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Jacobstown made Arcade restless. Irritable, if he was going to be honest, or 'on edge' if Veronica was trying to be tactful. The combination of the Nightkin and being around Doc Henry made him tense, perpetually worried that the old bonesaw was going to run his already too-honest mouth and let slip about Arcade's own past.
He had plans to discuss things related to Enclave families and things of a similar matter with Courier eventually, of course. Just not now. Not with a member of the Brotherhood lurking in the doorway and eyeballing the Jacobstown natives with equal barely restrained curiosity and contempt. Not with Boone keeping at his heels on a regular basis, figuring Arcade's company better than a pack of Nightkin who shared his reticence for small talk.
Jacobstown. He hated the place. Hated the snow, hated the vaguely familial obligation to trek up and visit Doc Henry every few months. Hell, at this point he suspected he was starting to hate Doc Henry a little bit.
He exhaled into the crisp morning air, burying his chin deep in the collar of a moth-eaten supermutant-sized parka that Courier's new pet mutant - Rose? Lily? - had forced on him this morning in a fit of grandmotherly concern. It was warm and musty, big enough to end well past his knees, and after two nights spent in an uninsulated room shivering until his bones rattled he was harbouring all sorts of warm and fuzzy feelings towards it. Warm was good. Warm was great. The gloves he'd borrowed from Raul were even better, sturdy leather lined with itchy Bighorner wool that didn't smell too badly of ghoul. He hadn't felt this warm since they'd arrived in Jacobstown three days ago, still bathing in the triumph of jamming a handful of snow down Veronica's hood not once but twice during the walk up the mountain.
A wreath of foggy breath was left in his wake as he found his footing and clambered up towards the cave high above Jacobstown, already eyeing off what looked like the perfect tree under which to cage a cigarette and be miserable in peace. If he was going to hate the place, then he was going to do it with a nice view and no one to bother him.
That was the theory at least. Leaning against the tree at the cave entrance, Arcade kicked away some snow and dug in his pockets for the few cigarettes he'd discreetly liberated from Calamity.
Smoking might be a habit that he publicly toed the official Followers line in regards (and in fact had earned his first ever official note in his file over it, apparently due to it being bad form to confiscate a patient's cigarettes with 'you've got cancer, stupid.'), but a few debriefing sessions with Julie Farkas had left him with what he was starting to view as the New Vegas Followers's affliction: eventually everyone developed a stress-induced taste for Mexican cigarettes and black coffee.
Surreptitious caffeine and nicotine intake were about the only outlets the local Followers had. Whoring was out and sleeping with each other earned the schoolboy humiliation of getting a verbal flaying from Julie. They were unofficially-officially banned from the Wrangler and no one could afford a fake passport into New Vegas, so that just left coffee or Dixon. At least Julie's coffee was limited to only giving him bowel-cramping shits and not actually killing him. For all he knew Dixon was using the Followers latrines to add flavour to his whiskey.
...god, I could murder a coffee right about now.
If he couldn't have one vice then he'd indulge the other as he stood in the sunlight, squinting against the snow glare and watching a red beret disappear around the Jacobstown gate. Arcade shook his head and struck a match against the bark, his gloved fingers fumbling with the little stick of wood. He cupped his hand around the little flame and held it to the tip of his cigarette, willing the bent and battered smoke into life.
Might as well enjoy the peace while it lasted. He settled against the tree, frowning as a damp shower of snow slush dripped down the back of his neck, and idly sent a smoke ring sailing into the air as he watched Boone slowly make the ascent up the mountain slope.
Arcade dropped his cigarette butt into the snow and watched it sink with a sizzle and hiss, dropping from view just in time for Boone to stop in front of him, hands braced on his knees as he fought to get his breath back.
"Nice morning for a walk," he said lightly, listening to Boone's heavy breathing. "Fresh. Invigorating."
Boone shook his head, a hand pushing his beret back and smearing away a gloss of sweat. Whether the headshake was in disagreement or in lieu of talking, Arcade didn't know or care.
"So I thought I'd take advantage of the quiet day Courier has planned and get some bracing healthy mountain air, become one with nature, enter a state of Zen relaxation, etcetera and so forth." He paused. "I wanted an hour to myself." Another pause. "Alone."
The clarification sailed over Boone's head. "Courier sent me."
Arcade raised an eyebrow. "I need babysitting now?"
