..⃗. [hate the one and love the other] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ

[no man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. ye cannot serve god and mammon.]

matthew 6:24

SHE DID NOT FEEL BETTER IN THE MORNING. In fact, she felt worse. How that was possible, she wasn't sure. But she knew that her entire body was screaming at her. Her hand in particular. Her frown deepened as she stared at where her index finger used to be. Was it weird to mourn the loss of a limb? It didn't matter anymore. Pushing herself off of the floor, she grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Follows-Chalk looked much better than her, ready to go, well rested. She was almost jealous. But they needed to get back to the Dead Horses' camp. And she needed to get her hand looked at. Would they even be able to do anything? She had no clue. If push came to shove, she'd just be like Joshua, changing the bandages every morning and every night. She thought about how he got anything done. How painful it all must be for him. Good, she thought with a wicked smile, let him wallow in his anguish, let him know what so many others had faced under his hands.

The trek back to the Eastern Virgin was heavy, quiet. All she could do was stare at her hand. Part of her still refused to believe the finger was gone. Like this was some oddly vivid dream that she'd wake up from. This was just her fucking luck, wasn't it? Who else would this happen to? She tried to picture Arcade's reaction to seeing her hand, the mangled stump. If she closed her eyes, she could already see his jaw dropping and curses spilling from his lips. He rarely cursed but when he did, he let it rain down on whoever had incurred his wrath. It was quite the sight, almost laughable if she wasn't so scared of him. That was the man who patched her up, after all. The man that made sure she wasn't banned from the casinos on the Strip. The man that held her as she cried about her husband that she'd left behind in the middle of the night. The man who acted like her surrogate father when he was probably a few years younger than her. But she didn't mind it, never found herself annoyed or fed up with it. If anything, he'd probably been the fed up one. Why he hadn't ditched her was an enigma to her. But she feared asking, worried that just asking the question would cause something to click in his mind, send him packing. All of her friends... companions... they all held special spots in her heart. No one was more important than the other, like her children. She frowned at the mere word. Children. Jesus.

Some of the Dead Horses greeted them at the entrance of the camp, asking Follows-Chalk to tell them of their adventure. It was nice to see him so eager to tell stories of their fights, to listen to how he described her, like she was some mighty warrior that was some gift to them. That couldn't be further from the truth. The way she was going, she'd be just another body to bury in this labyrinth of sand and mountain. But for now, she'd enjoy the stories that Follows-Chalk told about her, pretend that they were completely true for a fleeting moment. Her feet carried her towards the mouth of the cave. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement. A part of her hoped that Joshua's god was real, that maybe he'd swoop down and reattach her finger, or maybe give her a good night's rest. That's what she needed the most. Just a decent sleep. But that didn't seem reasonable in the foreseeable future. Definitely not while she dwelt in Zion. She needed to be back in the Mojave before she could even try to get some good sleep. Even then she wasn't sure. Her time here had begun to haunt her steps already. She tried to imagine leaving, saying goodbye to Follows-Chalk and the Dead Horses. Would she come back to visit? Would they even want her to?

"Your hand!" One of the Dead Horses exclaimed, rushing up to her. They gently grabbed her left arm, guiding her towards a woman inside the cave. She sat in front of the fire. Many-Tears, she remembered. The two had only spoken twice, once to warn her not to disrespect Joshua, another to give her a bag of healing powder before her and Follows-Chalk went to look for the compass Joshua asked for. The woman watched them approach, her eyes immediately drawn to the blood-stained bandage around her hand. They motioned for her to sit next to the fire as they began to unwrap her bandage. She winced as the bandage was slowly peeled off of the open wound. Tears began to prick at her eyes the more the bandage was peeled off. Her right hand lifted to cover her mouth as a sob escaped her lips. This was almost more painful than when it had been bitten off. At least the adrenaline had numbed the pain for a while the night before. Now it was raw, hot and angry. It bit down on her and almost made her nauseous. If she thought too much on it, she might actually throw up. Letting her eyes shut, she tried to keep her mind focused on the crackling of the fire instead of the white hot pain coursing through her hand as it touched the open air.

