Courier and Boone

His own hand, laying limp beside her, moved, smoothing over the skin of her waist and pulling her in tight against his body. A weak, involuntary smile graced his lips as he settled his cheek against her hair. His heart filled with warmth, a familiar, yet forgotten feeling that washed away the past year of grief and pain.

She stirred, head shifting against his shoulder. A little hum of wakefulness left her.

But it was wrong.

That wasn’t Carla.

His eyebrows furrowed, eyes fluttering open. Where he expected the sleek brown hair of his wife, he found the fiery red hair of the courier.

And everything shattered.

His smile fell, returning to his characteristic scowl. The pain he’d briefly forgotten crashed back into him, replacing the warmth in his heart back to a cold dread. He couldn’t breathe, the guilt tightening his throat and chest.

She’d felt his love in a way he’d forgotten how to express, in a way that only Carla had ever felt. A look of genuine joy and excitement graced her usually hardened features. He saw in her eyes how happy she was to have felt it.

And for a godforsaken moment, he wanted to accept it. He wanted so badly to hold her, to give her the love that she’d somehow unburied.

But he couldn’t. The panic was too much. Too loud.

“Get the fuck off me,” he bit, the words leaving his mouth before he could fully understand them. They wiped that soft look right off her face, features contouring into confusion and hurt. It only served to further tighten his chest.

But he didn’t have to see it for very long. She practically tore herself away, throwing the blankets off and standing in an instant. He let out a heavy, shaky breath watching the rigid set of her back as she dressed herself sharply.

He should apologize, explain that in his sleepy haze he’d mistaken her for the woman he missed more than anything. He should say something, anything to ease the crippling ache in his chest at seeing her so hurt.

But he wouldn’t, he never did. The right words never made it out of his head, drowned out by the constant noise of his fear.

And now, it told him this was for the best. The closer he lets her get, the more love he lets show, the more danger she’s in. And the more he has to lose.

So he said nothing, just ran a shaky hand over his face before getting up and dressing himself. She was out the door before his feet even hit the floor.

–

It was stupid. Despite the brief affection she’d woken to, despite the brief moment of safety and love that followed, she was stupid for believing it. The happy spark that lit in her chest from being in his arms, it was weakness, a childish impulse she so foolishly indulged in.

The anger had subsided a while ago, ten broken mugs, an overturned table and a mangled chair later. All that remained was that empty, aching hole in her chest where her fervor once was. She couldn’t bring herself to feel it again. Not now.

She wanted to be upset with him, to write him off as just another asshole trying to hurt her, but she couldn’t. His bite wasn’t born from malintent, but a love so profound that it scared him. She hated the way she saw his pain bleed into everything he did. It would be so much easier if she couldn’t.

As stupid as she felt, she still knew what happened. She’d seen it in his eyes before, felt it every now and then when he was inside her. Moments where he didn’t see her, but saw a ghost.

She should be used to it by now, his need to push her away, to keep her at arms length. But goddammit, it still hurt every time.

She wiped her eyes of the unwelcome wetness that ran down her cheeks. It had to have been hours she spent like this, knees pressed tightly against her chest, wallowing in self loathing. But it wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before.

And she knew for a fact that the sorrow she felt was shared across the hall. As long as she could withstand this hurt, he’d feel it too.

But that’s not what she wanted, not really. What she wanted more than anything was to be loved, and for some godforsaken reason, she wanted to be loved by him. She didn’t want him to hurt. In fact, she’d bear the weight of his pain just to see him smile at her again.

The thought contorted her chest, hitching her breath. She could stew in resentment all night waiting on an apology that’d never come, letting him feel the pain she felt. It would be so easy just to let him never apologize and for her to just leave.

But if she ever wanted to see that smile again, she’d have to talk to him.

Fucking shit.

She got up, her limbs groaning in protest after being curled against her body for the past few hours. She needed to clear her head, needed some fresh Mojave air in her lungs before she confronted him. So, with a stretch, she entered the hallway of the presidential suite.

“Well there she is!” The familiar robotic southern drawl sounded through the hallway, grating her ears and making her flinch. “You had me worried sick after you slammed that door.”

“I thought I told you to fuck off,” she responded. She’d meant it when she passed him earlier, but now, the words held only a fraction of their bite.

“Well, now, I may be made of steel and wires, but words still hurt, sweetheart,” he continued. She huffed.

“Yeah, well, join the fucking club.” She crossed her arms, eyes drifting to the door she left from this morning.

“Why don’t you tell ole Victor what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.” Her arms tightened across her chest.

“It’s nothing,” she blurted, crossing the distance to the elevator. “Take me to the casino floor,”

“No can do, sweetheart.” Her head snapped to him, jaw set. “Orders from the big man says you have to work it out with your friend there.”

“Are you fucking kidding me Victor?!” She growled, throwing her hands to her sides. “Take me to the casino floor now, I’m serious!”

“Sorry partner, what the big man says, goes,” he explained, his manufactured voice cheery as ever. “Says you’re not as productive without your right hand man.”

“Victor, I swear to god I’m going to kill you.” Her voice was low and dangerous, a sound that had made even legionaries fold. A robotic laugh escaped him.

“I’d sure like to see you try sweetheart.” A growl escaped her lips, hands balled so tightly into fists her nails bit into her palm. She really thought she was going to tear him apart.

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you can work it out,” he continued in her raging silence. “Heaven knows I’ve seen you recover from worse.”

“Maybe I don’t want to work it out,” she spat. “Maybe I just want to leave. Maybe I’m just done.”

“Well then I’m sure it means nothing to you that he punched a hole in the wall.” Her breath hitched, but she didn’t waver.

“He punches lots of things.”

“Sure does, including the bathroom mirror.” Her heart dropped. “Didn’t even bother to patch up the damage to his poor hand.”