"Huh." The beret was pulled down slightly too low, the sign of someone sporting a freshly shaven scalp encountering sharp cold air. "You're standing outside a cave full of Nightstalkers."
Arcade did his best not to flinch. "They cleared this place out yesterday."
"Might've missed some." Boone patted at the machete on his hip and leaned against the tree, dislodging another fine shower of icy cold droplets. "Plus your Ripper went flat a week ago and you left your toy gun on the bedside table."
"Flat? No, I'm sure it isn't." Is it? He pulled the little cutting tool off his belt and thumbed off the safety, the blades spinning once, twice, then spluttering into silence. "Ah. Well." He sought refuge in sarcasm. "Where would I be without you?"
"Torn apart by Nightstalkers."
"Is that a joke or a prediction?" Arcade frowned. "How did you know I left my Defender by my bed? If you're going through my things…"
Boone managed to look flummoxed and embarrassed all at once, entirely without changing his expression. Cass might derisively call him Stoneface but it didn't take long to learn how to read the subtle flickers of expression that seeped past his façade. A blink here, the faintest quirk of a lip there. Once you got the hang of it, Arcade surmised, he was easier to read than a picture book.
He folded his arms and leaned against the tree, his thin drab olive shirt catching on the sharp bark edges. When he shrugged his shoulders the cotton caught and rucked up to show a sliver of belly, night shift pale skin dusted with russet brown hair. "Went to shake you for breakfast but you'd gone. Mutant at the gate said you'd beelined up here. Courier said you were sulking and sent me after you."
Arcade planted a hand on the bark by Boone's head, the sleeve of his jacket brushing against the hard arch of Boone's jaw. He looked over the top of his glasses. "Sent you, or did you volunteer?"
"Does it matter?" The flush on the tips of Boone's ears gave him away.
"Ha!" Arcade grinned, as toothy and predatory as the (theoretical) Nightstalkers (potentially) circling around behind him. "You volunteered. Any reason why you decided to shake me awake?"
Boone didn't move, but his eyes flicked warily down towards the still sleepy settlement below. "Might've been."
"Neighbourly good intentions?" The grin ratcheted up a couple of degrees. "Concern for your fellow man?" He took note of the slight wince at the last word and filed it away for inspection later.
Craig squared himself up a little, jaw set firm. "Might've had something on my mind."
"Do tell."
The flush on his ears burned pinker. "Personal business."
"Such as?" Arcade had no plans of letting him off easily. Nor getting him off easily, if he had to be totally honest about.
"Personal… business. You know."
"I really don't." He pushed himself away from the tree. "Personal business… does that mean you want me to do your taxes? Write a letter to Ma and Pop?"
Boone glowered from behind his sunglasses. "Don't make things easy, do you." It was a statement, not a question.
"I try not to." Arcade stooped over and picked up a pebble from the ground, tossing in his hand before whipping it as hard as he could towards Jacobstown. It hit a tree and sent down a little flurry of snow. No one from Jacobstown heard it, and if they did, they didn't care to look up and investigate the source of the noise.
"Hell was that for?"
"Just working out how private it is here." He turned back to Boone. "That's why you're here being evasive, right? You decided to take it on yourself to shake me for breakfast because, and excuse me for using the best Golden Globes line there is, because you had something else you wanted to stuff in my face apart from coyote jerky."
Boone blinked. "You watch Golden Globes reels?"
"How much of a shy violet do you think I am, Craig?" He pushed his glasses back up his nose and took a step closer. "If you have some sort of fantasy about being a dashing straight fellow ruining a sweet golden-haired bookworm, you're about twenty years too late."
"Huh." Boone may or may not have looked amused. "I thought it was more the other way 'round."
"Was that… was that flirting?" Arcade took another step closer, close enough that he could feel Boone's foggy breath rolling over his jaw. "Audaces fortuna iuvat, to use a cliche. So what is it that you think about when you've got me on my knees?"
Boone swallowed. "Maybe. Depends on what that means. Adeuces."
"It means you'd look good hanging onto my headboard. I thought you'd already learned never to trust my translations." He rolled his shoulders and eyed the man slouching against the tree trunk. "So back to what's important: you came to wake me this morning because…"
"Because I woke up harder'n hell and you've got a room with a door that locks." Boone snapped his mouth shut and glared at Arcade as if willing him to pick a fight.
