Prompt from @atomicreactor: “ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close”
Story under the cut; warnings for some gore and Marked Man cannibalism; approximately canon-typical.
This story isn’t really Rain in the Desert “canon”, since the kind of scene I came up with didn’t really fit anywhere in that timeline. Think of it as more like a minor AU.
ripping the other away - “no we shouldn’t” - but when they kiss them again they moan and hold them close
Smoke crawls up the canyon walls, black and greasy. A troop of Marked Men sit around a fire, tatters of Legion red and NCR olive together in some ghastly parody of a peace treaty. They chew mutely on hunks of charred flesh; never seem to make a sound, not even to each other. She’s met ferals chattier than this.
Jane doesn’t need to ask what kind of meat they’re cooking. There’s a stench in the air she remembers all too well from Nipton, and before. The thick smell seems to pool in the back of her mouth, and she has to fight to keep from gagging.
“Descended into savagery,” Ulysses’ low voice comes from behind her, close enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. “Devour their own, can find no other meat.” There’s disgust in his tone, contempt, even; not just at their diets, she knows, but at their loss of self. Man’s hung on to the memory of the Twisted Hairs in the face of all that he’s endured; if anyone could claim flaying alive wouldn’t strip them of their history, she supposes, it would be him.
He doesn’t take the chance to point out her own hand in their condition, an unexpected mercy from him.
The Marked Men haven’t seen them, too absorbed in their grisly meal to notice any sign of their presence. Can’t let herself relax, though, not while they still draw breath. Back pressed up against the rock face, clutching her rifle with one finger hovering over the trigger, Jane surveys the campsite.
“Five by the fire,” she whispers to Ulysses. He’s beside her in the secluded crevice, his own gun at the ready, and close, distractingly close in the tight quarters. “See mostly small arms and melee, think one’s got a minigun. Another standin’ lookout on the fallen building to the north, facin’ out. Some kinda rifle, not big enough for snipin’. Can’t get a clear view of the east; could be more that way.”
He nods back, expression unreadable beneath the mask. His eyes flick towards the fire, and the rising smoke. He’s near enough she can practically hear him breathe; some treacherous part of her thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if they just bedded down here for the night, waited for the Marked Men to move on in the morning. Sleep huddled up close against the rock, probably the closest she’d ever get to holding him like she wants.
Jane scowls, cursing herself for letting foolish daydreams get into her head now, when she needs all of her wits about her, for his sake as well as hers.
“Take out the minigunner,” Ulysses says to her. “Sentry next, then secure the east, got more range on you.” He gestures to her weapon. “Cover my approach, let me get close to the others.”
“Hang on,” she hisses, alarmed. “You ain’t plannin’ on chargin’ ‘em, are you?”
He looks her in the eye, says nothing, and moves past her. Tries to, anyway, but she grabs him by the duster and yanks him back. Probably wouldn’t have worked, strength for strength, but he’s caught off-guard by it, staggers back awkwardly. He shoots her an indignant look.
“You got some kinda deathwish, man?” She keeps her voice as low as she can, but there’s a tinge of panic in it. Hates this part of him; his complete disregard for his own safety. He might not care whether he lives or dies, but she does, goddamnit. Hasn’t told him that, yet, doesn’t quite know the words for it… No, that’s a lie, she does, but she’s afraid of what speaking them will do to their relationship, which feels a delicate enough thing as it is: a friendship, if he would even call it that (she does), which by all rights probably shouldn’t even exist, considering their history. Complicated enough already, without declaring her feelings for a man who is probably the last person on earth who could return them.
She takes a deep breath, wills her nerves to calm. Her hand is still clutching his jacket, she notices; she releases it tentatively. He stays where he is, still watching her.
“We hold position, take ‘em out from here,” she argues. “Rock wall’s good cover; lookout and any hanging round the east’ll have to move position to get at us, buy us some time. Duck out from the rocks, fire in short bursts, duck back. Get the minigunner with the first shot, if I can.” She jerks her head in the direction of the main troop and gives Ulysses a scathing look. “No need to go takin’ unnecessary risks when we got a good defensible location right here. Is goin’ straight for the charge some kinda Legion pissin’ contest thing?”
He frowns at her; at least, she thinks he does, his brows knitting.
“Be a drawn-out battle,” he cautions. “No telling how many others stalk the canyons, might bring more to us, lengthen the fight. Better to bring them down quickly. No need to worry about me, Courier.”
