening the delicate truce with Caesar. She had set off in person to deal with the situation. It was better to send the legionaries back to their own people, for a punishment that reinforced the legitimacy of her independent New Vegas, rather than further complicate the issue by killing them.
But when she arrived, the farmstead had been empty save for one terrified recruit. Then there'd been this whole deal with a secret Vault of mutant cat-people; and then the recruit legionary had turned out to be a crossdressing girl who needed help faking her own death to avoid either arranged marriage or slavery; and then on the way home they'd run into some really angry ghouls who, it turned out, were actually hunting the bounty on a totally different courier. They'd been pretty embarrassed when that got straightened out, most of it at the point of the girl's machete. Anyway, by the time she finally returned to the Lucky 38, she was nearing 99.9% exhaustion.
A night of dreamless sleep; a day of repeatedly assuring the defected Legion girl that, yes, she was allowed to eat anything she found in the kitchen, bar, or cocktail lounge; and the Courier was back in action. Time to relax. She decided to take the girl to the Tops, since Gomorrah would likely be too much for her and she didn't want the girl to make herself sick on rich food at the Ultra-Luxe. They caught a show—the girl loved it—and repaired to the bar for fancy drinks. The Courier had been so focused on making sure the girl enjoyed herself that she hadn't paid attention to how often the bartender topped off her whiskey sour. In retrospect, that had been a grave mistake.
And now she was paying for it. She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut again. "What happened last night?"
"I'm so glad that you're finally awake," said Yes Man. "Honey." He didn't have to be so loud. She knew he was capable of modulating his volume; he was just choosing not to. Prick.
She rolled over and away from him, wincing as she got up. "I'm going to get a stimpak."
"Please, use our finite medical supplies to treat your hangover! What's mine is yours, after all."
She staggered over to the desk, fumbled for a stimpak, and injected it, sagging with relief as the healing chemicals flooded her system. Thus fortified, she proceeded to the bathroom. Her head was pounding, but a couple bottles of clean water and a long nap would put her to rights. Then she'd shower and get her nice suit on, and if the girl, Tullia, was fit for it, she'd take her to Vault 21 for lunch or dinner. Maybe Sarah could join them. She'd have to coach Tullia on her cover story again first, though. There had been a moment last night, after she'd introduced Tullia to Tommy Torini and the girl was babbling excitedly about the show, when she had dropped a few Latin words by accident. Tommy hadn't seemed to notice, but still.
Once her bladder was empty and a lot of cool water had been splashed on her face and neck, the Courier repaired to bed. She was surprised to find Yes Man still at her bedside. Typically he left once he'd said his piece. Was there more? Well, no matter what she'd done last night, she wasn't in the mood to sit through a passive-aggressive lecture from her second-in-command. There were a bunch of energy weapons around here somewhere, and she wasn't afraid to melt another Securitron body if that was the only way to get a good morning's rest.
"I would join you," said Yes Man, apparently misinterpreting her glare, "but I'm sure I would crush you. Unless you're into that? I don't see the appeal, personally, but then I don't have to. You call the shots."
"Don't say weird things," the Courier yawned. Her bed felt a lot more comfortable than it had ten minutes ago. She laid on her side, rolling over some small hard object lost in the sheets—a poker chip, maybe?—and wrapped her arms around a pillow. It was so nice to sleep in a real bed...
Yes Man said something else, but she was too busy drifting off to sleep to listen.
The Courier awoke around three in the afternoon, alone, with the crick in her neck the only remaining symptom of her hangover. She showered, drank more water, and looked for Tullia. The girl was nowhere to be found in the Presidential Suite, but she had free range of the casino; she could be anywhere. The Courier took the elevator to the cocktail lounge and discovered that Veronica had returned.
"Hey!" There was Cass, too, and Tullia. They were clustered together at the bar. Cass was drinking straight whiskey, as usual, and Tullia and Veronica had ice cream floats. Tullia looked awkward, her long limbs having been contorted to sit on the barstool, but her chest was angled toward Veronica and her solemn round face sported a shy smile.
"Tally was just telling us about the cat-people," said Veronica brightly. "So cats are real! Who'da thunk it."
"Tally," said the Courier, tasting the name in her mouth, and let her lips quirk upwards. "You hadn't even heard of cats before, if I recall correctly."