"I see," Arcade mused, his tone as light as if he was discussing the weather. He made as if to grab at Boone's belt and stopped, gloved hand in midair, ears attuned to the tell-tale catch of someone holding their breath for just a fraction of a second. "Aren't you cold?"
"What?" Boone looked nonplussed, the rapid change in topic throwing him for a loop.
"Aren't you cold? You've just got a shirt on and it's not exactly balmy out here." Arcade waved in the general direction of Boone's chest. "You're standing at attention. The general nipple area if yours is quite eye catching at the moment. Possibly a source of ocular damage of I'm not careful. Did you know that there was a big argument in the scientific community about male nipples right before the Great War? Some said they were a vestigial trait, but general opinion was that they're--"
"Jesus wept, Gannon." Boone made to press a hand to his breast in an attempt at modesty before catching himself. "The fuck. You kill a hardon faster'n a cold shower."
The vaguely predatory grin returned. "I was only going to say that they're a handy source of stimulation. You're certainly responsive to cold, I see." This time he bypassed Boone's belt buckle, avoiding the cold touch of chilled metal entirely. He curled his fingers around Boone's half hard cock, cupping and stroking at him through cool cotton. "Not a total erection killer, I see."
Boone grunted in response, a hand clamped around Arcade's wrist keeping him in place as he worked Boone hard through his pants.
"You plan in getting me out here?" He let out a little huff of amusement. "Hadn't really planned on hanging ice crystals where it counts."
"Do you really think I'm going to let the most personable part of you get frostbite?" Arcade unzipped his parka and wriggled his right arm free, the hugely oversized material gaping open enough for him to tug it around and swallow them both in a downy, slightly sweaty-smelling windbreak. Feet planted squarely outside Boone's own splay-kneed stance, he loomed over the smaller man, thigh pressed against thigh.
"Voilà. Now you can't use the cold as an excuse for your shortcomings."
"God, you're hot," said Boone, a chilled hand burrowing between Arcade's shirt and threadbare parka lining.
"You're not too bad looking yourself," replied Arcade airily, knowing it would take Boone a while to get the joke. He caught the fingertips of his glove between his teeth, working his hand free as Boone, quicker on the uptake than normal, unhooked the machete from his belt and let it drop between them before unbuckling his belt and thumbing open the worn button on his drab olives. The worn zip offered no resistance, cotton sagging wide as questing fingers slipped between solid erection and underwear practically scrubbed translucent.
Despite every lick of common sense telling him that fooling about with a sad, lonely, straight lad of few words was a terrible, terrible idea, there was a pleasant realness to Boone that kept drawing Arcade back. He radiated an aura of earthiness, of reliability, a man born on the soil who worked with his hands. The way he pushed back, his boundaries reduced a little more with each dalliance, hips rocking in a push-pull against Gannon's hands. His own hands too, trimmed nails blanched white as he jerked himself off for Arcade's edification. Boone wasn't much for pretence or show, his movements perfunctory and practised, but there was something about watching him that got Arcade's dander up and his zip open.
Arcade wasn't a romantic by any stretch of the imagination, not in the stars and hearts sense, but he had an appreciation for how Boone fit in his hands. Big hands, strong fingers and snaking veins, they require something solid and earthy to hold onto and grip hard. His hands weren't made for delicate surgery - to have something stitched by Arcade Gannon was to invite a scar purple and puckered on the skin, a butterfly gape of flesh sutured together with the same finesse as an Ultra Luxe chef tying a sinewy Brahmin roast - or other matters of a soft-handed nature, but they were right for catching Boone's shoulder and shoving him hard into a wall, long fingers lubed with spit and pressing their cocks together in a lewd parody of an embrace.
...which sounded like a very good idea, now that he considered it.
He shoved the glove into an inside pocket and pressed his palm square in the centre of Boone's chest, damp skin catching at the cotton of his shirt as he pressed down, dragging to the hem of his shirt. A dusting of curls caught at his fingertips as he splayed a hand over Boone's belly, indulging in the sensation of rigid muscle jumping under his touch as Boone unselfconsciously shoved his underwear down enough to get his cock out; elastic tangling underneath his balls as if to present himself up on a platter. Undignified, yes, but appealing none the less.