The Dead Horse woman that brought her inside held her shoulders, a reminder that someone was there for her. That someone was helping her shoulder this pain. And that meant more than anything to her in that moment. Many-Tears pulled out a bag of healing powder, dropping a handful of it onto the wound. She nearly shouted out at the burst of pain that erupted from her hand. Tears streamed down her face as she felt herself grow woozy. She can't remember the last time she was this vulnerable with anyone. Arcade, Doc Mitchell maybe. The faces flash in her mind like fond memories. Have they held a funeral for her? Declared presumed dead and moved on with their lives? Have the NCR already found her replacement? Then she wonders what they would look like? Boy? Girl? None of the above? She wonders if they look like her, maybe someone younger. It almost made her laugh to remember Major Dhatri's face when she came stumbling in holding three severed heads far from her body. The aged body that was beginning to feel it all. The faintly wrinkled face that contorted in disgust as she approached him, asked his name before shoving the heads into his arms. His own worn face contorted in disgust then into a hint of pride, commenting that even his finest soldiers had never been able to take those guys out. Joan likes to think that's when she decided to help the NCR. Or maybe it was when she traveled to Camp Forlorn Hope and met 10 of Spades and how he was pining after experience. She'd asked him to cover her back when her and Boone invaded Nelson, rescuing the hostages and picking off whatever Legion remained behind. You like the strays, Cass had commented when they'd visited the camp once. She'd simply rolled her eyes, remaining silent, knowing the caravan owner was right.

"Done." Many-Tears mumbled, pulling back from the woman's hand. Half of her hand was newly wrapped, no sign of new bleeding which surprised her. Muttering her thanks, she pushed herself up, quickly wiping away the cold tear tracks that stained her face. She couldn't go to Joshua like this. Her pride couldn't take it. One of the deadliest of the seven sins, she thought to herself. She wonders what kind of sermon he might preach to her about it. If he'd look down on her like some filthy sinner who was destined to burn in Hell for all eternity. If he'd preach about fire and brimstone like the other traveling preachers she'd met in the past. She decides that she'd rather not find out. Because, right now, she isn't sure she could handle it. The medicine coursing through her veins is making everything worse. God, she hopes she doesn't start crying again. Pushing herself up from the ground, she makes her way out of the cave. Her eyes clamped shut as she tries to will away the tears. But they won't fucking stop. They keep coming back, daring to slip down her dirt-stained face. Just be fucking normal, she thinks to herself. She just wants to be normal. She doesn't want to be the new leader of New Vegas or the jewel of the NCR. She just wanted to be a courier, someone who delivered packages and probably died of old age in some shack that she called home. But the way she was going, she'd end up cazador lunch in this fucking nowhere wasteland.

"Courier," the voice sent chills up her spine, "we need to speak. Alone, preferably." She wanted to scream at him, tell him to fuck off. But a part of her was scared to speak, worried her voice would betray her emotional state. Show the bandaged man that she wasn't cold like she portrayed. So she simply nodded, remained silent for once. Taking another breath, she turned and followed him back into the cave, her head ducked down to hide her reddened face. She feels like a child, like she's following her father to be scolded for breaking a vase. She decides she doesn't like this feeling, this feeling of powerlessness. And it doesn't help that they're all staring at her now. All of the Dead Horses, Many-Tears and all. They're all looking at her like a wounded puppy, something to pity. Something to look down on in sadness. And she fucking hated it. She wanted to lash out at the very people who just changed her bandages. The same people that had welcomed her with open arms. Regret immediately followed for even thinking of raising her voice with them. They were just people like her, trying to live each day at a time, trying not to die, trying to keep their families safe.

Her boots dragged against the red dirt that had swept in from the further mountains. It reminded her of the three weeks she'd coughed up and found red dust all over the floor of the Lucky 38 after the first time she'd visited Red Rock Canyon. How the Khans had almost gunned her down the second she stepped foot into the canyon. But she mostly remembers how good it'd felt to watch Karl snap at her in front of them, call them all savages that would die under the fist of Caesar, watch his face drop as he realized they'd all heard. One thing about her, she fucking hated the Legion. Every fucking one of them. Didn't believe a single one was redeemable. Did that make her some filthy, boot-licking, army brat? Probably, but she didn't care. She didn't care as she put bullets in legionnaires' heads, didn't care when she watched them spit at her as the light faded from their eyes, didn't care as she mowed them down like cattle. She was filled with a rage, a type of rage that most would deem an issue. But she didn't care. Never had. Never will. Every time she looked at them, she only saw Nipton. Smelled the burning flesh. Heard the groans of the people hanging off of crucifixes. That brought her mind back to the bandaged man a few feet ahead of her. Had he taught them that? Put that stupid book of his to use? How many had died under him? How many times had he been the last face some poor tribal had seen before succumbing to their wounds? Her in-tact hand curled into a tight fist as she glares at the back of his head. Part of her hoped he'd explode if she stared hard enough.

