Chapter Text
Today had not been a lucky day for Lucy and the Ghoul. Lord knows the wasteland was eventful, but these days it was typically more boring than anything else. Their days were normally only exhausting because of the relentless heat of the sun and the seemingly endless journey they walked to get to New Vegas. Today, the wasteland had other ideas. At noon they were treated to a molerat nest, and once the sun began its slope towards the desert, she had the honor of discovering what mean little assholes cazador were. Three had crept up out of what felt like nowhere and it was clear running was not an option.
She had really felt she was getting the hang of the wasteland. But that cazador proved her wrong, almost stabbing her in the stomach, which she had a feeling would be worse than when Monty had stabbed her. She dodged to her left, but didn’t account for the rocks and went sprawling. She had just lifted her gun when she heard the boom of the ghouls shotgun —so close she nearly felt it—and the cazador faltered in the air like a paper airplane missing a wing, before dropping, unceremoniously onto her lap. He had actually laughed at her then, swinging his gun in a lazy gesture. “Gonna lose to a bug, Vaultie?”
She narrowed her eyes at him then, and cursed him now, remembering the disgusting corpse on her lap. She then endured his mockery “You usually fight while sittin’ on your ass, or is that special treat just for me?” “Next time, sweetheart, consider not just bleeding but do something, will ya?” “You tryin’ to figure out where a cazador’s ass is, so you can shoot that?” She hated him.
By the time he was “done,” she was so thoroughly furious she could barely contain it. But she had seen him, he had been sweating just as much as her in that fight, and she could have sworn she saw panic in his eyes when he caught sight of her on the ground. And for some reason, that expression of his kept popping up in her mind, making her angrier and angrier because she didn’t understand. He hated her.
Their only spot of luck that day was the discovery of a wooden shack, a sparse home with the remains of a bed, and some sad crumbling furniture. The search for supplies could have been more fruitful (just some radx, mentats, and sugarbombs, the sight of which set her teeth on edge). But at least they were in a shelter, instead of the open, for once.
After eating the cooked molerat from that morning—not as bad as she would have thought—they settle into their usual silence. He saved her today, she thinks. It’s such a heavy thing she can’t let herself think about it. She should thank him.
Her eyes slide to his, and hold there, and there is no way she can make herself say that. She wonders what he’s thinking, why he saved her, why he cares. But he’s just cleaning his nails with a knife, looking at her with the smug look that’s almost a dare. She doesn’t want to be the one to look away first but it feels impolite to stare and she ends up looking away first anyway. His quiet grunt is almost a laugh.
I hate him, she reminds herself, heart thundering and cheeks warm. That’s all this is. Hate. But there is an itch in her hands.
So Lucy does what Lucy does best, her voice too chipper, too bright, as she fills the air with words that will keep her mind off of the ghoul, and his touch, the quick whistle of a bullet that saved her life, and her racing heart. It’s just nerves, she reminds herself. She hates him.
“One time my dad and I read the Count of Monte Cristo. I think you’d really like it. He trains for years and years to get his revenge. It’s really impressive and dogged.” Any moment now he’ll cut in with a harsh word and mock her Vaultie education and that will get rid of everything she feels.
But Cooper doesn’t react to anything she’s saying, leaned against the wall, lazily letting his hat cover his face and eyes. In a way he’s grateful for the way she fills the air, it keeps his mind off of things, like the way it felt to see that cazador about to strike and the way he felt his heart seize. He doesn’t want to think about how her suit tightens over her curves when she bends over, or that old world face, beautiful in the way his co-stars used to be. With the hat over his eyes, he doesn’t have to see those big cow eyes and he won’t see her looking at him with that fiery expression that slips past her Vault-tec defenses, filled with hate and something else he can’t and won’t acknowledge.
And then there were the dreams—they’d been relentless lately. After so many decades of nightmares—things clawing him in his sleep, dodging stingers, running to outpace deathclaws—his dreams lately had been well… he felt his cheeks warm as he remembered last nights dream, her hips astride his, naked as the day she was born, except, he noted, traitorous cock throbbing even now, his cowboy hat resting on her head. He still could see her breasts bouncing, feel her grind against him with increasing force. Would she make the same face he imagined? Eyes scrunched, mouth almost twisted in pain—and then those big old world eyes looking down at him, with that fiery look. A proud, victorious smile as she took what she needed. His little killer. That polish of Vault-tec politeness scraped away until she was dirty, cruel and needy.
He was grateful for the cover of his hat, as he pretended to sleep. Shifting his leg to disguise his growing arousal. Damn Vaultie, he thought. Damn himself too.
