Uri wakes feeling a lot better. The sun is only just beginning to rise, and Maxson is still fast asleep. The sleeping bag is barely big enough for the pair of them - he turned onto his back at some stage in the night, which brought her to lay face-flat against his chest. She manoeuvres her arms to prop herself up against him, and admires the way his muscles flex underneath. He's buff, alright. She's always been into that kind of thing...
"Mornin'" he says, his prim-and-proper accent out the window in his dazed state. She finds she likes him when he's tired. He actually looks his age.
"Oh, a good morning it is," She sighs wistfully, and he frowns in confusion - until she starts tracing patterns on his chest. He rolls his eyes.
"Has anyone ever told you that you are a flirtatious little thing?"
"Hmm - I guess so," she beams, "Can't really help it when I've got the oh-so-attractive Elder of the Brotherhood underneath me."
"You're terrible," he chortles, reaching to unzip the bag. She muffles an irritated groan into his chest and tightens her arms.
"Don't be mean. I'm warm here."
"Child," he chides, slipping out from under her. She snuggles into it with a huff. The fire is long dead, but their clothes are merely damp around the edges. He tosses her things at the sleeping bag, and by the time she's turned around he's clipping his armour into place.
"Are you all so uptight?" She asks as she pulls her shirt over her head. Maxson disguises his embarrassment for checking the perimeter.
"It's not uptightness. It's part of duty."
"So... What? You've all got blue balls?"
"God," He says, turning to her with a look of utter disbelief. She's finishing fastening her jeans, face completely nonchalant... She's saying it because she's curious. And it completely throws him off - because he's never spoken to someone so crassly. He thinks back to the Citadel, and what they'd have done if he'd even dared think the way she speaks...
"I'll take that as a yeah," Uri chuckles.
"No - no, I mean. There are rules within the Brotherhood. We are not allowed to fraternise with our brothers or sisters in arms. It also goes without saying that you shouldn't go around having sexual relations with ghouls, synths, or any other non-human species-"
"Okay..." She places a hand on his chest, forcing him to look her in the eye, "I'm not a Brotherhood soldier yet. I'm certainly not a ghoul, and as far as I'm aware I'm no synth."
"Uri," he shakes his head, "For any other soldier, that would be acceptable... But I'm a Maxson."
"Soooo... Everyone can get their rocks off, except for you?"
"It's expected of me to marry, to have children - children who will carry on the family name. Who will continue to lead us to victory."
"Well, that's shit," She rolls her eyes and draws away. Where her hand touched burns, but she's smiling again, "There's no point waiting for all that when you could die within five minutes out here... Well, Maxy. Someday you'll get down to it. I'll pray for you - maybe it'll help you relax."
"I appreciate that," he says, the words coming out as a resigned sigh. "And I was not joking about those nicknames. They're ridiculous."
"I'm not calling you Elder," she scoffs, "stupidest name I've ever heard."
"It's a title."
"I know, but you never told me your name."
He's aware of that. It was purposefully kept from her... But he feels she has proved herself enough for him to give her that much.
"Arthur."
"Huh," she pauses, "I expected something a little more boring. Like Jonathan, or David."
"I will try not to be too insulted," Arthur chuckles. They pack up their things, bidding farewell to the ironing board and ashen papers. The sky cleared up during the night. Today, it's as blue as ever, and the sun beats down on them. This strikes new problems...
"How much farther?" he asks. The mutants must either be asleep or avoiding the harsh rays, for they are nowhere to be seen as they make their way through the torn down site of Boston Commons. Some buildings offer relief through shade, but as it reaches midday he's aware that he's going to burn.
"An hour or so - why?"
"Well, Uri, my skin is a lot lighter than yours."
"Oh, shit! I suppose there's no sun screen around anymore... Damn you white folk."
"I didn't choose this colour," he mumbles, which earns a quick eye roll. As they continue on, she speaks lowly.
"I'm Mexican. Was born there, but my parents moved up soon after... Best decision they ever made, but it had drawbacks."
"Well - that seems to be the case for most places," Arthur grimaces, "Like those mutated hounds, yesterday. I have never come across one of those back home."
"Yeah..." She agrees, but quickly loses herself in thought. He wonders if it was something he said - if he said something wrong. But, when they reach Diamond City's gates, that familiar smile is back on her face.
"Danny!" She beams, "How's it going?"
"Not bad - stocks a little low, though. Got anything good?"
"Not much," She grimaces, "I was hoping for a better haul - but all I got was this guy."
"Welcome to Diamond City, sir."
"Arnie Stockton - pleasure to meet you."
