Note: Sad Boone sex, you are warned.
Back at the Lucky 38, she emptied her gun case with shaking hands, doing another inventory, hoping that it would be different. She put the cowboy repeater and the tiny pistol to the side, and as an aside, placed the brass knuckles with them. She'd looked over a combat knife, pretended to stab an enemy, but decided against it.
Everything else, she put away, then moved onto her armor. Briefly, she tried on a set of combat armor she'd gotten from Gun Runners. Then she remembered why she didn't wear it, and changed out. Damn, that's uncomfortable.
She was pulling on her leather pants when Boone came up to the suite. She quickly pulled on a shirt and tried to close the door on him. He leaned against the door and it wobbled open, hitting the opposite wall. His sunglasses tumbled to the floor.
He was sloshed. She could smell the whiskey coming off him. "What the hell," she cried out. He moved from the door to the bed in a lunge, and landed on it with a thump that rattled the frame.
She pulled the door back and made sure there wasn't any damage, then turned to him and put her hands on her hips. He sat there, staring at a bottle of whiskey in his hand.
She pursed her lips and waited, frowning.
He laughed, bobbing his head in that unconnected way that drunks did, then mumbled something she didn't catch. Something about living to death.
When he brought the bottle up for another drink, she snatched it out of his hands. His reaction was delayed, but still powerful―they entered a tug of war, and she wasn't strong enough to keep him from yanking the bottle and her arm toward him, knocking her knee into the bedpost. She hissed in pain.
"Stop it," she said. "You don't need any more." Either he can't hold his liquor, or he's three bottles in already, she thought.
He snorted, pulled it from her grasp and drank the remainder. Tossing the bottle away, he laughed absently. "You," he said, wagging a finger at her, "you are the most irritating person I have ever met." He trailed off, his finger dropping.
"I get that sometimes," she said.
He shook his whole hand at her, like he was about to say something. After a few shakes and a hiccup that turned into a laugh, he said, "I don't get it."
"What, Craig," she prompted.
"You helped me out, right," he slurred. "Got that... bitch who took away my life." He looked like he was going to throw up. "I helped you. Saved you at that Vault, the shack." He shook his head. "Didn't have to. Wanted to."
"You aren't making sense," she said, crossing her arms. "Maybe you ought to―"
"No, no, no, no," he interrupted. "Listen."
"Okay," she sighed.
"Couldn't get out. Pissed me off. Busted the door, found you gone. Blood on the ground." He coughed. "Tracked you down."
A sharp, sick feeling rose in her throat. She pushed it back, willing herself to hear him out.
"Saw those guys in NCR uniform. Wasn't right. Heard them talking." He mimed his rifle, looking through the scope. She wondered where his rifle was, she didn't see it on him. "Made me mad, shot their legs out." He laughed maliciously. "Happy deathclaws."
He told you that much, she thought. He must have watched them getting mauled by deathclaws, while you were laid out on that table, dead. She swallowed bile.
"Then..." he stopped and his forehead wrinkled. "Then I found you."
"I wasn't in pain," she reminded herself. "I was somewhere else." Shit, did I say that out loud? She winced.
He ignored her. "I knew it was Legion. Seen the marks before. Saw the brand."
Stupid of me to think that he hadn't seen it, when he carried me to Usanagi's clinic. Unconsciously, she moved a hand down to her stomach.
He made a strangled noise. "I saw that, and I was glad you were dead."
You and me both, she thought. Tears pricked her eyes. "Craig―"
"Not done!" he said, holding up a hand. "I was going to take you back to House. Made it to the road when you started breathing again."
She didn't remember anything except the "snow" and throwing up.
"I don't get it," he repeated. "I've been waiting for all my bad to come back on me. All the dues I owe. And you helped me, all my dues are paid by you."
She was confused. "...You mean, you think I'm paying for all the bad shit you've ever done?"
He slumped forward a little. She thought at first that he'd passed out―on my bed goddammit―and touched his arm to see if he was still with her. He's as hot as fire.
Then she was on the bed; he'd pulled her over his shoulder and turned himself around. He was standing over her now. "Man, you are starting to get on my nerves," she said, pushing herself up.
She was leaning on her elbows when he moved forward and placed his hands over hers, almost headbutting her with how close he was getting. "Bonnie," he whispered.
