Rated M for violence, sex, drugs, suicidal ideation, and language. These are adults doing adult things.

It's no mystery, what can I say, we're blind by design
And history keeps getting paid to change its mind
Some wounds will never mend
- Sin Shake Sin, "Can't Go to Hell"

Jordan softly closed the door of the motel room and paused. Her eyes lingered on the worn handle as she rested her forehead against the pocked metal door, the stale scent of cigarettes, sweat, and 200-year old wallpaper filling her nostrils. Hearing a dry cough drift out of the bathroom, she turned in time to see Boone exiting the small room. He was high. Again.

She allowed herself a small sigh. This had to stop. "Boone, we need to talk," she said gently, pushing herself away from the door.

He paused and adjusted his beret, a nervous tick she had noticed in the last three months "What's up?" His voice was gruff, made worse from the jet he'd just finished inhaling.

Jordan took a deep breath and quickly let it out, willing it to take her nerves with it. Now or never, she thought. "I'm leaving. First thing in the morning."

Her admission, firm in its tenor and its meaning undeniable even absent the "without you," took Boone by surprise. He shifted on his feet, his combat boots suddenly feeling like they were made of lead and concrete. It took him a moment to find which of the Five W's he was supposed to use. The jet made everything hum, but it always made his mind scattered. It's why he liked it – couldn't focus long enough to remember her or what was lost.

"Why?" he asked finally, his voice barely registering the confusion that was supposed to accompany the question.

She studied him for a moment, her face impassive. His wheaten hair needed to be buzzed again and he was sporting a heavy five o'clock shadow. His blue eyes were dull and red-rimmed, though she imagined that on a healthy, sober Boone they would be vibrant and a shade similar to gunmetal. She didn't know what that looked like, though. "You need help and I can't be it for you."

Boone traced the words in his mind. He didn't need help, he just needed her company and the multitude of distractions that came with it. Working up to a response, he began to open to his mouth.

"We've been here three days and you haven't showered once. You're also too high to form a solid argument right now," she cut in. She shook her head in dismay before striding across the thin and stained carpet. She thought the splotches might have been blood at one time. Hard to tell anymore. Standing before him, she could smell the undertones of whisky that lingered there on his breath. "I thought that all you needed was support in a dark time and maybe a nudge in the right direction. I thought getting out of here for a while and giving you something to do would help, but I was wrong. About all of it. You're only getting worse and I can't stick around for this. I'm suffocating. You need help, Boone. From a professional."

Boone took a few steps back, running his hand along his jaw - another tick. He had to focus, to do something to convince her to stay. The idea of being left alone again felt like having his feet ripped out from under him.

Jordan watched as Boone's eye darted about. She knew what he was going to ask of her, what he was going to try to do. She had no intention of staying. She knew she could be branded a horrible human being for leaving him in the Dino Dee-Lite Motel while she went on about her life, but she truly was suffocating under the weight of his obsessions – Legion, whisky, cigarettes, revenge, and illegal chems. If she stayed much longer, she'd start drinking in an effort to outrun his demons. She had tried to convince him to seek treatment before, taking him with her on trips to see the Followers and visits with Dr. Usanagi, but he ignored her requests and hints. This was it and she was done. If he didn't want help, she wasn't going to commit a slow suicide trying to make him. She had other, more useful, ways of getting herself killed.

"Make love to me," Boone finally whispered. With the jet fully in his system, his eyes were now dilated, leaving only the slightest ring of his iris exposed. The words from his mouth didn't pair well with the augmentation of his pupils and it left an unsettled feeling in Jordan's chest.

"We don't make love, Boone." It was true. Despite caring for him as a person, she wasn't emotionally invested in their non-relationship any more than he was. He was her partner and a modest lay, but she had not given him her heart. Only one man had ever laid claim to it and he wasn't there anymore. Hadn't been in ten years. "But if you want goodbye sex, we can do that."

/

The breeze was cool and its direction favorable as Vulpes climbed the deteriorating ladder of the water tower. In twenty minute's time two recruits would carry out his grand plan for Camp Searchlight and the Frumentarii leader wanted an adequate view. Reaching the top, he hoisted his body onto the walkway and slunk around the edge until he came to his desired spot. From there, with his binoculars, he could watch the entire scene unfurl to his satisfaction.

As he monitored the movements of troops from the New California Republic below, he hoped he had selected the right recruits as his sacrificial lambs. They were, in effect, nobodies, not graced with any particular skills or talents that would bring the Legion any calculable glory. They would not be missed, but could pave the way for others to bring fear into the mental collective of the Mojave. Fear of death was a non-factor, as they had no idea of the radioactive sludge in the barrels they were to open. Getting caught by the NCR, on the other hand, would derail everything, upending months of planning as well as his own future.

Vulpes had ascended to the top of the Frumentarii two years ago and had since been growing the Legion's network of spies, strengthening and expanding on his predecessor's shaky framework. Searchlight was to be his first major covert operation as a strategist. Success would cement his position as one of Caesar's most trusted. Failure would make him the next Burned Man.

As he caught sight of two shadows moving in from the west, Vulpes felt the wind shift. Dismay surged through him when he realized the current would not change again in time, thus forcing him to abandon his perch. As he shuffled back down the ladder, he began to hear shouts rising from deep within the camp. He smirked to himself and, sparing one last look over his shoulder, strolled back off into the night. The recruits had done their job. Cottonwood Cove would be overflowing with the Legion by morning.