Boone's cock jumped against Arcade's hand, a sticky smear of precome smudged over the smooth skin of his wrist. He stopped and lifted his painted skin to his mouth, sucking his wrist clean as he watched Boone watching him, watched how he swallowed reflexively at the glimpse of darting tongue and the briefest flash of teeth.
If there was one other thing about him that intrigued Arcade Gannon, it was the way Craig Boone gave him nothing less than 100% of his focus. Attention was a heady aphrodisiac.
"So you didn't end up telling me," said Arcade in a low voice. "Why did you decide to shake me awake this morning?"
"Because," started Boone, seizing Arcade's wrist and shoving him towards his neglected cock. "Woke up hard. Woke up thinking about you sucking me." He wrapped Arcade's fingers around his cock, showing him exactly how he wanted to be jerked off. Steady, slow, enough to keep Arcade talking.
Arcade braced his free hand against the tree trunk by Boone's ear. "Is that so?"
"Yeah." Boone's mouth quirked just a little. "Even took a tub. Figured I'd make myself look pres--" He sucked back a sharp breath as Arcade squeezed firmly at the base of his cock. "--esentable. Fuck. Like that, yeah."
Arcade chuckled. "Considerate. Next thing you'll be taking me on a date."
To his surprise Boone laughed, a short burst of noise into the downy space of Arcade's coat. "You think?"
"Hmm," said Arcade slowly, making a show of thinking. "Somehow I don't think you're the kind for wining and dining."
He ground his hips hard against Boone's thigh then thought better of it, fumbling with his zipper and shoving his shorts down enough to free his erection. "In fact that's what I woke up thinking about," he said, holding out his palm.
Boone obediently spat, watching intently as Arcade slicked himself damp with long efficient strokes before taking them both in hand, his own cock flushed brilliantly scarlet against Boone's length. "Particularly vis a vis the nature of how an evening could be spent amusing you."
Arcade bowed his head a little, enough to press his forehead against Boone's. Their glasses collided with a click, Boone's sunglasses sent askew. Despite the nip of the mountain air they were both sweating slightly, clammy skin sticking to clammy skin. Boone swore softly, hips rocking into Arcade's grip. "Yeah," he panted. "What're-- fuck, what're you gonna do, feed me a cheap steak and talk me to death?"
"Good idea." He gave a sharp twist of his wrist, gratified as Boone panted an expletive into the warm parka cocoon. "I mean, as far as I know your idea of a good night is butchering something, getting tipsy and getting your cock sucked. That's just my personal experience. You could like Shi opera for all I know."
He twisted his wrist again, admiring the sight they made. Boone's prick was flushed dark, thick enough to fill Arcade's palm and give some stretch to his jaw, as stocky and solid as his owner. He ground hard into Arcade's grip, fingers closing over his own to add more pressure, more stimulation.
"You got me." His voice was gravelly, coffee breath ghosting down Arcade's jaw. "Is that all? A repeat. Not very - yeah - original."
Arcade stilled for a moment, long enough for Boone to irritably dig his fingertips hard against his knuckles in an unsubtle hint.
"You tell me then." He smudged a droplet of precome over the head of his cock, hissing between his teeth. "I woke up ready to fuck the mattress but-- hang on a second, you're pinching me... you're fine now, don't stop –but propriety says no fooling around in public." He grazed his teeth along Boone's jaw, the alkaline taste of cheap Brahminfat soap blooming across his tongue. "Which didn't stop you this morning, I see."
Boone pushed his hand away, taking charge and jerking them both off with a punishing pace that bordered on painful. "Too cold to stand around with my dick out," he warned. "Keep talking."
Arcade chuckled and changed topics. "Somehow I think you'd be fine with the Wrangler and slipping back to my place. You haven't been there yet." He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to fuck Boone's fist like he was a spotty teenager getting his first handjob. "It's small and dark and smells like the neighbour’s cooking, but--"
"But?"
He exhaled sharply, slumping forward enough that his lips brushed Boone's ear as he spoke. "But you're making it hard to, uh, keep my train of thought."
"Good," mumbled Boone, sounding distracted himself. He didn't protest as Arcade wrapped his hand over his again, pale fingers interlaced with tan, the added pressure making the slip and stroke of cock against cock even more intense. "Gonna lose it."