“I heard that there was a movie version of it too, would have been nice to see. Most of what we had in the vault were old westerns.” Lucy doesn’t know what makes her bring it up, and her cheeks pink as she remembered the nights she’d spend pausing Cooper Howard movies at key moments, fingers wet between her legs. It seems so far away now that she laughs, softly, staring at the ceiling.
Cooper can’t help himself. “What?” He grunts out. It’s just too delicious a thought, did old Hank raise her on his movies? Did she like them? He tips his hat off his head to see her face, trying to make it look as casual as possible.
“Oh nothing really, I had a thing for one of the cowboys.” Her cheeks are pink, he notices, and hates himself for caring, for needing to know which one.
“Oh Vaultie likes a sheriff then? Or an outlaw?” She seems surprised to hear him talk. He can’t believe he asked. Why does he need to know so damn bad?
Her eyes meet his, and there is that thing between them again. Something begging to be transformed. He doesn’t know how long he can handle its uncertain shape. Something tells him there is something too dangerous in that space, something too different from what he deserves. He can’t let it take form, it feels like it will reforge him completely. She looks away first and he’s grateful. He examines the rotted planks of the ceiling, where the stars and sky poke through.
“Oh, well if you’re really interested, my favorite was Cooper Howard. He usually played the good guy.”
He inhales sharply and it makes her nervous for some reason. She speaks a little faster, rambling.
“But there was this one where he was an outlaw. And he had this thing with the mayor’s daughter.” She trails off but the silence doesn’t last long. He almost feels like he’s holding his breath. She doesn’t know why she’s sharing all this but she can’t seem to help herself, she has to fill the silence. Are her cheeks getting hotter? “It was always my favorite. My dad used to tease me that he was glad he got to approve my husband because otherwise he never knew who I’d end up with.”
She was thinking. “Not that that went much better.”
“Oh?” The ghoul asked, unable to help himself.
“Yeah. We did a trade with 32 for a breeder”
“A breeder.” He remarks, incredulous.
“Oh yes. To keep the gene pool fresh you know? I couldn’t very well marry my cousin, could I?”
“Guess vaults have their principles after all.”
Lucy doesn’t react to that but he can feel her disapproval all the same. She’s almost tempted to give him a lecture about cousin stuff being fine for exploration and relieving tension but never for the long term, but she’s too tired to deal with his backwards, antiquated views towards sex. She has a feeling that’s a conversation that would take hours, and maybe a chalkboard. A mission for another day. “Anyway, my dad traded for my husband, Monty, and he married us. But after when we went to our room and had sex, it turned out he was a raider. He stabbed me.” Her hand ghosts over the spot where only a scar remained.
He whistles, low. “Hell of a honeymoon. You kill him?”
“Yes, well, no. I cut his face up and I thought he was dead but my dad had to drown him in the pickle crate.” As she trails off, her voice loses its chipper tone, falling into the memory. She frowned, thinking of all the wasted effort to make the pickles, thinking of Stephanie stabbed in the eye, thinking of her wedding dress. Did they get the stain out? It seemed like such a ludicrous thought but. That dress, with all those names stitched in it.
“Good.” He relishes the thought, for some reason, of this raider drowning with salt in his wounds. Of the Vaultie giving as good she got. And then, because he feels he has to say something: “Daddy choosing didn’t do too much good then, huh?” He drawls out.
“No. It didn’t.”
Lucy thinks of what she didn’t tell the ghoul then. Remembering the shots of Cooper Howard’s hands on the reins, the gun. Of his strong arm sweeping down to grasp at the waist of heroine. Of the candid, crude drawl that punctuated the outlaw’s sentences. The nights she spent imagining that she had been grasped, seized, taken and stolen. That those trained hands had lassoed her wrists, that they had moved on her, drawing shapes and moans out of her. The delicious want of what was wrong but felt so good. Bad boys, she thought drowsily, always had a thing for the bad boys.
Sleep takes her after that, dreaming of that movie. Gun to her head, forceful, bruising kisses, hands between her thighs and the tear of clothes. In the fog of her dream, she rides a man in her wedding dress, hands grasped firmly on leather, reaching a feverish pitch. “Yes that’s it, darlin’” drawls a familiar voice, “Take what you need, Vaultie.” And Lucy knows the face she will see, pulse racing, riding her outlaw. As the thought slots into place, she comes, electric and strange, an eruption of nerve endings without being touched at all. Because the man she sees, humming in pleasure, isn’t Cooper Howard but the hollowed form of the Ghoul.