She shouldn't be looking through his things.
Six is a confident woman in her understandings with the unknown and culturally diverse. She understands that the Legate was a part of a religious group famous for their trading.
Stranger things come from Utah, which explained her grandmother's upbringing and her hot-blooded spirit; a tribal woman who may have been exposed to people like these missionary groups. Her grandmother was far from religious, but she always unraveled the most obscure tales, claiming that she heard them by the word of strange folk entering her lands with their books bound in leather.
Six may not be bright, but she had common sense. She was smart enough to memorize the Legate's schedule as the days waned on while she was left alone in the tent with her tiny radio, listening to Mr. New Vegas; reports on her whereabouts have been scarce, and with confirmation, those of the Mojave were beginning to suspect that she was truly dead and gone – including Swank who sounded wary by news reports.
It was ominous to hear of one's death play over the radio while being nothing more than a well-hidden prisoner.
When the Legate is around, she acted nice in turn, toning down her displeasure by joining with the Legate – even initiating intimacy to gain his trust; conversing in pillow talk, listening to the tired words roll off the Legate's tongue.
She gingerly reached for his wrist, guiding his reluctant hand over the small swell of her stomach. And, often, that moment is a quiet one; his hand is warm and heavy upon her abdomen, a soft caress. Sometimes she would sit on his lap at the writing desk, listening to the gravel in his voice and him lightly complain over recruit protocols and tribes bombarding trade routes. Or, if she was truly feeling charitable and wanted to catch the Legate in a good mood, she would kneel down in front of his chair and take him in her mouth, swallowing him down by his own needs. With this revelation in change, he would do the same for her – laying her down, learning her body, listening to her winded advice as her fingers tangled in his dark hair.
With time, the Legate slowly began unraveling stories from when he walked the interstates of Arizona with his missionary group in his youth; it was expected for Mormons to leave their homes for two years once they've reached the peak of maturity, forbidden to contact their families during their services. It was a sign of growing up, a sacrifice to spread their Lord's word. And, after their two years of preaching, they're suppose to return home and tell their family of their success.
He chuckled without mirth, recollecting on how his poor mother who cried by the door of their small home the day he left; that was the last he saw of her.
The Legate never did finish out his missionary work.
He was becoming a lot less hesitant at detailing his past with her; he talked freely with her, treating her like a little wife who was more than pleased to hear from her husband after a long day. And, honestly, Six did listen to every word he had for her; it was sooner that she'll humanize him and use his own words against him. That was her ploy in the matter and it will be his folly; the Legate should have given her more credit to utilizing his emotions.
Humorlessly, the Legate did mention that a branch of his former religion practiced polygamy, where men took multiple wives and were infamous for having many children to work the farms; he claimed that his independent denomination were at constant odds with those who followed those core beliefs, they were considered the odd birds; he detailed those who practiced polygamy were eventually excommunicated from the church. Morbidly, Six retaliated by jokingly asking the Legate if he had any other slaves besides her; he reassured her, not that she needed it, that he could only handle one headache at a time.
It came to a point where she'd wake early with him, idly talk with him while he got dressed for the day. She'd see him off by the entrance of the tent and he would promise her that he'll return as soon as he was able; he touched her hand, holding it in his larger grasp, and then he hesitantly let go – as if he was afraid of something.
That made Six cringe and carefully pull away while adorned with a smile.
The moment he left the tent, Six asserted her business through his ledgers, copying the coordinates to secret Legion occupied bases and direct orders, mobilized secrets that could put the NCR at an advantage; if she is to escape, she wanted to bring the Legion down a peg, she wanted them to hurt. She pulled whatever she could write on: napkins and torn papers she hid away, scribbling away at her notes.
She stored pens and pencils, stealing just enough not to rouse suspicion from the Legate, but enough to make by with; she was careful with her supplies and valued them above all else, neatly grouping her findings with the rest of her scavenged goods, such as: Vic's pistol that was still wrapped in cloth, durable wire, and a hunting knife; she places them all in a worn sack that she's stolen from one of the guards. She digs a shallow hole at the end of the tent, closes to her side of the bed, and buries her goods under the rug; the rug neatly hiding away her cache in the churned earth.
She's planned around her biological condition, pregnant by a man who ought to never reproduce; she's not just fending for herself, she's taking two inconsideration. Niceties usually equaled out a bigger payout in rations, and she didn't like the factor that her child could be brainwashed into the family business; her work wasn't honest, but it outranked mindless solider on the morals chart. She hid away rations of preserved snacks and cans of purified water; her child would depend on her for breastfeeding, but she needed to fuel her own body to be forthcoming to her child, to be reliable – if her child survived the cruelty of the Legion and the stress on her body from constantly being pushed to move and travel long distances with the Legate.