Diamond City is a damn near paradise, in comparison to most settlements. Protected by the old walls of some long-dead baseball stadium - and illuminated by the sport arena's lighting - it may be the second safest place to be. Behind the Prydwen, of course. Although Arthur is beginning to miss the soft thrum of the battleship's engines, he would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying their explorations. For months, all he has learnt about the Commonwealth was from the debriefing of others. Now, he finally gets to experience it for himself.
"Arnie?" She scoffs - she does that a lot, as far as he is concerned. He leans down, and speaks low enough that only she can hear.
"I can't have people knowing who I am. Please, Uri - humour me."
"Moron," she mutters, but she introduces him by the pseudonym as they reach a stall titled Commonwealth Weaponry.
"Pleasure to see you again!" The man calls. He speaks too loudly, and his arms flail in a way that has Arthur taking an immediate dislike to him. Uri seems to enjoy him, though. She plants down the weapons she has been carrying - Arthur watches as her smile widens at the look of surprise on his face.
"Got some trading to do," She announces, and Arturo begins assessing each weapon - three laser pistols, one revolver and a laser rifle.
"What would you like to trade them for, exactly? Caps, or other weapons...?"
"Other weapons, I think," Uri nods, "though I am loath to give up Buster."
The way Uri strokes the rifle fondly has Arthur battling a smirk. He has often seen soldiers treat their weapons like children - it usually means they are dangerous, but nothing he has seen from her thus far relates to those people whatsoever. Arturo does laugh - too loud and high pitched, sending an annoyed shiver down Arthur's spine. Instead of taking her beloved Buster, Arturo agrees to patch 'him' up whilst letting 'Arnie' take the pick of the litter. He decides on a laser pistol of Arturo's and combat knife - much preferring close combat to sniping. With whatever remnants of the trade they have left they buy fusion cells. The pair of them feel much more comfortable with functional guns and a whole lot of ammo.
"Right - time for noodles!" Uri announces, rubbing her hands together in excitement. She's gazing over at a worn-down automaton stirring some horrendous-looking mixture in a cooking pot. Arthur wants to refuse, but they have not eaten today - he is starving.
"Nan-shi shimasho-ka?"
"Yes," Uri replies, loud and slow. The robot proceeds to dish out some noodles and place them in front of her. The bot says the same, strange words to Arthur.
"Just say yes," she whispers, "It's a malfunction - yes is all he understands."
"Yes," He says, and receives the same slush-like noodles that Uri is eating rather ravenously. Once again, he resigns himself to looking like a savage as he lifts the chipped bowl to his lips.
He's surprised by how delicious it is.
"Wow," He breathes, gazing at the vile-looking sludge in his bowl. Uri gulps down her latest mouthful and laughs.
"Good, huh? Tastes better with these," she pulls out two Nuka Colas and hands one to him. He has only ever had soda once - but he is already eating noodles made by a broken robot in an unfamiliar city, so he doesn't think too much about the rules of his well-kept diet as he pops the lid and pockets it.
She is right. Something about the bubbles tickling his tongue does make the noodles seem better. He finishes soon after her, wishing he could order more - but he doesn't want to seem too eager. Uri has enough to prod at him about, it seems. He pushes the empty bowl back to the robot and downs the rest of his cola.
"So - if I give you ten caps, do I get a guided tour?"
"Throw in another five and I'll give you anything, handsome. Or don't. I'd give you it for free."
"Sorry, wildfire - I'm a gentleman."
Her cheeks are flush with colour as she gestures for him to follow. The Elder feels slightly sheepish for the sudden nickname - it just sort of slipped out... But it suits her. She's a force to be reckoned with - unruly and unpredictable, always taking him by surprise, but still managing to wear her thoughts on her sleeve.
Throughout the tour, Arthur is introduced to every trader in the market place - and he begins to get the feeling that Uri's behaviour may be more commonplace than he had thought. Even so, they don't seem to be quite as open as her - even the chem dealer, Solomon, plays his cards close to his chest. But she always brings a smile to their faces - even Myrna gives her a slight twitch of the lips, and the stern-faced doctor looks a little less malevolent when he sees it's her hopping onto his stall.
"See him?" Uri mutters, pointing to some self-important man in a worn, beige suit. Arthur nods, "That's Mayor McDonough. A while back, the papers outed him as a synth. You'd get on well with him - he kicked all the ghouls out when he got into power, but the synth controversy has everyone on edge."
"We would never have such scandal in the Brotherhood," he snaps. Uri just rolls her eyes and leads him on - past the 'tato farm and brahmin field to the caravan from which Diamond City Radio is broadcast.
