Chapter Text
Lucy starts smelling different right outside Primm.
Really, he should’ve seen it coming. She hasn’t stopped for suppressants the whole trip, and for the past few days, Dogmeat’s been…clingy. He’d read about that in the old days, how pets got extra-protective when their owner was in heat. Had seen a version of it himself, when Barb was pregnant with Janey, how Roosevelt clung to her heels and growled at strangers before she even knew she was expecting. But he’d shaken it off; it was comforting, to imagine his little goody-two-shoes Vaultie was popping suppressants while he slept, or that Dogmeat was being protective because Lucy spoiled the damn mutt.
It was better than thinking about the alternative, remembering when he’d first realized this tiny spitfire of a girl was an omega – seeing the half-healed mating bite on her neck as he tied her up, and thinking, good. Omegas make the best bait.
And now, waking up to the irresistible smell of mint and buttercream frosting on the wind, he’s the one being baited.
“So,” Lucy says promptly, barely waiting for him to open his eyes, “we have a small problem. How much has your sense of smell been compromised?”
His entire body feels like it’s been struck by lightning. He’s choking on her; it’s monumental. It’s the only thing he can smell.
“I can tell that you’re in heat, Vaultie.”
“Good.” Lucy clears her throat. “And, um. It’s pre-heat.”
“Sure don’t smell like that.” Cooper sits up gingerly, suddenly thankful for his coat, and how good it is at hiding his body’s…reactions. “What’d they dose you lab rats with to make you so fragrant? Eau de bullshit?”
“Heats,” Lucy says indignantly, “are not ‘bullshit’. They’re a perfectly natural biological process.”
She smells like a wet dream and sounds like a public service announcement. Cooper sighs. “Right. Well, Primm’s about three hours out. They got rooms.”
Lucy blinks. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. What, were you expectin’ me to rough it while you ride it out? ‘Least Vikki and Vance’s got a poker table.”
Lucy blinks. “Oh. Well, that makes sense.”
Her scent changes, but even a noseblind beta would pick up on her tone. She’s…sad.
Sad that she won’t be goin’ through heat in a nice warm Vault-Tec isolation pod, he tells himself. Probably with a CEO-approved alpha, too.
“Closest thing to the Ritz you’ll get up here, Vaultie,” he says. “Now c’mon, let’s go. You reek.”
They’re quiet as Lucy packs up, finishing her breakfast Cram in two bites. Good - she’ll need the calories, considering how much her body’s about to be burning up.
Not that it matters. He’s not her alpha. She can starve, for all he cares. He doesn’t care, because he’s not some dumb knothead; he hasn’t even popped a knot in years, hasn’t fucked an Omega in decades. He’s never met one quite so…fragrant, but still. He’s a professional. He’ll get her to the casino, spend two boring days waiting for her to sweat it out, and then they’ll move on to Vegas, like nothing ever happened.
She walks past him, Dogmeat practically glued to her side. His nose is long-gone, but for a second, he’s drowning - the smell of the best mint julep he’d ever had, and the icing on his last birthday cake. It smells like a kitchen in late summer, like his childhood home in Texas, like hopes and dreams and simple, tipsy happiness. She smells like home.
He blinks, hard, and reaches for his gun. Smelling that good, half the alphas in Primm’ll be onto her. He’ll have to step in. Flash his gun, maybe growl a little. Just to make sure she won’t get taken advantage of.
His trigger finger twitches. Not his finger, anymore. Hers.
He’s a professional.
“Forty caps.”
“Bullshit. That’s highway robbery.”
The bored-looking attendant smacks her gum. “You want a heat room or not?”
Vikki and Vance is just like Coop remembers it - sad, sleepy, and overpriced. The ratty NCR flag behind the front desk doesn’t help.
“Look,” Cooper drawls, trying to sound intimidating, “maybe there’s been a misunderstandin’. I’m rentin’ a room for two days, not twenty to life.”
“Sure,” the attendant says without flinching, “gotcha. And for an insulated heat room, that’ll be forty caps.” She raises an eyebrow at Dogmeat, sitting loyally by Lucy’s side. “Plus the dog.”
Cooper’s jaw twitches. They have fifty. “Thirty.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Deal.” The old woman grabs a handful and starts counting. “Go tell your ‘meg you’re upstairs, room twelve.”
Lucy raises her hand indignantly. “I’m right here, you know.”
The attendant wrinkles her nose as she smells. “Huh. You sure you need a heat room? You’re fresh as a daisy.”
Cooper blinks. He’s not sure what the attendant is, but considering the ancient bite scar on her neck, she’s not a beta. Even if she’s past heat age, there’s no way she can’t smell Lucy.
“I’m in preheat,” Lucy says sincerely. “According to my notes from my last menstrual cycle, my heat should hit in approximately two hours. Unless the radiation’s made me irregular. Which isn’t impossible, fertility fluctuates based on environmental conditions and -”
Cooper holds a hand out. “That’s enough, Vaultie.”
