Untarnished, She Shines With Honour // Arthur Maxson x F!Sole Survivor

Chapter Two

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."