“Figure someone’s gotta.” Jane chews her lip, tries to keep her voice low despite her growing frustration. Wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument, or some variation thereof; probably wouldn’t be the last. Too much to hope, that she could give him something to live for, but she’d settle at least for a shred of self-preservation, not being prepared to throw his life away at the drop of a hat.
She meets his eyes, summoning up every ounce of Brahmin-headed stubbornness within her. He holds her gaze; she expects to see annoyance there, at her meddling, but is met instead with that same curious, studying expression he’s been wearing a lot, lately. A silence stretches out between them, broken only by the howling of stormwinds above, a sickening crack as a Marked Man snaps through bone to get to the marrow within.
Finally, Ulysses gives her a short, curt nod and turns his eyes towards the smoke, gesturing for her to take the first shot.
***
Jane holds her shirt over her nose as she approaches the fire, part of what she assumes to be a torso still charring on a makeshift spit. She nudges the corpse of a former Legionary with the toe of her boot, checks to make sure he’s not breathing, wincing a little at the sight of worn leather prodding into exposed muscle and tendon.
Ulysses stalks the battleground, casting a wary eye on the ruins around them. The troop, it seems, was alone, the reinforcements he feared did not come, but the man never relaxes, might not even be capable of it. She can see the tension in his shoulders as he scans the horizon for enemies, gun still in hand, ready to be attacked any moment. Even when they’re back on the cliffs above Hopeville, higher up than the Marked Men or the Tunnelers ever roam, he’s alert; hell, the man manages to seem on-guard when he sleeps. Walls are always up, with him, even (especially?) around her.
She gives the dead scout’s pockets a quick once-over for ammunition, comes up empty. Glances at the sky to see the red glare of the sun behind the dust clouds, hanging low over the western lip of the canyon.
“Best get goin’,” she straightens up. “If we want to make shelter ‘fore nightfall.”
Ulysses nods, turns toward the road ahead. He waits just long enough for her to catch up, she notes; a new courtesy from him, a sign that some kind of familiarity is growing between them, despite it all. She can’t help a little smile at that, even though she knows damn well it’s foolish to get her hopes up, with him.
He’s silent on the journey, as they pass under leaning hulks of shattered buildings, clamber over piles of rock and rubble, make byways through fragments of ancient rooms, but she doesn’t mind. Shared plenty of silences with him before; if not exactly companionable, then at least not awkward. Spent too much time alone on the road (and more, travelling with Boone) to need a constant stream of chatter to keep her comfortable; just knowing he’s there is comfort enough.
They reach one of his old campsites just as the light starts to fade. It’s a claustrophobic little thing, an upended old hotel room in the belly of a fallen building. A battered old armoire partially blocks the lopsided door, making the entrance quite a squeeze but also keeping it sheltered from the hungry eyes of the Divide’s inhabitants. A single bedroll lies on the ground, a crumpled rucksack beside it.
Ulysses rifles through the pack, pulling out a bottle of cloudy, unhealthy-looking water. He yanks his mask down to take a measured sip, always careful in his use of resources. Jane sweeps her hat off, nervously smoothing down her hair, not sure where to place herself in the cramped quarters. Argued through this in her head before, wanting to be close to him but not wanting to impose herself. He glances at her, pursing his lips.
“Something troubling you, Courier?” he asks.
Shit. Her mind whirrs trying to think of a convincing bluff or half-truth, because the actual truth is unlikely to go down very well. (She can picture it now: “Hey, I know I accidentally destroyed everything you ever loved, an’ all, but how d’ya feel about kissin’ me a little?”) She settles on another issue lurking at the back of her mind, something that's not exactly a lie.
“Gettin’ worried about you, man.” She holds his gaze, tosses her hat down by the rucksack. “Too damn quick to put yourself in harm’s way. Ain't the first time I had to pull you back from chargin’ off into some dangerous situation.”
He gives her a flat look. It’s a familiar argument, in variation; usually her entreaties for him to get some goddamn self-preservation instinct in him come in the form of suggestions that he leave the Divide, rather than challenges to his battle tactics.
“Can take care of myself, Courier.” He sets the water bottle down beside the bedroll. “Don’t need you to mother me.”
“‘Mother you?’” Jane arches an eyebrow, irritated. “Didn’t realise it was such a burden on you, me carin’ about your wellbein’.”
He frowns.
“Not what I—”
But she’s on a roll, now, pent-up frustration pouring out like the Hoover Dam bursting.
“Wouldja prefer it if I went around sayin’, ‘Oh Ulysses, by all means, go an’ get yourself killed, I don’t give a shit at all’?” The last part is in mocking falsetto.