The attendant looks like she’s having the time of her life. “You sure you wanna ride this out with this piece of jerky, sweetheart? We got a few good alphas on staff who could take care of you.”
Cooper’s hand is on his gun before he knows he’s moved.
“Back off.”
The world stops. Dogmeat growls.
Lucy’s whimper is sweet as summer lemonade, and her arousal hits what’s left of his nose like a bullet to the gut.
The attendant clears her throat. “Huh. Don’t know what you see in him, darlin’, but it takes all sorts.” She pushes a key across the desk. “Room twelve, down the hall. Make sure the dog shits outside, or it’ll be extra.”
He grabs the key, Dogmeat trotting protectively at Lucy’s heels, and Cooper tries very hard to focus on the logistics of Dogmeat using the bathroom instead of how good Lucy smells.
He’s still hard when they get to room twelve. Thank Christ for overcoats. Dogmeat picks a spot in the hall and settles down - she’s a loyal little mutt, protectin’ her person. Even when the thing Lucy most needs protecting from is him.
Lucy clears her throat, voice wavering. “What did you mean, ‘camp outside?’”
“In case you didn’t notice,” Cooper says, “they overcharged us, Vaultie. Perks of bein’ jerky.” He pushes the door open without looking. “So, we only got enough caps for one room. Your chariot awaits.”
Lucy crosses her arms. “So you’re just going to…what? Sit outside?”
“I ain’t too good to camp under the stars, sweetheart.” She’s still not moving. “Now git. Find me when you’re done.”
Lucy looks at the room, then looks back at him. Cooper follows her eyes, just to be sure.
Yep. Only one bed in there. And she’s still not moving.
“I want you to help with my heat.”
Cooper’s so startled, he almost loses another finger letting go of the door.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“You heard me,” Lucy says. “Omega heats without an alpha’s presence tend to be twenty-five percent longer on average, and without complimentary pheromones the cramping can -”
“Stop.”
He didn’t mean to growl.
For a second, they freeze, the only sound the purring of the AC and Lucy’s intense, skittering heartbeat, loud enough to be right in his ear like a prayer.
He realizes that, the way he’s holding the door, his coat is open, and she can see that he’s hard.
“You’re affected,” Lucy says.
“Any alpha would be,” he replies, not entirely sure he’s convinced himself.
“Not by preheat,” Lucy says. Her nose flares, like she’s breathing him in.
There’s another long pause, and Cooper knows he’s a selfish, terrible man, because he can feel his willpower cracking under him.
“Well then.” She’d probably look more intimidating if she wasn’t blushing bright red, but that’s his Vaultie for ya - scary as a chihuahua and pathetic as a wet cat, but charming her way into everything regardless. “If you decide to stop being a martyr, come find me.”
She steps inside and slams the door behind her, and the air smells like mint, and sugar, and the worst mistake he ever stopped himself from making.
He’s fucked.
“All in,” the boorish trader across from him says, and Cooper almost rolls his eyes.
He’s been at this table for two hours, mainly looking for something to do with his hands, but he forgot that most of the wanderers in the Mojave were absolute shit gamblers. He’s had this guy’s caps for the last half an hour, and the chump didn’t even have the smarts to fight back.
Lucy would figure him out right away. She’d figure him out, and call him out, and lose all her money, the naive little thing. Maybe if she’s willing to learn, he can teach her to stay calm and fleece her opponent instead.
Which he won’t do. Because they’re a week away from Vegas, and when they get there, he doesn’t care what happens to her.
“Put your bet in, cowboy,” the trader’s friend drawls. “Before you knot the pot.”
Cooper sneers. “Shut your mouth.”
“Your mouth ain’t what’s doing the talking right now,” the man drawls. His second opponent, evidently, is much cannier than his first. “You’re lucky we’re bonded. You reek.”
Well. Not just his shitty opponent’s friend, then. Coop would want a smarter partner if he was gonna be tied to someone for life, but it takes all sorts. “All in.”
The first trader looks at his hand and slams the table. “Goddamnit! How did he -”
“Because you’re bad at this, Brad,” the second trader replies. “Luckily, you’re not the only one playing. All in.”
Brad’s partner puts his hand down. He’s got two aces, and a too-smug smirk on his face.
For the first time, Cooper notices a mating bite under his chin. Crafty little Omega.
“That’ll be all your money, cowboy.” Brad’s partner tips the pot into his caps purse. “Shame. You put on a good show, right until you underestimated me.”
“Go choke on a molerat,” Cooper mutters, but his heart isn’t into it.
“Listen, cowboy - you ever tell me your name?” Brad’s omega continues to theatrically count his caps. “Right, you didn’t. I’m just gonna call you cowboy, then. Mine’s Jackson, if it’s all the same to you.”