"You've never listened?" She gapes, shaking her head, "What kind of army are you leading?"
"One that listens to boring and repetitive radio broadcasts for me."
"You're a real dick sometimes," she grimaces. Again, he is struck by her language. Mainly because, if she knew what his name meant (and respected it, at that) she would not dare speak to him this way. He does suspect she would not care, however. Uri begins flicking through her pip-boy until the tinny sound of Rocket 69 is blaring from the speakers.
"This is some of the best pre-war music around!" She explains, "all part and parcel of the tour, dear newbie. Sure, Travis is a little rough around the edges-" right on cue the DJ lets out an anxious squeak, at which a few settlers cringe "-but the guys got heart, and he saved some great anthems."
"You should hear the radio back home - Three Dog is fantastic. He even has Brotherhood soldiers stationed as bodyguards."
"Stop trying to sell the Capital wasteland to me, honey. We're in my neck of the woods, now."
This is one of those moments where he has no idea what her strange phrase means, so he chuckles and follows on. She looks down a side street and sighs - he picks up on her sadness.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah - It's just, I'd like to go see a friend, but..." She shakes her head, "Never mind. C'mon, we best get to Vadim before all the rooms are taken."
The Dugout Inn is a dingy bar, full of a mix between the richer folk in the upper stands, the farmers of the lower stands and drifters wanting a safe bed for the night. Vadim is worse than Arturo - full of dark humour and obnoxious stories that Arthur sees through immediately. He seems as fond of Uri as anyone, though. But he doesn't let up on his prices. Almost fifty caps later, they've got a room for the night and a decent supply of food and drinks for their journey.
As the sun begins to set, they lock their bags in their rented room and take a couple of bottles of moonshine outside. The air is beginning to cool as day shifts to night, but it's still warm enough for her to comfortably shrug off her jacket.
"So," she takes a swig of the offensive-looking drink, and pauses to make a face of distaste, "how do you like the big city?"
"It's amazing - everything that these people have been able to achieve. That civilians have managed this alone... These are the people I brought my soldiers here for. It's a sight to behold-" he takes a shot of his own bottle and hisses "-but this is the worst alcohol I've tasted. And I've had some pretty disgusting drinks in my day."
"Ah, c'mon - no one buys from the Bobrovs for the taste! It's another rite of passage. Drink up, lightweight."
"Lightweight?" He cocks a brow, "I am more than certain I could drink you under the table."
"Wanna bet?" She asks. The mischievous glint in those whiskey-like eyes almost has him saying yes.
"Maybe some other time," he says, tapping his bottle to hers in a toast. She rolls her eyes - again - and downs a third of the bottle. It may be the alcohol, but as he watches Uri set down her bottle, his curiosity is peaked.
"So, Uri... I have come to realise I don't know all that much about you."
"Is that you asking for my life story?"
"Yes."
"Questions are okay, Maxy. Use your words."
"Arnie," he reminds her.
"Right," another eye roll, "okay - what do you want to know?"
"Where did you grow up?"
"Here, in Boston," she pauses to take a drink, "I lived with my mom and dad, but she died when I was really young. Then, dad followed her. So, I stayed with my uncle."
"I'm sorry," he says, stormy eyes full of a sincerity that twists her gut, "I lost my father, too. And then my mother shipped me off to be raised by the Lyons family. They were in charge, at the time."
"Pretty shitty of any parent to do," Uri mutters. When he looks at her, he notices that she's clenching her bottle in anger. He seems to have hit a moot point.
"It wasn't the worst, but not exactly ideal. I learnt a lot. Even took on a deathclaw at thirteen."
"Bullshit," she laughs, her grip relaxing, "your humour is improving, thought."
"I'm serious! Look," he points to the scar on his right cheek. It's a deep crevice carved into his face, with the stitches still in as though holding it all together. She reaches over to touch it - again, when she draws back his skin burns.
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," She teases.
"What did your uncle do?"
"I want to make it all sound idyllic and wonderful, but Uncle 'Thorn was a chem dealer. He spent a lot of time holed up in his lab, and I was left to do whatever I wanted. We were well off, but I missed my dad a lot."
"And where is he now? Your uncle?"
"Where mom and dad are," she shrugs, "dealing chems in the wrong place at the wrong time, then bang-" she mimes an explosion with her hands.
"You've lost a lot," he notes - and sadness finally seems to reach her eyes.
"Yeah..."
She falls quiet, deep in one of her wistful moods. He tries to think of something to say - to change the subject.