“Fuck you, Victor,” she grumbled, turning to approach the door from this morning.

“Words, sweetheart.”

Her anger for Victor lingered as she hesitated in front of the door. The fact that he could just trap her at a moment's notice had her blood pumping with a rage that she was determined to take out not on Victor, but Robert House himself. No one could ever do that to her and see the light of day.

But she forced it aside, her brand new goal of completely dismantling House’s empire completely insignificant to her at this moment. If what Victor said was true, she couldn’t in her right mind let Boone continue his spiral of self destruction. She was the only one that could put a stop to it. Not that she really knew how.

Talking was the one thing she was good at, but that never got far with Boone. It was rare for her not to know the right words, but when it came to her own feelings, she came up short. She’d sooner die than explain how hurt she was.

So she entered the room without any idea of what to say.

She found him immediately, catching the way he flinched at the sound of the door. Though he didn’t look up from the rifle in his grasp. He was on an old couch in the corner of the room, a dim lamp doing little to illuminate the room.

He ran a dirty rag across the barrel of his gun, appearing to be cleaning it. But she knew better. His rifle was certainly sufficiently clean hours ago. He was busying his hands, forcing them to do something mundane yet familiar to keep them from doing harm.

But he was okay. At least physically.

She crossed the room slowly, cautiously. The rigid set of his jaw and the sharp angles of his tense muscles were testaments to the turmoil he tried desperately not to feel. But she didn’t see a coyote with its teeth bared, but rather one caught in a trap. One ready to gnaw off its own leg just to be free.

Slowly, she sank down onto the couch next to him. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge her presence, but she caught the way he tightened his grip on the old rag.

Her breath stopped, realizing the layer of red that clung to that hand. Deep cuts ran across his knuckles, wounds he, in fact, didn’t tend to. Thank god she listened to Victor.

She swallowed.

“It’s…okay,” she started, voice shaky and unsure. She was used to wielding words like weapons, to use them to soothe was something else entirely.

He didn’t react, didn’t even blink.

“Boone?” She tried. But still, nothing. She needed something more, something that would cut right through the noise of shame ringing in his mind.

“I forgive you.”

That got a reaction.

His hand suddenly stopped along his rifle, a brief moment of stillness before he started again, slower.

“Never said I was sorry,” he spoke, a last ditch effort to do anything but apologize, to let her know of the guilt that was very clearly eating him alive.

“Are you?” She asked. The question sounded simple, yet held so much weight it made him stop yet again.

With a sharp exhale, he discarded the rag, laying his rifle down across his lap. He finally looked at her, and his eyes sank her heart. They were tense, angry, but so full of pain it made her chest ache.

No, I’m not sorry. Now leave me the fuck alone.

She could practically hear the words before they left his lips. Words he didn’t want to say, but were so loud in his brain he felt he needed to. She braced for it.

But it never came.

His expression shifted, the tension in his brows easing ever so slightly, his lips no longer pressed into a thin line. He let out a long, shaky breath.

“Yeah,” he spoke, the single word breaking in his throat. “I am.”

The simple admission flooded her with so much relief that it staggered her. She knew it was no easy thing for him to do, to bare his soul in a way she’s never seen. The weight of his words, it was enough to make her want to cry.

But she didn’t. She knew how fragile this moment was, his psyche a minefield she needed to tread through carefully. She knew how easy it’d be for him to retreat from her once again.

Her eyes drifted back down to his mangled hand resting on his rifle, the smear of dried blood a reminder of what had gotten them here. Her heart broke.

Without a word, she stood. Boone remained still, his gaze a heavy thing against her back as she crossed the room. He didn’t ask where she was going nor did he ask her not to leave, he just watched.

She returned only a moment later, his eyes never leaving her as she set down a bottle of alcohol, a roll of bandages and the softest cloth in her pack onto the table.

His heavy gaze prickled against her skin as she soaked the cloth with the clear alcohol. The label had long since worn away, but judging by the path it burned down her throat, it’d do its job here too.

With the alcohol soaked cloth in her grasp, she met his eyes again, holding his intense, questioning gaze as she extended her free hand to him. There was a moment of nothing, Boone’s usual hesitance to do anything that requires an ounce of vulnerability.

But it only lasted a fraction of the time it usually does. Without even a sigh, he gently placed his injured hand into hers, a slight pained tremble to his fingers.

She swallowed the lump that developed in her throat at the sight, the blatant evidence of his pain now in her hand. But she got to work starting to wipe away the blood.

Slowly, the crimson that clung to his skin began to clear, seeping into the old cloth in a way she couldn’t hope to wash out. His breathing steadied as he watched her every move with rapt attention. She began to feel it again, the importance, safety and love that came from being the only thing that mattered to him.

But then she got to his knuckles, the thin skin split and bruised. He flinched. Hard.

She stopped, cloth hovering over a deep gash between his fingers. Her eyes flicked up to his, a silent apology. He nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. His approval.

She continued, her movements more gentle than she thought she was capable of. He still flinched, hitched his breath, a constant reminder of how much he hurt because of her. That warmth in her chest began to curdle, a realization that it was her at the center of his pain.

She finished off by carefully wrapping a bandage around his knuckles, but that heaviness for him lingered. Was she to blame for allowing him to love her? She couldn’t bring herself to look at him again as she considered the horrible answer to that question.

She began to pull her hand back from under his, ready to give him the space she thought he desired. But before she could, his hand tightened around hers, holding it in place against his palm.

Her breath stopped, her gaze finally lifting to his. He looked at her with such profound admiration that her heart dropped. A look that said far more than his mouth ever could.

Without a word, he lifted her hand to his face, placing it on his cheek. His eyes closed slowly, turning his head to press his lips to her palm.