It isn’t. Cooper snarls.
“Easy there. Point is, we’re off in a nice quiet little corner right now, and Brad and I are bonded. So no one can smell you ‘cept us, and we won’t go crazy. But.” Jackson pours the last of Cooper’s money into his purse with a theatrical flair. “You try to play with anyone else, and you’re gonna have all the bonded and Betas choking, and everyone unmated either climbing your thigh or knocking your teeth out. And frankly, I’ve got a couple more knotheads to fleece outta their money before we hit the road tomorrow, so I’d rather not deal with you ruinin’ the mood.”
“I can sleep outside,” Coop growls.
“Hear that, Brad?” Jackson asks. “He can camp. We got a martyr on our hands.”
Brad rolls his eyes. “Stop helping him, Jack.”
“Just tryin’ to do what I did for us, sweetheart,” Jackson says with a wink. “Sometimes you gotta kick an Alpha in the ghoulies before they figure it out.” He raises an eyebrow at Coop. “Pardon my French.”
Coop’s officially had enough of this bullshit. “‘Scuse me.”
“She’s hurting, you know.”
Cooper moves without thinking.
“What did you just say?”
He doesn’t even realize that he’s holding the pair at gunpoint until he sees Jackson’s hands fly up, a look of real fear in his eyes.
They’re getting weird looks. A security guard is coming their way. Fuck.
“Whoa. Easy.” Jackson takes a breath. “Lower your weapon, cowboy.”
Cooper does, slowly, a little terrified as to how he ended up brandishing it in the first place.
Jackson nods at the security guard to go back to her post. “Attaboy. You alphas always act like you’re in charge, but you’re really the ones on the leash, ya know that? I’ve seen ferals less rabid than an alpha in rut. Which you’re going into, by the way.”
Cooper snarls. “I haven’t rutted in a century, smartass.”
“And my nose still works, last I checked.” Jackson sighs. “Look, I’m gonna cut the bullshit. That Vault Dweller you came in with is your ‘meg, right? Maybe you ain’t bonded, but the way you’re smelling and acting, there’s something. And if she’s up there alone, she’s in pain right now, ‘cause her body knows there’s someone. I’ve felt it. It ain’t pretty.” He starts packing up his things for real now, all theatricality gone. “So do something about it, is my advice. Before you push her away and do something a lot stupider.”
He touches his hat. Next to him, his alpha nods, looking stupid and besotted and all other kinds of sappy emotions that get a man killed, but he’s still here to swoon and judge strangers. Like he knows anything.
“Don’t be an idiot, cowboy.”
My name is Cooper, Coop almost says, but by the time he opens his mouth, the duo are gone.
He takes a deep breath, smelling nothing but the dull, recycled air of the shitty casino AC, too cold on the little flesh he lets the world see. The irritation at Jackson and his shitty smoothskin entitlement should be fading, but it’s not. There’s something under his skin, something hot and rugged and angry - emotions he should feel all the time, but had faded and dulled over two centuries, yellowing like an old bruise. It’s hot, angry want that keeps a man like him going, and right now, he doesn’t want to camp outside. He doesn’t want to go to Vegas. He doesn’t want to sit here, where the air’s too cold and the seats are too empty.
He wants Lucy. He wants to go upstairs, and tear her apart, and break her until she doesn’t want to be put back together again.
She’s a pretty little thing. Always has been. He might be old and half-dead, but he’s not blind. He’d noticed she was pretty when they met, and kept noticing when they left Hollywood, and never stopped noticing all the way here. But he’d stopped himself from doing more than noticing, because she was the kind of pretty and doe-eyed that could’ve been a movie star, and he’d stopped wanting or deserving the old world even before it ended.
But he closes his eyes, and thinks of Lucy’s whimper when he pulled the gun on the stupid attendant, and can’t stop thinking about how to make her scream.
Fuck. Goddamn omega was right. Somehow, he’s going into rut. He’s going into rut, and Lucy’s upstairs in heat, and - what was he waiting for, again? What was it exactly that had stopped him from stepping over the threshold and taking the first thing his body’s craved in decades?
Because, some traitorous part of him that sounds like Barb whispers, once you start with her, you won’t stop.
And once he’s done breaking her, once he’s fucked her and mated her and taught her to shoot and lasso and wrangle and kill and survive, she’ll kill her daddy, and she’ll have no reason to stick around anymore.
He knows this, and he’s walking down the hall to room twelve anyway.
Dogmeat doesn’t even get up when she sees him. Her tail wags, like he’s not a threat. Like he’s welcome here.
“You’re a shit guard dog, you know that, girl?”
Dogmeat barks happily.
Cooper bends over, scratches her behind the ears, and turns to face the door. He can’t smell a thing out here. Inside, he’ll be drowning in it.
He takes the key, turns the knob, and walks in.