Hormones is nothing more than a blight; she's still biting back on morning sickness and it was usually an all-day event. She's unnerved by the weakness in her stride, the constant need at wanting to gorge herself with food – cravings that remained unsated due to Legion rations; pregnancy in a post-apocalyptic world is not for the faint-hearted. Hell, she wondered how her mother was able to run with Raiders while she carried her; her father use to gloat about her mother when she was pregnant with her; he claimed she could still hold her own, never strayed far from her firearm, and moved with zealous speed; though, rest is a luxury in the heart of a Raider career.
Pregnancy is not beautiful, it's heartbreaking. A mournful practice of a mother held under the will of a tyrant; there's no romance, no love that brought forth this creation. It was a product from lust and the need to reap from the spoils of war, a reason to keep her pinned by a natural condition – something that her body responded with. And, the Legate, he seems rather fond to the idea of sharing a creation with her – more fodder to add to his frontlines, more to kindle, a goddamn legacy at the expense of her sanity; he wanted something to take on his name.
She has to continue to remind herself that it isn't the child's fault.
-x-
Tours.
Six never quite understood the reason for the Legate bringing her on his long tours. In fact, she hated the aspect of it: roaming neighboring encampments, making sure that the Legionary soldiers were well-equipped and able, it was idle chatter that Malpais Legate had to fill in for Caesar – after some hushed rumors over frequent headaches and his prorogued residency in the back of his tent; she tried to ask the Legate about it, and he automatically dismissed her, reminding her to mind her place and to stop listening to slave gossip. He blatantly ignored her prying – even pushed her hands away when she attempted to siren her away to an answer.
What is war to man?
Six exasperated that self-made question to herself, idly watching the Legate drill his men into formation; he never had to raise his voice, they followed on demand. They're too young, too feeble minded to think for themselves – they needed guidance like cattle, listening to every ill demand given, awestruck by the pull of power. The picture-perfect definition to indoctrination.
Could she blame them? Power is alluring. To them, their raping and pillaging was that enchanting benefit to losing their humanity, their morals and their culture – their absolute goal to follow a madman who promised them more, believing him to be the God of Mars. Separately, they were weak and bound for self-destruction. Collectively, they forged a dross into a vast, razor-sharp scythe.
They wanted to make her New Vegas into their Rome. A Pax Romana, by definition of Caesar; no one held equal worth as long as their skill remained sharp. They demoralized the NCR, psychology draining their enemy, and devoured the lands with their fires.
"What the Devil give you for your soul, Legate, actin' the way you do," Six buried her hands in her pockets, pacing the uneven sands of the desert, standing by the Legate's side once the recruits fanned out. She smiled, crooked as it was, but satisfying. Together, they watched the retreat of the sun, an idle moment that left no room for unfamiliarity between the two. Together, they watched whatever squadron the Legate brought with him; they worked away at setting up temporary camp; they're off the boarder of Arizona, found in the middle of nowhere, snug in a valley – prowling on a tribe that's been nothing but a thorn in their pride.
The Legate planned on laying siege, the Courier was along for the ride.
"Well, Courier, he taught me to be patient with women like you. And, I guess, an army can go a long way," Six's comment was meant as a jab, to lighten the mood on an otherwise dreary situation; she's a slave, but not dead. She didn't expect Malpais Legate to respond to her crude jest with his own droning comeback. She bit her tongue in front of his recruits, knowing that if she crossed boundaries then the soldiers would expect the Legate to issue out public punishment on her. But behind closed doors it was open season to rib on the other.
"Oh Darlin', for that you gave your everlastin' soul?" Six averted her gaze, sly in retort, weaving conversation. With hate, they sure knew how to get under the other's skin. And, perhaps, in a perfect world, where they met as equals, there could have been a bizarre friendship in the mix with the way they argued and debated; Six would harp away with her backwater charm, and the Legate would be intent to listen to the finest of details in her wordplay.
"Well, I wasn't using it," the Legate regarded her, keeping stance, watching the recruits bed down for camp; they sprung bonfires and pitched tents, setting watch around the encampment.
"I know 'bout deals with the Devil. You're usin' yours all wrong. If my soul weighed a good amount, I'd ask for caps, perhaps some stability," Six fully turned to him, asserting her lawful attention. She keeps that even grin and careful eyes, watching the small amused smile kiss the Legate's mouth; it was subtle, but it was marked down as an accomplishment; the man could frown for a country mile, always perfecting on that permanent scowl. She carefully analyzed to herself that he looked good when he smiled – even if it was small; he looked younger, approachable.