"I had my own terminal, at the Citadel - it was in my bedroom. I used to write, when I got the chance."
"That's adorable," she crows, and he sheepishly glances down at his drink. He's never told anyone about this, before.
"Believe it or not, my ability to abide by the rules of the Brotherhood did not always come so naturally. I often ended up landing myself in trouble, as a boy. That changed after the deathclaw incident. I proved myself from an early age."
"Yeah, yeah - but what did you write, though?"
"Oh - ah, sometimes poetry. Sometimes short stories. It depends."
"Is that where you got that deathclaw story from, then?"
He lets out a frustrated sigh, and Uri laughs. The alcohol must have helped her relax more than he realised she needed to, for the sound of it reminds him of wind chimes; bell-like, wild, free...
"You're so easy to annoy," she chortles.
"Oh, this is nothing. I let you get away with murder."
"I can imagine," she scoffs, "I bet you're a real sight up on that airship. All one-worded orders. Barked like a dog. A very cute-but-angry dog."
He rolls his eyes and takes a drink, realising saying nothing is better than anything to the daring woman in front of him. She's finished hers, now. The empty bottle has been pushed aside, and she's resting her chin on the back of her clasped hands - her elbows taking her weight as they sit on the tabletop.
Uri feels bad for telling Arthur half-truths, especially when he seems as though he is being open with her. But she can't bring herself to tell him. Not yet. She needs to get into the Brotherhood before she can explain the whole story. She has to gain faith and trust - God only knows she wouldn't believe anyone who told her they were pre-war, put on ice for two-hundred years and then released seemingly out of nowhere. It's less believable than his deathclaw tale, and that's pretty bad at least.
"I think you should write me something," she murmurs, grinning as he raises his brows.
"I'll need paper. And a pen."
"Wait--" she gapes, "I was joking! But - you'd actually do that?"
"Why not," he shrugs, "I'm rusty, but I'll do my best."
Uri ends up returning with a pen and some sheets of plain, print paper that Piper was happy to give her. She calls it payment for the interview she'd given - her best-selling paper since the beginning of Publick Occurrences. Arthur has opened another bottle of moonshine, and he slides it her way as she hands him his writing tools.
If I am the storm, then she is the fire.
One resides in clouds; a threat to the skies.
The other, an uncontrollable pyre.
And yet, they have found such similar ties.
The fire burns hot, while the storm runs cold.
And yet, somehow, despite all of the tales,
Her flames are not something that ever scald,
And he hopes the wind does not turn to hail.
When Atom formed unforgiving weathers,
He did not account for the two ever,
To sing both their battle songs together.
For fire and rain can only bring chaos,
And yet, here they are, shared moonshine in hand.
Sticking together to brave wastelands.
It feels more personal than anything he has shared with her yet. With a jolt, he worries that she will begin to laugh... But she doesn't. Her eyes skim the eloquent words written in messy handwriting, and she can't think of a gift she's found as touching as his confession.
And it terrifies her.
It is like, this whole time, she has been driving full-speed to a cliff edge. But it was okay. It was fun. She enjoyed the danger; she knew nothing would ever come of it. She was still grieving... Still searching... Chasing highs to overthrow the lows on rusted bed frames; the taste of strangers bittersweet on her lips. Days can feel like weeks in the wasteland. Time doesn't seem to move in that too-fast-to-keep-up-with way that it did before the war. She hasn't stuck with someone for more than a few hours since getting out of the vault, so this is dangerous territory.
"I love it," she says, offering him a sincere half-smile. Her eyes are full of emotions - so much so that he can't make out one from another. He shrugs and tosses the pen on the table.
"Consider it a thank you, for saving my life."
"Along with a spot in your minion army?"
"Yes," he chuckles, "I'll happily let you become one of my minions."
"I'll remember that," she laughs, masking the way her heart hammers in her chest with ease.
They are both exhausted. Combined with the promise of safety behind a locked door in a guarded city with tall, impenetrable walls, they are soon heading to their rented room in a drunken haze. He goes to settle on the couch for the night, but she's already watching him with nervous eyes.
"Hey... Would you, uh, mind sleeping up here? I won't try anything... It was just nice, y'know? I slept really well, last night."
Her face is flushed red, and she wants to punch herself in the face for being so desperate - but a touch that isn't trying to kill you is hard to find, in the Commonwealth. Arthur slides from the couch to the bed and arranges both their sleeping bags into blankets, and when he wraps his arms around her it feels as close to home as she's felt in a long, long time...
And, again, that terrifies her. But she sleeps soundly nonetheless.