/

Jordan moved around the room as softly as she could, though she wasn't certain why. After a night filled with sex, jet, and whisky, Boone wouldn't be awake until noon at the earliest. It was only dawn now.

Grabbing her rifle from the cabinet, she made one last sweep of the room. She didn't know when or if she'd be back, and she felt the resignation settle in her chest at the thought. She'd chosen to leave Boone in Novac, because despite a lack of qualified medical professionals, there were friends and people he knew there – people who would watch out for him. He'd probably hate her for it when he woke up, but that'd be his problem.

She tightened the knot in her bandana and closed the door to the motel room behind her. The air around her was crisp, and she found that it lifted her spirits, giving her an added sense of peace. The weather wasn't miserable yet, the sunrise was beautiful, and she had plenty of alone time ahead of her as she walked back to New Vegas.

Jordan smiled to herself. It's going to be a good day, she thought. Positioning her sunglasses to rest on the top of her brow, she trotted down the stairs and into the wastes.

/

Vulpes exited Caesar's tent and smiled to himself, feeling a pair of eyes watching him go. She wouldn't be far behind him, probably spouting some excuse about needing the foricae. It was just as well. He needed to blow off some steam and loosen up muscles that were still carrying Searchlight's tension.

Strolling into his tent, Vulpes deposited his Ripper and vexillarius helmet onto the top of his bookshelf, not bothering to smooth out the cropped obsidian layers atop his head. Moving to his desk, he began to go through the messages and reports that had come in overnight, one in particular catching his attention. He would need to make a trip to New Vegas soon. Alerio had sent word that a family on the Strip was interested in an alliance and it had been a few weeks since Mr. Fox had made an appearance in those hallowed halls of iniquity. What a perfect opportunity.

Vulpes heard the din of noise rise and fall, indicating that someone had passed through the flap of his tent. It wasn't until he heard the sound of slave rags hitting the dirt that he took the trouble to reroute his gaze. Seeing his guest stand nude before him, her carob tresses swept back to ensure an unobstructed view of her breasts, he gave a salacious smirk in greeting and stood from his desk.

The young woman glided forward, a grin of her own in reply. Pressing herself against him, she reached for his lips.

"Ah, ah, ah," he reprimanded, finger wagging in her face.

She pouted. "Why won't you ever kiss me?"

"That is for me to know, and you to…not," he sang, making of a show of choosing his insult. "Now lean over the desk."

/

"Christ," Boone groaned. Were his brains leaking onto the pillow? It had been a long time since he'd had a hangover like this. He slid his hands across the mattress, feeling for his partner. It was cold, as if she hadn't been there for hours.

He cracked one eye open and peered around the room. Daylight. Quiet. Lonely bed. "Jordan?"

Greeted by silence, he grunted. She was probably helping someone with something or maybe hanging out at the gift shop with Cliff. Typical. His thoughts drifted to the first time he'd woken up alone after Carla.

Carla.

If she could see him now. You're a mess, she would say. Stop it. Get it together.

Boone slowly lifted himself up and scooted to the edge of the bed. A bottle of vodka sat on the bedside table, grabbing his attention. It was half empty. Wouldn't take long to finish off.

He was a few sips in when he finally began to survey the room. Dust drifted lazily through the air, waltzing in and out of the sunlight peeking through the window. Trash was piled to nearly overflowing in the can by the bathroom. His pack crumpled against the cabinet beside him.

Not a single thing of Jordan's was in sight.

Boone stood slowly, appraising every item his eyes landed on. His. His. Came with the room. His.

He limped to the bathroom. All his.

Jordan was gone. She wasn't coming back for him.

"Goddamn it!" he roared, bottle shattering against the bathroom wall. Blindly grabbing items off the shelf beside him, Boone's rage went airborne, ripping through dusty air as though it could bring her back. He didn't care, or perhaps even realize, that his friends could hear the onslaught from outside and knew. Jordan had warned them he would implode.

Tipping the shelves beside him, they gave way and met the floor with a shrieking thud. The knee-jerk reaction was slipping away from him, a biting loneliness creeping in to take its place. Maybe they would tell him where she went.

Or maybe you should drop her like a bad habit, just like she did to you, he chided himself.

Boone shook his head. Jordan was the best thing to happen to him since Carla. He could get a decent stash built up, get things under control, and go find her. She wouldn't have to know he was still using.

She'll know. Smart like that.

Shuffling into the bathroom, Boone stood at the sink and eyed himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. No wonder she left, you idiot. A shower would go a long way in clearing his head and he could clean up the room afterward. Or he could just drink some more. Drinking was preferable.

Turning towards the shower, he heard the crunch before he felt the pain. The vodka bottle from moments earlier had made its way into his foot. Boone cried out and stumbled backward, landing hard on the tile floor.

"Goddamn it," he grumbled.

He shifted himself around, trying to examine his foot without cutting himself further, but was distracted by a glint of garnet. There, on the floor behind the toilet, was a forgotten dose of jet. It called to him as easily and carefree as a siren.

Wouldn't hurt.

A/N: And there we have it, after FF changing my formatting three times. Future chapters won't be quite so scattered, you have my word. Also, the foricae were the public multi-seater toilets used by the Romans. The more you know ;) See you next weekend!

PS - This is being hosted on my AO3 account, too, under the same name.