Maxson lies awake that night, staring up at the ceiling of his quarters. Sarah's brooch sits on his nightstand. He thought he had moved on from Sarah, but Ridley had just served to remind him of things he hoped to have forgotten. Had they been at the Citadel, he'd be wandering the halls, rather than staring blankly at the ceiling.
He curses under his breath, swinging his legs out of his bed. Maxson's feet almost seem to lead them of their own volition to the mess hall. He finds himself rummaging through the cupboards for the bottle of whiskey he knows they have somewhere.
"Can't sleep either?"
He freezes, turning around to see the Brotherhood's newest recruit sitting at the table. Ridley holds a glowing cigarette between two slender fingers. Her hair is down, golden waves tumbling over her shoulders. The faded green fatigues she sports are a strange contrast to her navy Minutemen coat.
"I was looking for a drink," he confesses.
She waves a hand at the half full bottle of whiskey before her. "I'm afraid, sir, that I've beaten you to it." She gestures to the empty seat before her. "You could join me. It's no trouble. I'm only thinking about what loose ends I need to tie up with the Minutemen this week before I can stay on the Prydwen with more frequency."
Against his better judgement, he pulls a glass from the cupboard. "When will you be back with us?"
"I'm aiming for four days, but it'll probably be closer to five." She leans forward to pour him a generous glass, her newly issued holotags shining just under the neckline of her fatigues. "You didn't answer my question," she says, reclining in her chair. Ridley brings the cigarette to her mouth, drawing attention to her pale pink lips. She blows it out lazily, as though the action takes as much energy as running a full marathon. "I mean, you don't have to, if you don't want to. I suppose you're my superior now. That's going to take some getting used to. I'm usually the one on top."
He takes a sip from his glass, savouring the taste; it's somehow enhanced by the smell of her cigarette smoke. "If it's any consolation, I've never had a General serve under me before. Or a pre-war Vault Dweller either."
She snorts at his words, finding them amusing for reasons he does not wholly comprehend, but there's a bitter undercurrent to the sound. "I can say in good confidence that it's unlikely you'll meet another pre-war Vault Dweller ever again. There aren't many of us left nowadays."
"Not many could have survived what you did." Maxson had kept a careful eye on the actions of the Minutemen's General. More because he had feared she would be a threat to the Brotherhood than anything else. He had heard of how she'd fought a Deathclaw in Concord, and the sheer number of Gunners she had killed during her short time in the Commonwealth. Not to mention the emotional trauma she must have endured in the Vault by the hands of the Institute.
He has never been a father, to the chagrin of the Western Elders. They want him to continue his bloodline, to ensure that he is not the last of the Maxsons. He does not know her grief, but he can sense her anguish, and he knows it's all-consuming.
She grimaces, and he realises he has unwittingly stumbled across the source of her bitterness. "I've always been rather strong-willed, though some would simply call me 'stubborn.'"
He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. He feels vulnerable out of his typical leather battlecoat, or perhaps it's just because of her scrutinising gaze. It feels like she's peeling back his layers one by one, trying to unearth all of his secrets. "Not necessarily a bad thing. Not if it gets things done."
"Mm." She smirks as though she knows how he's getting under his skin. "I suppose that's what makes me a good general, but you'll have your hands full with me as one of your knights."
"I've always liked a challenge," he says.
"Well, sir, you are in luck."
Their casual banter makes him grimace. It comes too easily, like it's as natural as breathing. He has not even known her for a day, and her very appearance makes his stomach twist—so why is he struggling to hold back laughter for the sake of maintaining some illusion of propriety?
Ridley notices his sudden discomfort, and switches subjects. "Before the war," she says quietly, "I used to be a lawyer. I studied for years. I had only just got my first full time position when I found out I was pregnant with my son. When I awoke in the Vault, and found myself in this world, my job didn't exist anymore. Hell, there aren't any laws for me to even be a lawyer if I wanted to. My husband, Nate, he was always the soldier. He fought in the army, came home a decorated war hero." Her hands shake as she pours herself another drink. She downs it without blinking. "It was by pure chance that he was holding Shaun in the Vault."
Maxson has seen this exact behaviour in his soldiers. He knows post-traumatic stress when he sees it, and while he does not fully understand what it is like to lose a child, he knows what it is like to blame yourself for something that cannot be changed. "You think you should have died in your husband's stead."
She looks down at her empty glass. She grips it so tight her knuckles have turned white. "Sometimes, yeah."
"You couldn't have done anything."
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" The request seemingly comes out of nowhere, but he nods his permission regardless. Her lips contort into a scowl. "With all due respect, that doesn't make it hurt any fucking less. I put a bullet right between the eyes of the man that killed Nate, and that didn't fix shit. All it left me was a corpse, and the realisation that killing Nate's murderer didn't bring Nate back." She picks up the bottle of whiskey, but rather than pouring herself another glass, she drinks straight from the bottle. "That's why I'm trying to fix the shithole that the Commonwealth's become, because it's the only thing I have left from my life before, and if I lose it... I'm sorry. You came here for a drink, not my life story, and here I am drinking all your whiskey."
"No, it's... fine." He tells himself that it's just because she reminds him of Sarah that he already trusts her, not because of some fault in his usual defences. He knows the truth though; as much as she looks like Sarah, she reminds him more of himself than she does of her. He doesn't trust her enough to tell her of his own problems, though. Ridley is more trusting than he is. "I like to make certain the men, and women, under my command are... doing well."
"Don't know if you can use 'well' to describe me, but I thank you for your concern. I'm functioning though. That's good, right?"
He doesn't give her a straight answer. "I read your interview in that Diamond City newspaper."
For the briefest of moments, her grief dissipates, leaving behind confusion in its wake. "Piper's newspaper? The Publick?"
