Young Writers Society

The boy was watching him again. Arthur Maxson didn’t even need to turn away from his terminal to know that those tear-filled blue eyes were staring reproachfully at the back of his head. He hissed under his breath as his fingers flew across the keyboard, tapping out the next sentence of the report he had been trying to finish all afternoon. There was an open bottle of whiskey temptingly close to his terminal. Giving in, he poured himself a glass with one hand, as his other deleted the most recent sentence. As he gulped down the glass he snuck a peak over his shoulder in the hopes that the boy had finally left. No such luck. Damn it all.

Arthur could still faintly remember a book he had read once, as a child, about a man who was visited by three ghosts. But despite the fact that everything he had done, he had done for the Brotherhood he had apparently gained his own Ghost of Christmas Past. The squire - maybe boy wasn’t the most appropriate term, but there was no way he was going to call him Arthur - had first visited him back when he was a Paladin, before he had even become Elder. He had been out with his squad, a simple recon mission, when one of his Knights had opened fire on a small group of ghouls running towards them. Completely understandable, except for the fact that the ghouls hadn’t even been feral, had been running to the armored soldiers to beg for help fighting off some raiders. And Arthur, youngest in the team and still new to having any sort of power, had been cowed by the expressions of men and women twice his age into not issuing any kind of reprimand. The Squire had only appeared for a few seconds, and it had only been a look of disbelief not reproach, but it was enough to make the young Paladin feel sick to his stomach. From that day onward the Squire appeared more and more often, and looked more and more heartbroken and confused each time.

Today was the most recent visit. Arthur had stood on the command deck, addressing his finest soldiers. They already knew their mission in the Commonwealth, most had even volunteered for it, so he had spoken to inspire and raise morale rather than impart information. At the end of it the young Elder stood tall, his eyes proudly surveying his troops and adrenaline running through his veins, when he felt a presence next to him and heard a quiet voice plaintively ask “But what about Charon? And Fawkes? A-are they bad too?”

A sour taste filled his mouth then, and it was a struggle to not let the conflict he suddenly felt show on his face. Fortunately Paladin Danse had stepped forward then and distracted him with a new recruit - a valuable asset if Danse was correct. The first thing he saw was a vault suit. For a moment he felt as if someone had shot him in the chest, before he actually looked at the stranger and saw that they were too tall, and probably too old as well, and the number was all wrong; and besides all that, they were a man and then Arthur felt intensely disappointed.

Somehow he had gotten through all that, and assigned the stranger with a mission to Fort Strong. He waited on the command deck for a while after the Paladin and Knight left, hoping the Squire would leave as well. Unfortunately for him, the Squire seemed determined to stick around, so he growled and stormed off to his quarters and the waiting reports.

Now their eyes met. Arthur gave the Squire his Look. The Look was famed for its ability to scare even the most stubborn Scribe or battle-hardened Paladin into submission. On occasion it even worked on Lancer-Captain Kells. The Squire proceeded to burst into tears, but still showed no sign of leaving. Arthur groaned, snatching up the whiskey bottle and starting to drink directly from it. At this point he knew he would be nursing a hangover the next morning, but really couldn’t bring himself to care.

“What happened to you!”

Arthur’s head shot up. He slammed the bottle down on the table, nearly breaking it as he rose from his seat, the Look morphing into a full death glare. The Squire refused to give any ground even as the Elder loomed over him. Arthur’s eyes burned, but his voice was deathly calm as he spat out the words. “They all broke their promises, Squire. All of them. My- Your- Our parents promised to take us back, and then they died! Owyn promised to keep us out of this position until we were ready for it, and then he died! Sarah promised to keep us safe, and. Then. She. Died. All of them, gone.”

The younger Arthur glared back defiantly. “But what about Quinn?” His voice began to wobble. “D-did she d-die too?”

Arthur wasn’t even aware of his hand moving until it had crashed down onto the table. “I wish she had! But she doesn’t even get that excuse. She promised to always come back, but then she disappeared in the night after Sarah died, and she never even said goodbye, and she never came back and she left me all alone, and - and.” He slowly collapsed onto his bed, now forcing back tears himself. “She promised that she would always come back, but she never did.”

At some point he must’ve fallen asleep, because when he next opened his eyes his younger self was gone and a quick glance at the time showed him that it was already 0700. Stretching out, he stood and slowly walked back to his computer where he quickly finished off the report from the night before and sent it over to Quinlan. His eyes fell on the open bottle that still stood on the table. He picked it up, screwed the lid back on and dropped it on the trash before leaving to take his customary position on the command deck.

He stood there for a while, gazing over the Commonwealth with his hands behind his back, when a quiet cough from behind him shook him from his thoughts. He turned, customary scowl on his face, to address the nervous looking Initiate. “Sir- I mean Elder- I mean,” the Initiate swallowed the lump in their throat and tried again. “There’s a woman here to see you. Says she’s from the Independent State of New Vegas. She’s in the airport, Sir. I was sent to ask for permission for her to come on-board.”

“Tell them to let her on,” he replied, irritably dismissing the Initiate with a wave of his hand, before turning back to the window. His hands rested on the rail as he waited for his mysterious visitor.

It was only a few moments later that he heard the unmistakable sound of someone entering the command deck. Keeping his tone light - or as light as he was capable of - he addressed them. “Welcome to the Prydwen, Miss…”

“Archer.” His hands tightened on the rail, his knees feeling suddenly weak. That voice, he knew who that voice belonged to, and he had hoped with every part of him, but had stopped believing that he would ever..

“Quinn Archer.”

Somehow he forced himself to let go of the railing, forced himself to remain standing as he turned. She was older than he remembered - of course she was, it had been years; shorter than he remembered - or he was just a lot taller than he had been the last time he had seen her; and she held herself more confidently, but it was her. Quinn Archer. The Lone Wanderer.

Steely blue eyes, now wide with shock, met softer green ones. He didn’t know how he looked, but it must have been terrible, because her own eyes widened then, and softened further.

“Arthur. I’m so sorry.”

AN: This is also on my tumblr and AO3 and I'm maybe going to put it on fanfiction.net, but I really want reviews so I'm putting it here because I'm most likely to get them because you guys are awesome and this site is great like that! Would love for someone to tell me how my characterization is, but anything helps :D