Is it hate she feels for him, she wonders. She's never really thought of it too much. She knows she doesn't hate him like she does the other legionnaires she's killed. Knows that because she hasn't shot him. Knows that because she actually speaks to him. She likes to think that if she hated him, she wouldn't be able to look at him, much less speak to him. She tries to imagine Boone's face; hell, even Cass' face, if she told them what she'd been doing, who she was helping. The thought almost makes her laugh, but she mostly just feels sad. Sad that she can't turn and send a snappy joke at Arcade, who would just roll his eyes, reply with something equally snappy or sarcastic. Sad that she can't see the ghost of a smirk on Boone's lips, or hear Raul's hacking mixture between a cough and a laugh. Part of her thinks she hates him for that, all of that. That she's stuck here because of him. Because he won't tell her how to get back. Because he made her help them. But then she thinks a little more critically, how he hasn't forced her to do anything. This has all been her choice, from day one. It was her choice to traipse off with the Happy Trails caravan. It was her choice to follow Follows-Chalk, and her choice to help the natives. Maybe, what she really hates, is this part of her that has too much fucking empathy. That empathy stopped her from putting Benny down like the dog he is. That empathy that had gotten her stuck in the firing line of too many god-damned Fiends all because she understands the look in Corporal Betsy's eyes. The same empathy that never once entered her body when she stared down at the corpses of legionnaires. Perhaps she was some sort of monster, a psychopath in some ways. From how she put down scores of Legion like dogs, she'd almost suspect the former. A killer, like Violet, or Motor-Runner, or any of those fucking Fiends.

"I heard you two ran into some trouble on your run." Joshua started, stopping just before the large rock his table sat on. His body turned towards her, his eyes running over her exhausted form. He can see it in her everything, her stance, her posture, even her lips. It's something that brings shame upon him. That he spends so much time watching her, running his aged eyes over her weathered face. A part of him feels envy, envy of her skin, that it isn't scarred and burnt. That she could still walk about without others gawking at her, flinching away and cowering from her. But this is his price, the price for destroying lives, for wiping tribes off of the face of the planet. And it's a small price in the grand scheme of things. Lucky he got by how he did. But it didn't stop the anger he felt some days, the anger towards God. Some mornings - he'd repent for it for hours in the night - he would awake and curse the Lord. He would throw his Bible against the wall of the cave, glare down at it like some disobedient dog. He would ask the higher power why He hadn't just killed him. What purpose did He have for him? But, as he looks over at the courier who'd regretfully stumbled upon them, he wonders if this was the purpose. If she was his purpose now. If he was meant to guide her to happiness, or to peace. There was an inner war about her, something that raged between her ears. It made him question what made her tick, what drove her here in the first place. From what he'd heard from traders, she was up there with House on the Mojave's most important people. So why was she out traipsing with the Happy Trails?

Joan frowned, the understatement of the year. Maybe what made her so upset was that she should've been able to handle them. It was a few White Legs, no stronger than a handful of Fiends. And her and Boone had mowed down plenty of Fiends. Her frown deepened. These weren't Fiends. And this isn't the Mojave. She was in over her head, helping these people. This wasn't her land, this wasn't her fight. So why the fuck was she still here? Why hadn't she pressed a gun against Joshua's head and forced him to show her a way out? God, she was losing her touch. "We handled it." She spit out, her arms carefully crossing over her chest.

"And you lost a finger in the process."

"Maybe we can share bandages." Her glare on him was sharp, almost grating. "I'm not sure if you're the one I want battle advice from."

"Courier-"

"No!" She snapped, approaching him quickly and angrily. Her finger jabbed in his face. "I will not sit here and listen to you spout off some Legion bullshit. So if you dragged me up here to lecture me, you can fuckin' save it."

Under his bandages, Joshua clenched his jaw. Maybe some optimistic part of him hoped they'd made some headway the day before, their meaningful talk. Thought it had meant something. Now he knew it was all just a part of her prickly personality. Bring some close before cutting them. He wondered if she knew how biting she could be. If someone in her life had been this angry. Turn the other cheek, he told himself. It was a difficult thing, to turn the other cheek to those who'd harmed you. But she hadn't harmed him. She shouted, yes, but he could see it in her eyes: she was frightened of him, disgusted by him. It was an expression he'd grown accustomed to in the years he returned to New Canaan. Even if they tried to hide it, the people there - his people - were ashamed of him. His family was no longer there, left the town out of shame after word of his actions had reached them. He wondered if she'd ever felt such shame before, such a shame that she needed to cower from it. It was difficult to imagine her cowering from anything, anyone. She stood so fiercely, so steadfast. It almost made him jealous. Had he been so steadfast in his own beliefs, he might have told Edward to shove it - maybe not in those words, but the sentiment remained. Then he'd be his own man. Not some lapdog for some tyrannical force. Then maybe his family would be proud to be Grahams. Proud to share a name with him, share blood.