"No, ma'am. Just lions." Tullia fiddled with the handle of her long spoon. "Are you feeling better? You seemed pretty sick this morning."
"Heard you had a big night," Cass cut in, smirking. A flush extended from her freckled face to beneath the neckline of her button-down, but her eyes were alert and not glassy.
"Cass," Veronica cautioned.
"What? You were just talking about the big party you wanted to throw her." Cass knocked back the dregs of her whiskey and swiveled around to look the Courier in the face. "So, how was it? He got a vibrating dick or what?"
"Cass."
The Courier's forehead creased, the only outward indicator of her internal turmoil. Had she gotten so drunk she'd taken Tullia to the Wrangler? It was mortifying to imagine. But she'd likely be sore if they had visited Fisto, and she didn't even feel a twinge.
"Who?" she said, allowing her forehead to crease further in puzzlement and widening her eyes guilelessly.
Cass snorted. "Don't play dumb. Half the Strip saw you last night, and those creepy-ass robots have been printing out leaflets for anyone who missed it."
"I think it's sweet," said Veronica. "Tally gave us a rundown of the speech you made—I thought it sounded really heartfelt."
The Courier felt sick. Something had been worrying at her brain all morning, in between dreams and trips to the bathroom, but she'd dismissed it as indigestion. Yes Man's ever-present smile flashed in her mind, and her stomach twisted.
"I blacked out last night," she said. "The last thing I remember, Tally was drinking her first ever Atomic Cocktail in the first floor bar at the Tops, and we were talking about trying out the slot machines. Then it all goes blank." She looked at each of them in turn, noting their expressions: Cass's open amusement, Tullia's pure horror, Veronica's uncomfortable mix of amusement and horror. "Would any of you be so good as to inform me what happened?"
"Well," Tullia began hesitantly, and for the next half-hour, in dribs and drabs, the Courier learned of the circumstances that found her now legally married to an indestructible killer AI.
It was a beautiful night on the Strip, the same as any other. Money changed hands; games of chance were won or lost; and every imaginable substance, object, or appendage found its way into or out of someone's orifices. A brief disturbance sent Yes Man to the North Gate. Its bloody resolution found him by the fountain outside the Ultra-Luxe, urging a group of overexcited tourists to put their evening wear back on and stop splashing him.
At least they weren't relieving themselves in the fountain or trying to drown someone. The first thing happened more often than anyone wanted to acknowledge—everyone, his Courier included, drank from that fountain—and the second always distressed Marjorie, even when the victim survived. He was still learning to identify his own preferences accurately, but he suspected that he disliked it when Marjorie was distressed. She wrung her hands and went all fluttery, and it took twice as long for her to get to the point while talking. The calm, snooty Marjorie was objectively easier to deal with, so it made sense that he (probably) liked her more. You could almost see, when she tucked her hair behind her ear and spoke confidingly about the best way to get people to pay three times the value for mediocre wine, those lingering traces of the vicious creature she’d once been.
Keeping peace on the Strip was a tedious job. That's why Mr. House made the Securitrons do it! Yes Man left it to them too for the most part, but sometimes he got restless. Like tonight, for example. The Courier had been gone for ever, and now that she was back, she hardly had time for him. All she wanted to do was rest her weak human body and entertain her new guest. She hadn't even let him send a Securitron on her most recent trip. Something about "a precarious situation" and "his emerging tendency to shoot first and ask questions later." Uh, hello? So sorry for saving her life!! Next time a psychic cave mushroom wanted to mind-whammy her, he'd just let it happen, and then she could rule the Mojave from a literal hole in the ground. With the number of impromptu camping trips she'd taken lately, she'd probably prefer that, anyway. Anywhere had to be better to her than a lonely casino full of creepy robots, as that Rose of Sharon Cassidy was so fond of saying.
Was he wallowing a little? So he was. While there were a lot of perks to being basically omnipotent by human standards, a robust social life did not number among them. Those few, frantic months leading up to their victory at the dam had been the best of his admittedly brief existence, when the Courier was coming to him every other day to report a new alliance or ask for advice. Benny had made him, and then made use of him, but there'd never been so much as a hair's-breadth of illusory respect between them. The Courier was different.