"Stability is not granted by the Devil, Courier. As for caps, I'm not surprised," the Legate hummed. He always looked too stiff, straight-laced, taking his role seriously in the eyes of his men. He kept his arms at his side, close to his holster.
"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch. It wouldn't hurt to ask the Devil himself, right?"
"What are you implying?"
"You tell me, Sweetheart," carefully, Six pulled her hand from her pocket. With subtleness, the back of her fingers brushed over his; his fingers twitched in response, but they did not recoil away, nor did he scold her for the public display; the gesture was innocent enough. He allowed her fingers to linger and graze over the skin of his knuckle. He quietly deemed he liked the Courier's boldness. "I sleep next to him every night."
When Six pulled away, the Legate caught her by the hand; he pulled her closer to stand by his side, leaning forward, mumbling, "I have no stability to give, but you've given me a sense of it. Do what you want with that information, Courier."
"Careful, Malpais Legate," Six mocked, softly. "You might start soundin' like a rational human bein' with what you're sayin'. You're playin' your cards too close to the heart. That's high-risk foldin'. It ain't worth the gamble. I see you also have the gift of gab, you might make a gal blush."
"It's not something I would advise. It is…indulgent. I'm willing to risk it. However, it depends on the cards you're dealing and the game we're playing. Though, given your history, I wouldn't expect you to play by the rules."
"Smart man," Six chuckled over the oddity that the Legate was playing nice with her, coquettish as it is. "It's a game, ol' man. It's always a game. Do you know how to play?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You could teach me, I'm sure," Six regarded the man, quietly mulling over the Legate's proposition. His fingers tightened around her hand when she didn't answer him right away, and from the recruits' angle it looked as if he was berating her; no one said anything, of course. A whisper wasn't worth forfeiting your life. "A wise man is always willing to learn from those who are an anomaly. Better to learn a lesson from the Courier who almost hobbled me."
She knew what he eluded to.
-x-
She'll die with the scandal of a whore.
But this is the game he wanted her to teach him.
The cot creaks with age, worn and weathered, tarnished with travel, braced with the weight of two; the sound is repetitive and absolute: steel grinding together, fabric stressed and pulled, a half-hearted respire pressed against heated skin. That was the winsome, whimsical quality to having her ride him; she's sloppy in trying to keep up. She has him painfully bordering to spill into her, but she's not moving fast enough to finish him off. She's tight and slick around him, finding that hurried rhythm. He enjoyed watching her, enraptured by her exhaustion and the heave of her bare breast, charmed by her zealous stride to rouse reaction out of him. She's use to his impersonal façade, finding his approval in how hard he gripped at her waist.
Her eyes are half-lidded and hazy, expressing a half-broken sob. She presses her palms flat on his shoulders, leveraging herself up and sinking back down, bearing her weight on her knees; his hands touched her waist, guiding her pace, setting her up to speed. He slides his hands up to cup the underside of her breast while her thighs clamped down on his hips; he then maps them back down her body, treading familiar grounds, curving and gripping the backs of her thighs with worked and rough fingers.
She takes him to the hilt, stilling for a moment, bending her elbows to lean down, impatiently pressing her mouth against his in a hurried collision; her teeth clicked against his and her eyes closed on impact – concentrating on this arc of touch, mewling between breaks. Her tongue slid across his and she could taste the copper from her soft bite on his bottom lip, slowly pulling away. She's rough in her handling. The hands on his shoulders soon garnished the underside of his jaw, curling and lulling, tilting her head to the side to press her mouth against the hollow of his throat, biting sensitive flesh that left him tensing, and then soothing the mark with a hushed kiss, or the slide of her tongue, mumbling encouraging, and bleeding words across his marred flesh.
Her hips roll over him, moving in small circles, taking him in a grinding motion that halts his breathing for but a moment, lifting her hips and then slamming back down on him; she's too good at pinpointing what he likes, finding it ungraceful and savory and cutthroat. He loves listening to her choke on her bruising words, repetitive and praising to a Lord she has no knowledge of, fingers that fell stock-still and body shuttering over him. She played him a different type of gospel, the sort he wouldn't want to abandon; her walls constrict around his cock, halting her movements in a haunting display. And, for that, he could never spin enough allegories for his adoration towards her.
She finds her finish before him. And, for once, he's rather pleased by the outcome; it felt good to give rather than to take.
"Oh, ol' man. Joshua," she whispers against his mouth when she came around, heavy in deliria and satisfaction. A sexual repertoire hushed in a low, sultry voice that built tension and left him feeling vulnerable. One of her hands comes back down to grip his shoulder while the other lifted to thread her fingers through his dark hair; gentle and weaving, lightly scratching her nails into his scalp. The Legate is put through his own test to keep motionless while buried deep within her wet warmth, still thick and hard and unsated.
