Israel Gannon is sick of it all.

He looks down at his cracking leather armor in disgust, and takes another swig of his vodka. He wishes he could wear his Telsa armor instead of the rotting Wastelander junk. He is sick of doing the Enclave's dirty work. He believed in America, and all she stood for, once upon a time. However, he has been plagued by an unnerving sense of doubt ever since that tribal from Arroyo blew up Navarro. Doubt about the loyalties he had been holding so dear to his heart ever since he was a child. His affiliation with the Enclave has forced him to run from those who would pursue him, and he left behind every home he had ever known. Israel guilty takes another swig of vodka, and tries not to think about the toll all of this has been having on his pregnant wife, and their unborn child.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a young man with the beginnings of five-o'clock shadow on his face, and an accent Israel doesn't recognize, asks. Israel's lips turn up into a sneer.

"Yes," he answers gruffly. The young man looks around and says,

"I don't see anyone." Israel props his feet up in the coveted seat in response. The young man chuckles and plops down in the vacant seat on the other side of him.

"One scotch, please," he tells the bartender. Israel huffs indigently.

"I didn't want any company," he snarls. The young man looks at him innocently, and Israel sees that his eyes sag under the heavy weight of the bags underneath them.

"The only two empty seats in this ungodly hovel are around you," he answers, gesturing to the deserted area around Israel.

"That's because these wasters know better than to be around me," he growls, surprised at the bitterness he hears in his voice. The young man chuckles again, and takes the scotch handed to him.

"Good thing I'm not an ordinary waster then, isn't it? Cheers," he offers, raising his glass and downing it in one large gulp. Israel grumbles, and downs the rest of his drink as well. He eyes the young man sitting next to him. He looks to only be a few years younger than Israel, if that. He smiles wryly as he thinks about how much like an old man he started to become during his years of service with the Enclave. He counts the wrinkles on his face as he looks down in his reflection staring back up at him from what little vodka remains in his glass.

"You don't look like you're from around here," the young man observes, trying to casually strike up conversation.

"I'm not," Israel answers flatly. The young man nods to himself.

"Neither am I," he says. "I'm from back east, the Capitol Wasteland. This place is a paradise compared with back there," he says wistfully, looking around the decaying bar with what Israel would almost label jealousy in his eyes.

"I didn't ask where you were from," he says harshly. "I want you to le-"

"Israel!" Both men turn to see Daisy Whitman panting furiously, sweat dripping from her brow and blood staining her hands. "It's Mona! Come quickly! She's gone into labor." Israel nearly knocks the bar over trying to get to Daisy. Mona wasn't due for another month, according the Enclave medic. He notices the young man not too far behind him.

"I'm a doctor," he says before Israel can object. "Please, let me help you. "

Israel gives him a hard look before nodding his assent, and the three of them run to the inn where the group had been staying. Thoughts begin melding together in a jumbled, drunken mess in Israel's mind. They had only stopped for the night. Mona needed to rest, and Israel wanted to get away from the rest of them for a while. He knew Orion knew he was questioning the Enclave again, and he hadn't wanted to get into another argument. Oh God, what if she and the child die? Israel will be left all alone with nothing but his squad, and the vast litany of their crimes to keep him company for all eternity. Mona, Mona, Mona-

They burst through the door, and the young man is the first into Mona and Israel's room. Israel can hear her screaming. He tries to follow, but Judah holds him back.

"Let the doctor do his work," Daisy tries to sooth him as he struggles against Judah's arms. "It'll be all right."

It won't, he wants to scream. It won't be all right. I should have stayed with her. They're going to die, because I deserve it, and he shouldn't be born yet. His son will be frail, and he'll die, and he'll die-

Mona lets out another shriek, and Israel sinks to his knees, the voices of everyone blurring together in one final eulogy for his wife and the son he won't ever get the chance to meet.

Israel doesn't know how long it has been since the young doctor ran in there, but when he comes out, Israel looks dully up at him through golden blond locks. The man's hair is matted to his forehead, and sweat glistens off of his skin. He's cleaning his hands and forearms with a wet rag. When he catches Israel's gaze, he smiles.

"They're in there waiting for you," he says.

"They're alive?" he croaks, and the doctor nods in response.

"Very much alive, and doing well, I might add," he says. Israel stumbles past him to see Mona beaming at small bundle in her arms.

"Israel," she whispers. "He's sleeping. Look." Israel sinks down to kneel net to her, and looks at the baby in her arms. He looks like an angel despite the dried blood staining his skin. Israel watches mesmerized as the baby breathes in and out. He takes the baby from his wife, and counts the fingers and toes. He mouths the boy's name, Arcade, over and over again. He's fine. They're both going to live. He looks up at the doctor leaning against the doorframe, and they both give each other the same tired smile.

"Thank you," Israel says past the lump in his throat, trailing off because he doesn't know the man's name. "Who are you?" The young man shakes his head.

"James. No thanks necessary. Helping people is what I do."

Man, Arcade's Dad and the Lone Wanderer's Dad meeting has been my head-canon for ever. XD I imagine James wandering America, and having the Lone Wanderer come by his name honestly.