"But," said Arcade breathlessly, unwilling to cede the challenge and stop talking entirely, "But it's private and I've been giving quite-- like that, god-- some thought about what you'd look like hanging on to the headboard as I--"
He didn't get to finish his thought, Boone's grip hard as iron as he pushed his hips hard against Arcade, breathing hard and fast as he came with a grunt. Semen spilled between his fingers, smearing down Arcade's cock as he fucked their hands, length hard against length. The slick slide did him in, Boone's breathing laboured in his ear and fingertips digging hard into his flank as he came with a groan and a great ragged inhalation of breath.
A moment passed, then another and another. He would've stayed like that longer if reality and all its awkward glory didn't need to reassert itself. What had been unbearably charged a minute prior was now uncomfortable, and the stick of cooling come between his rapidly softening cock and Boone - still hard enough to put Arcade to shame; a reminder that one of them was only twenty-six with the fortitude to show it - was becoming a pressing concern.
He cast about for somewhere to wipe his hand clean and, deciding that plunging his hand into the snow would only make his concerns about congealing worse, settled on wiping it on Boone's shirt.
"That was clean," said Boone reproachfully.
"'Was' being the key word," said Arcade, feeling uncharacteristically cheerful all of a sudden. He set himself to rights, zipping himself up and stepping away to pull his supermutant-sized parka back into place. Boone swore at the burst of cool mountain air playing across his exposed skin, hurriedly hauling up his grey undershorts and buttoning his fly.
"The hell are you doing up here anyway?" Boone pushed himself off the tree and stamped his feet to get his blood flowing again, a little flurry of ice crystals appearing with every step. "Thought you hated the snow."
"I do." Arcade fished out his missing glove and put it on as claimed his spot back under the tree, a cigarette held between pursed lips as he dug around in his pockets for his box of matches.
Boone absent-mindedly wiped his hand on his shirt. "Thought I smelt smokes before. You smoke? Since when?"
"Since long before you." Arcade flicked a spent match into the snow and closed his eyes. "Don't bother with the lecture. You lack the gravitas and administrative pay grade to pull it off."
"Wasn't going to." He folded his arms, hands tucked under his armpits for warmth. "Was going to say you hide it well. I quit a year back. Thought I'd be able to smell it on you."
"It's the Followers curse. I'm planning on weaning myself off soon, maybe you can play doctor and give me some tips. I have no ambitions to be in my forties and unable to run a block without wheezing." Arcade opened one eye and squinted at Boone. "What made you quit?"
Boone took off his sunglasses and fiddled with the nose piece. "Someone asked me to. Pregnant, couldn't stand the smell. Figured it was the least I could do for her."
"She sounds like a good friend," murmured Arcade.
"She was the best friend I ever had," said Boone plainly. Eventually he shrugged and looked at Arcade with a defeated expression. "Anyway. Breakfast is on. Courier sent me up to get you."
"I'll come down when I'm good and ready," said Arcade, blowing a thin spear of smoke into the leaves over his head. "Save me something."
'Can't promise anything," said Boone, and nodded at the machete between Arcade's feet. "Hang onto it. Don't think Courier'd be pleased if you came back covered in Nightstalker bites."
"As opposed to you arriving back with a mess of genetic material all over your shirt. You look like you've been the centrepiece at a Wrangler special function. It might be a good idea to change before you run into anyone."
Boone made to start clambering down the slope then stopped, a hand on a tree trunk for balance. "You didn't finish what you were saying. Before. Something about a headboard."
Arcade blinked. "When we... oh. Oh, right. The only nice thing about my place in Freeside is the bed. Good mattress. I was about to say you'd look good hanging onto it." He ashed his cigarette into the snow and let slip that selfsame slightly predatory grin. "Your legs over my shoulders or your ass in the air. Either way it'd be a ride worth taking if you're ever inclined to want to... explore that particular avenue of entertainment. It'd be worth your while. More entertaining than just turning up for a suck and tug when the mood takes you."
Boone self-consciously pushed his beret back on his scalp and made to say something. He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "What exactly are you getting out of this, Gannon?"
Arcade stalled for time, searching for a way to phrase an answer that sounded awkward no matter how he put it. Eventually he shrugged and took the route of least resistance. "You interest me."
The answer seemed satisfactory.
"What are you getting out of this?" He looked over the rim of his glasses at Boone, challenging him into an answer. Turnabout was fair play after all.
"Don't know," said Boone, turning back down the slope. He glanced back at Arcade and shrugged. "Really don't know."
"Enjoy your breakfast," said Arcade, and that was that.