His hips spiked up with her next heated kiss, the type of kiss that could kill a man; he's blinded by her kindness and the veil of her red hair that fell on either side. He's too eager at wanting to reciprocate, pressing his troubled brow against hers.
He understands why the Mojave backed her revolution. He understand why those who fall for her childlike nature barely minded the tragedy behind it, given her young age and wayward passion. She's a performer, gunslinger, and a professional rhetoric weaver; the lies she could feed him, the ones that pertained to love and emotion, he could live off those for days – even with the knowledge that she'll one day dig her blade into his back.
It didn't feel like she just fucked him when she slowly pulled back, it felt different than the usual, fulfilling and absolute. She hovers her curious gaze over his; her soft gray meeting sea-fairing eyes, blinking and unwavering. She smiled down at him and even chuckled, he pulled a hint of a rare one himself in the dim lighting of the tent, ignoring the cacophony of marching boots outside his personal tent. He coaxes her back down for another kiss with that repose expression, a bruising blow to his pride; it was gentle and slow, too intimate to be shared between enemies. He hates to wonder if this is what his father felt every time he looked at his mother. If this is what his father talked about when he said that there is no greater love than the one you find in God and your wife.
He proposes for another position, and the Courier has no problem complying with his wishes. She lifts her hips and pulls away and the Legate braces her waist to maneuver her on her back, turning her under his weight. His knees press into the single cot, pulling up on her thighs to slide over his, straightening his posture before he plunged back into her warmth; she stops him by reaching down and grasping him by the shaft, encircling him with playful fingers, stroking him while he was still slick with her arousal.
His teeth clenched by her bawdy movements, relaxing and allowing her to pump him at an even pace, rolling her thumb over the head of him, tightening her fingers around him; he still had a view of her spread out before him, open and wide, and that made for an interesting visual stimulate while she pleased him selfishly between her thighs. He's too sensitive from already being exposed by her velvet walls. Regrettably, he has to pull her hand away.
She tilts her head back when he reenters her, successful on the first stroke, aching by the second. She's the blinded definition to New Vegas extravagance; a Raider's daughter who found wealth in culture and the two bullets in her skull. Truthfully, he can't stop thinking about her days as the runner of the Strip – wearing those garter belts he thought about snapping under her notorious black dress, kissing away the blood-red lipstick that stained her lips, enjoying the texture of her stockings brush over his hips when he thrusted into her. She was that oddity, something to be romanticized and treasured.
They've never done this before; it made them feel vulnerable and normal. The Legate threaded his fingers through hers, pinning her hand down to the pillow by her head while his other lingered down her hip, curling his fingers in her flesh – keeping her warm and protected. She didn't mind the extra weight, and found him to be mindful when he did overlap her; he probably kept her pregnancy in mind in doing so.
She sighed in gracious defeat, wrapping her legs around his waist, pinning the heel of her foot into the lower dip of his back, coaxing him along on heavy strides – keeping exposed and welcoming. It hurts in the best of ways, listening to him labor away on top of her, acknowledging the ache within her. The simplicity of being joined with anyone.
It doesn't take long for him to spill into her and for them to pull back and realize what they've done. What they've felt. It demoralized the purpose; they're not sound individuals deserving of this, or the life they've created between this. The Legate reminds himself of the deed by disconnecting with her and listening to the muffled groan that escaped her, warm and sopping; some of his come leaking out of her and onto the sheets.
Six is a lonely sort who snapped with confinement. And, the Legate, he's the root of all evil.
"Malpais Legate," she sings to him in that tired, soft voice. Her legs remain open, too exhausted to outright move. Subconsciously, her hands rest over her abdomen, catching her breath and the flooded reality. The Legate moves to the edge of the cot, running his fingers through his bedridden hair, contemplating on the event that just unfolded.
"Joshua," she says his name again, sitting up and tucking her legs under her. He hummed in response, dropping his hand to his knee, shouldering her weight when she moved on her knees and leaned into him. She's playing him the fool; she knows it, he knows it, but he doesn't comment on it – not while she curled in on him – touching the side of his stressed jawline, turning his gaze down on her; he holds his frown, and Six can't help but to grin again, siren-calling her way.
She kisses him, deception was her game, playing nice was just the charm of New Vegas living. She had to fake her expression to get what she want; and, certainly, she faked her way into manipulating the Legate of the Legion. She knew what a face of doubt looks like and the Legate was painted with it – it curved his hard features, softened the blow in his gaze; instead of robbing from her like he's done in the previous months, he's waited on her to crawl on top of him – merely suggesting on occasion to be intimate.
One day, the Mojave will be hers.