Her eyes fall back down to her left hand, the bandage that hid her mangled hand. Anger consumed her. She wants to scream at the bandaged man in front of her, take out all of her anger and resentment on him. Even if he may not deserve it. But a part of her thinks he might. That everything he's done warrants her screaming at him. She thinks of Boone telling her about Carla, not just about her kidnapping but who she was before. How he fell in love with her. How chatty she'd been when he found her at that Gomorrah bar, trying to pass the hours that Manny had been spending locked in some private room with some woman he'd hired. And then she thinks of his eyes, though obscured by his sunglasses, that she can see a deep sadness in. It breaks her heart. She knows that sadness, better than most. Losing someone that important, someone you considered a piece of your soul, was crushing. It left you sitting in the mud thinking, 'what now?' "I'm sorry." She mumbled, her eyes shutting tight. Her head remained ducked, unable to look up at him.

His brows furrowed. "What?"

"I said that I'm sorry." She spoke louder, more clear. If she was going to have to work with this guy for however long, she supposed it would make things easier if she was a little more cordial, more agreeable. Maybe that would move things faster. Get her home quicker. Get her home to the mountain of the NCR's problems. Her right hand reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry I'm such an asshole. I just... Your kind and my kind don't exactly mix well."

"My kind?"

She sighed at that. He knew what she meant. But he was dragging it out of her. He wanted her to say it. And she didn't have a singular fucking problem saying it. "Legion." She practically spit. It left a bad taste in her mouth, like Genaro's half-rotten meat he sold by the Freeside gate. "Like oil and water, I guess." She neared him, his eyes glued to her form even as she passed him to take a seat on the edge of the rock where his table of guns sat. "But we're stuck together. Like rats in a trap. So might as well put aside our differences."

"I've been trying to do that since you arrived."

A scoff almost escaped her lips. Always holier than thou, she wanted to spit out. But she remained silent. Something that was rare for her. Holding her tongue wasn't something she did often. Maybe that was something to be ashamed of. But she couldn't care less. Her opinions have gotten her this far, made her damn near the general of the NCR. But none of that mattered here. Here, she was a stranger, a trespasser. Someone to be feared or killed. Yet she spoke like she had the upper hand. Maybe because she knew that if she didn't, she might die here. And she doesn't want that. She wants to be buried right outside the Lucky 38. Or maybe make use of that empty grave in Goodsprings. Fuck. Her head rests gently in her hands, careful around her wound. She can't help but think of Rex, his wide smile and his tail shaking rapidly every time she came back from a long trip that she'd left him behind for. He'd jump on her, lick her hands and arms and any skin he could get a hold of. The happiness in his eyes whenever she was around was something she could never get used to. No one had ever been that happy to see her. She takes it where she can get it. Tears begin to grow in her eyes at the memories of her friends, her family. Fuck. A week ago she could barely call them acquaintances. This place has made her sentimental. Made her miss all of those faces in that Lucky 38 suite.

A hand gently grips her shoulder, startling her. He looked down on her with gentle eyes. Those fucking eyes that made her feel like her skin was being ripped back and exposing her every nerve ending. But this look was different. She refused to cry in front of him. Refused to cry in front of anyone but Doc Mitchell and Arcade. The two medics in her life. Fucking medics, she wanted to curse. The thing is, Joshua isn't a medic. So why were tears refusing to back down? Why were they beginning to slip down her cheeks? A sob escaped her throat, quick and dry. It clawed its way up her throat, left angry cuts in its wake. Joan doesn't know what's gotten into her. Why she's so upset just thinking about Rex. Thinking about a friendly face, someone who she didn't have to question their love for her. She wished that she could tell Joshua how great of a dog Rex is, how kind and loving he is. How he listens to her with nonjudgmental eyes, always loving every inch of her as long as she cares for him. Even if she didn't, she was sure he'd come to her in a moments notice, smiling and licking. Another sob escaped her lips, spit following as she places her head in her hands once again, too ashamed to look up at the bandaged man. He remained silent, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder. He found a comfort in her vulnerability. He found his heart becoming softer, more tender. Living proof that she was more behind that NCR mask she wore. If he could frame this moment forever, he just might keep it locked away for himself.