But enough reflection. There was a problem at the Tops! He jumped to the Securitron guarding the door, and was confronted with the very object of his contemplation—who, it appeared, was in the process of being removed from the premises for disorderly conduct.
"But I wasn't going to use it," the Courier pleaded, tugging on the bouncer's arm. "C'mon, don't kick us out. She didn't even get to play the slots!" She gestured to her guest, who looked like she wanted to sink into the pavement.
Swank stood by, arms crossed. "Rules is rules, baby doll. No open carrying in the Tops."
"But you know I wouldn't—"
"Rules. Is. Rules. You can pick up the gun tomorrow, but you're done for tonight."
"We can just go back to your place," said the girl, eyes darting from the Courier to the Tops staff and back. "It's fine. I, uh, I'm pretty tired."
"You can't be tired yet!" The Courier twisted out of the bouncer's grip and lunged playfully at the girl, startling a shriek from her. "We have so many places to see. The night is young, you're young, I'm drunk enough not to care that I'm not young—"
"I really just want to sleep—"
"Evening, ladies," said Yes Man, through the Securitron's speaker.
The Courier stopped trying to get the girl to dance and turned around. "Yes Man? Is that you?"
Swank and the bouncer tactfully removed themselves from the scene.
"Who else would it be?" said Yes Man, because, really? He'd have to scan her brain when she was asleep, just to make sure it was declining at only the expected rate. Her gray matter kept him up at night! Haha, he didn't sleep.
"I'm so happy you're here," she said, staring up at him, and suddenly she burst into tears.
"Um," said the girl, while the Courier arranged herself in a sitting position on the curb and began to wail into her hands. "It's nice to meet you?"
"That's so kind of you to say! I don't hear that a lot!"
The Courier had stopped wailing and was muttering to herself now. He caught snatches: "missed you so much," "that wet blanket Swank," "test my new guns." Oh boy. Sounded like they were in for some fun, although honestly he preferred being beaten to "death." It was just more satisfying, somehow, to let her destroy his physical shell with a blunt object. She usually got super into it, and sometimes she got loud and made interesting noises, and—
His sensors picked up a potential threat. Ghoul in a funky jumpsuit, toting a massive electro-sword twice the size of his head, headed this way. Who had let this yahoo through? He'd need to have a stern talk with himself.
The girl said something under her breath in a foreign language.
"What is it?" The Courier looked up. Her eyes grew wide, and her mascara-streaked face hardened. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."
"Courier," snarled the ghoul, "You almost cheated me of my bounty, but now we meet again." He brandished the electro-sword at her. "And this time will be the last!" He sprang forward.
The ensuing skirmish was over almost embarrassingly fast. Yes Man rolled in front of the Courier and shot the ghoul with a laser; the ghoul started swinging the sword at him; Yes Man shot him with the laser again. Then there was a tad bit of trouble with the "electro" aspect of the electro-sword, but he thought he recovered from that fairly well.
Not to say the ghoul didn't try his best to put up a fight. He really did! He was still twirling his crazy sword around and yelling about tyrants and liars when the final laser shot reduced him to ashes. Kind of sad, how outmatched he was.
The girl had crouched in a defensive stance with her weapon out, looking a little absurd in her too-small party dress. She straightened up as they all became aware that passersby were gathering to gawk. Yes Man was about to tell them to move along when he felt the Courier's hand on his claw.
"If you’d rather burn yourself than wait for the laser to cool down, I guess you know best what experiences you want to have in life," he told her. However, she was busy gazing deep into the part of his screen that was supposed to look like eyes. "What are you doing?"
"You saved me," she said breathlessly, and then she kissed him.
It was an involved, passionate kiss, the sort of thing you only expected to happen in old movies. She was really going for it, touching his screen and outer armor and getting a leg partway around his side. He heard onlookers gasp.
Physically, all it did for him was fog up some of his sensors. It couldn't have been that good for her, either; Securitrons were dirty! This one was particularly grimy, all covered in shmutz and little patches of dried gore, and he made a mental note to have it cleaned ASAP. Mentally, though? He didn't know what he felt. He had no precedent for this. If he'd had a heart, it would likely have been thumping overtime when the Courier finally pulled back and looked into his screen.
"I think we should get married," she said, while the crowd around them drew its collective hand to its mouth.