To say Joshua prayed often was an understatement. Between prayers, bible reciting and blessings, it was clear he held his faith dearly. He spoke of God and his miracles, but never explained who or what God was. You were a born wastelander, after all, the Mojave desert wasn't exactly filled with god-fearers.

Your curiosity about his religion was something Joshua held dear. It was precious, to find a hardened fighter such as the courier so willing to learn. So respectful. It was just another thing that made him love you even more.

It was early in the morning. Far too early. The tribes people still slept in their beds, the sun barely peeking out from beyond the horizon. Yet, as always, Joshua was awake. Sleep was scarce, a luxury a sinner like him could not afford. The man sat on his knees, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed as he whispered a reverent prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—

His prayer was cut short. Joshua's eyes opened when he heard heavy footsteps, the familiar sound of leather fabric rustling. You. "It's early, my courier. The sun has not even risen yet," Joshua's voice was calm, well-spoken and articulate as ever. It held warmth, a warmth only you could bring out. "Should you not be in your tent?"