Her heartbeat exploded into a million beats at once. "Craig, please d―don't hold me down," she pleaded.
He moved his lips to her throat, working over the still-healing scar of the bite wound. She shuddered, and collapsed onto the bed. "Stop!"
He loomed over her, then moved his mouth down her collarbone and back up to her chin. And he was kissing her, not the rough kiss at Bitter Springs, but a soft and gentle reminder that she needed him. She felt a powerful stirring in her stomach.
"Mmmpphhh!" she said, and her chin started to wobble. Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes, and she closed them tightly. Be strong.
Working a leg up in between them, she put her knee on his chest and pushed him back, as hard as she could. He broke the kiss and looked down in confusion. She pulled her hands out from under his and wiggled out from under him, moving across the bed.
"No, Boone," she said.
He looked her straight in the eyes. Something in her expression must have clued him in. He straightened up and ran a hand over his face. She stood, looking down, fiddling with her hands, her face flushed.
He came to the other side of the bed, and pushed her hand back over her ear, running a thumb along the bullet wound scar.
The need was strong―Oh! she was tempted. The old Bonnie would have taken what she wanted. But the old Bonnie wouldn't have asked him to come along with her; she wouldn't be anywhere near him if she was in New Vegas. She wasn't ashamed of the past; maybe she could make the present enjoyable, too.
Her heartbeat filled her ears, thumping like fast music. She took a deep breath and plunged forward, cinching her arms around his back. He circled her with his arms, brushing his lips against her ear. Hot breath went down her back and she shivered. Feels like a thunderstorm, she thought.
Her mouth sought his, pulling him to her. Her fingertips tingled as she ran them down his back.
He picked her up, then, and laid her on the bed, pulling up her shirt. Her nipples were cold, then hot, as he place his mouth on them. She moaned.
He slipped off the bandoleer and the vest, losing his shirt in the process. A soft layer of red hair met her hands as she ran them down his chest. She pulled her shirt off, snapping the Pip-Boy off and tossing it to the floor. He pressed his lips on her breastbone.
Boots were shaken to the floor, then pants. He was still wearing his beret. A heady laugh began in her throat before she could stop it.
He looked up. "What?" he asked.
"Your beret!" she laughed.
He grinned, then nuzzled her neck, whispering in her ear. "I don't ever take it off."
She dissolved into laughter, and he kissed her full on the mouth, stopping her. A jolt of electricity went all the way to her toes.
Her fingers explored what she could reach, coming to a rest on his ass, where she felt a wound. "Oh my God," she said.
"It doesn't hurt anymore," he said, breathy.
"I shot you in the ass," she said, unbelieving.
"Quiet," he said, kissing her neck and running a hand down to her hip. He hooked two fingers into her underwear. She hesitated. Dammit, Bonnie, you got this started, you damn well better finish it.
Then they were both naked and he was rubbing himself on her leg, crouched over her.
"Just―" she swallowed hard. "Go easy, okay?" she said.
He whispered in her ear, "I won't hurt you, I promise."
She let out a small moan, and gave him way. He shifted his weight and she gasped. "Oh," she whimpered.
At first she felt it was too much, too soon, but he went slowly, and it was good. But she could see the effort in his face, the strain of holding back. He groaned, and shuddered to a stop.
"It's okay," she said, running a hand down his shoulder.
"Been too long." He leaned forward.
"Don't worry," she said. "Go on."
"Not very fair," he said, breathing fast.
"You'll make it up," she said. "I'm sure." She smiled at him.
The bubble in her chest kept expanding, and he moved faster, rougher. She bit his lip gently when he came in for a kiss, and held him there, moving with him.
He pitched forward, and shuddered again, pushing into her harder than before. She could feel him fluttering inside her, and his face was flushed pink, and he stopped. Then, slowly, he pulled himself off of her, and collapsed onto the bed beside her.
She sat up, staring down at him. "You okay?" she asked.
"Might have killed me," he muffled into the pillow.
She laughed, and threw the corner of the bedspread over him. "Get some sleep."
"Thank you," he said, quietly, then went still.
She retrieved her shirt, went to the kitchen and got a drink, then gathered her things and left him there, sleeping off a whiskey hangover.