“Trying to say—”
“Come off it, man, is it such a goddamn crime to care about you?”
His brow furrows, the corners of his mouth deepening into a frown.
“‘Care about me?’ Don’t need to care about me, Courier. Saving me won’t save the Divide; won’t ease the burden of what happened here.”
“It ain’t about that, and you know it.”
“No. Have the right of it.” He shakes his head. His tone is naked scepticism. He’s stubborn, too set on this explanation to see anything else; it’s the fucking Road all over again. “Won’t find absolution in me, Courier… Find better targets for your pity elsewhere.”
She wants to scream. He doesn’t get it; he’s too wrapped up in his fucking symbols to recognise simple human emotion when he’s staring it in the face. Has to be some way to make him understand that it’s not about that, not about the Divide or the bombs or grand metaphorical gestures, just about her and him and her own stupid feelings…
He’s within arm’s reach, she notices, the space too small to be otherwise. An idea comes to her, some way she can make him see, make him understand. If words won’t work, then actions will have to do.
She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss.
It’s a messy mashing of lips, no art to it; his eyes widen in shock, and she can hear his sharp intake of breath. The sound shocks her back into sensibility, and she immediately regrets her hasty actions. He’s been more than tolerant of her, she thinks, as she feels the tide of contrition and self-disgust wash over her mind; has every reason to hate her, even if he’s been turned away from his murderous intentions, for her unwitting hand in the destruction of his home, wouldn’t be unexpected if he never wanted to see her again. Yet he never complains about her presence, even as she turns up uninvited, again and again; listens to her when she talks, bares her heart to him; even keeps her company on these forays through the ruins. She knows it’s too much to expect, that he might feel the same, knows that she should be grateful that there’s peace between them at all… But no, she had to get greedy, and kept pushing at him, and now she’s gone and fucked everything up… She draws her head back, stammering out apologies, letting the fabric of his shirt fall from her fingers, unwilling to meet his eyes. She expects him to push her away, in anger and disgust; leave, perhaps, or demand that she do so. If she’s very, very lucky, he might try and pretend that never happened, and let her stay, although the silence will be awkward, fresh walls built up, a gulf wide as the Divide opened up between them.
What she doesn’t expect is for him to grab the back of her head and respond fiercely, stubble scratching at her face as he kisses her back. He’s insistent; not rough, as one might expect from an ex-Legionary, but determined nevertheless. She’s shocked, at first, standing stock-still, but soon she’s reciprocating, fingers tangling into his locks as she seeks his lips hungrily; wants this too much to question it, just yet.
Suddenly he stops, pushes her away by the shoulders.
“Wh—” Jane’s face twists in confusion.
“Won’t end well,” he says. His tone would sound flat to any who didn’t know him well, but she’s spent enough time listening to him to pick up a subtle, sorrowful note in his voice. “Be a mistake; know as well as I my road ends here.”
She gives him a long, hard look, a confusing mess of emotions streaming through her mind: there’s shock at the sudden turnaround, frustration at his continued insistence that his fate is to die here, joy that he kissed her back. She wants to tell him that it doesn’t matter, she already makes the trek up to the Divide to see him, won’t be hurt any less by the thought of him dying if he’s not her lover, tell him that whatever he means to do here, he doesn’t have to face it alone; she also wants to argue, yell at him to get his ass out of this irradiated canyon and stop being so resigned to death. So she does the only thing she can think to do, in the moment.
She kisses him again.
He’s eager, when her lips meet his, despite his earlier misgivings; she feels him rest a hand on her back, pulling her gently in, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat. She wraps her arms around him in turn, beneath the duster, feels the warmth of his body through the threadbare shirt. His mouth his hot on hers; the hand on her back slides up her neck, making her shiver as his other arm snakes around her waist, urges her flush against him. Jane pulls back only to nuzzle along his jawline, feel him shudder against her.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, man,” she murmurs into his ear, her voice husky as she holds him close. “Stay here, if you want me to, ‘til you get it into that stubborn head of yours to leave already.”
He’s silent for a moment; she can feel his chest move, his breathing rough to match her own. Her heart pounds and not just from the excitement. It all depends on his next words.
“…Stay,” Ulysses says slowly, quietly, and she lets out a breath of sheer relief as his mouth finds hers once more.
Jane headcanon: makes cactus flower crowns in spring and has at least one pocket full of little rocks with colorful patterns and smooth touchable surfaces. -Atomic
ahhhh that’s a beautiful headcanon! i hope you don’t mind if i steal it! <3