"Mm." Her brows knit together as she visibly wonders where he is going with this. "You said you can only take it one day at a time. To just keep going, and that's all we can do."
She flushes crimson with embarrassment. "Why did you read that? It had been out for weeks before the Prydwen ever came to the Commonwealth."
"You were a... person of interest. My scribes started amassing a file on you before I ever knew you existed. Scribe Haylen—" Ridley curses under her breath, "—was one of them. Don't hold it against Haylen. She was only doing what she was told."
She pulls a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She plucks one out, lighting it in one fluid motion. The scent of cigarettes, and whiskey hangs heavy in the air. He watches her smoke for a moment, swallowing hard as exhales curls of white smoke. "So you've amassed a file on me, then," she says, sounding mildly intrigued. "Anything interesting in it?"
"As infamous as you've become, I'm afraid we're rather lacking in specifics. Everyone just knows you as 'the Vault Dweller.' No mention of your full name. Vague descriptions of your actions. Most of it included mentions of all the settlements you, and the Minutemen have helped. The list of settlements is quite... ahem, extensive."
"I think we're at twenty six, and counting now."
He isn't certain if he should be impressed, or terrified. If Ridley had not proposed an alliance, he knows he would have inevitably be forced to end the Minutemen permanently. Hell, the Western Elders probably would want him to put the Minutemen down regardless, but he is the Elder of this chapter, and he will decide what he will do with his men. "I heard you've been allowing synths into your ranks. Is that true?"
"Yeah, um, that's..." She chokes, but it isn't on the smoke. "Look, I won't lie to you. They needed somewhere to go, and I decided to offer them a home. I suppose I could have searched for the Railroad, but I don't wholly agree with their beliefs. Then again, I don't wholly agree with the Brotherhood's either, but that's beside the point."
He arches a brow. "Don't wholly agree...?"
"Synths aren't the problem in the Commonwealth." He bristles with indignation, and she rushes to explain herself. "The problem is the Institute. Like it or not, we've got God knows how many synths out there, and if they're as autonomous as they claim to be, they're only weapons because the Institute is manipulating them. No organization in power should be in absolute control, and there always needs to be a certain degree of transparency to ensure that they're held accountable if they make a mistake. Think of synths like... like a gun. Dangerous on their own, sure, but infinitely more dangerous when in the hands of someone who just wants to see the world burn."
He doesn't expect her views to quite match up with those of the Brotherhood. Even some of the squires who have been in the Brotherhood their entire lives have a hard time adhering to Maxson's personal philosophy. While he doesn't agree with her, he can at least see where she is coming from. "So what's your problem with the Railroad? You could have joined forces with them."
She snorts. "What isn't my problem with the Railroad? They're helping synths, but at what expense? Synths should be left to do what they please, but they're still a weapon. I've got a friend. Nick Valentine. You might have heard of him. He's a synth, and he's aware that there might come a time where his programming goes faulty, and he might... do something he'd later regret. The solution to the Institute's control over synths isn't wiping their minds, and letting them go off into the world, not knowing who or what they are. They should be able to monitor their own behaviour, and they can't do that if they don't know what they are."
"And let me guess, you don't agree with Brotherhood because we want to kill all synths?"
"That's a pretty big one, yeah, but most of your problems will go away once the Institute is gone. The earlier synths will likely shut down, who knows about the second generation, and you know as well as I do that you can't tell the difference between a Gen 3 synth and a human."
"Which isn't a good thing."
"I'm not saying that it is, I'm just saying that there isn't anything you can do. I don't think synth lives are worth less than an ordinary persons, but the Railroad's belief that synths come before humans is... I don't know. If they're trying to help the Commonwealth, I don't think it'll work out. The Brotherhood's got its own problems, but you're trying to help the people down there at least."
"So you don't think we should kill the synths?"
"Not if they're behaving, and posing no threat to anyone."
"You have..." He frowns, not quite certain as to what he wants to say. "Quite a strong set of morals."
"I know it doesn't mean much anymore, but I was a lawyer before the War. I had to have 'a strong set of morals.' That's what drew me to the Brotherhood in the first place."
"What do you mean?"
"In my time, the government cared for the people, and was willing to fight and die for them. The Minutemen care for the people, but we simply don't have the means to fight for them. The Brotherhood consists of, first and foremost, soldiers. I know my outdated views don't exactly translate to the century I now find myself living in, but..." She takes a drag from her cigarette. "Someone's got to try to make sense of the shit show this world has become, no?"
He finishes his glass of whiskey. It doesn't escape him that it took him three times as long to finish a glass as it had taken her. "I don't think 'stubborn' beings to describe you, Knight Ridley."
"No?"
"No," he reaffirms. "I'd use the word headstrong. Perhaps driven." He pushes his chair out, and she's on her feet and saluting before he's even had the chance to straighten. "Goodnight, Knight Ridley."
"Sir?" she says as he turns his back to her. When he glances towards her, she's leaned into the back of her chair, her face raised to the ceiling with her eyes closed. "I told Proctor Teagan when I got my holotags, but unless you'd like to wait until he uploads his file on me, it's Eleanor. My name. You said you didn't have it. Eleanor Guinevere Ripley."
He stands there, silent for a long moment, before pressing his lips together. "Arthur. Maxson."
She cracks open one eye, and smiles. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Arthur." A shiver rolls down his spine at the sound of his name. So few people call him by it anymore, and judging by her smile, she knows precisely the effect it has on him.
"Likewise, Eleanor," he replies, watching as a flush creeps up her neck. When he tries to fall asleep half an hour later, the back of his eyelids are seared with the image of her wicked smile, and gleaming peridot eyes.