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dragonie · 1 month ago

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The thing is, Moz hates the Divide. Every damned inch of it. Putang ina ng lugar na ‘to, is a thought she had constantly during the first time she went there. It's a thought that she has had each time she’s gone back. She’s been going back to the hellhole every weekend for close to four months now, even though she has other duties to the desert she won independence for.

I can’t believe I’m doing all this for a man, Moz thinks as she trudges up to the overlook where she and Ulysses rendezvous. She catches a glimpse of him sitting where he usually does, and her heart flutters. But, god, what a man.

There’s just something about him that Moz finds so deeply captivating, something that compels her to return to a place she despises just for a few moments with him. She’s acutely aware that she has developed a crush, but tries not to make it too obvious.

“Back again, Courier,” Ulysses says, his back still to her. Moz stops walking a step shy from where he’s sitting.

“You always know it’s me without looking,” she notes. “How?”

“Know the tread of your feet,” he says, finally turning to her. “You carry the Mojave with every step.”

Moz nods. “You’re saying I have a heavy walk?”

“Take it that way, if you like. Meant only that your footsteps are distinct to me.” He takes off his mask, showing his handsome face, and nods towards the fire. There's a pot hanging on top of it, full of something happily simmering away. “Have a stew going for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Moz’s face heats up in a blush. She puts an insulated bag down in front of the fire and opens it to reveal several packages of food. “I brought you the usual, plus some special sourdough doughnuts and doughnut holes from my niece.”

Ulysses hums and inspects the food. He’s always drawn to the sweet treats, Moz has noticed; he immediately takes a doughnut hole and pops it into his mouth. She watches him as he snacks, a slight smile on his face. Suppressing a grin, she checks on the stew – it’s a little watery, but that’s nothing that another ten minutes on the fire couldn’t fix.

By the time the stew is done, Ulysses has served up the food Moz has brought him: freshly cooked ulam (this week it’s firegecko adobo, her older brother’s specialty, and some lumpia) and rice, some bread, the doughnuts, pickled vegetables, a small jar of citrus jam – all homemade from her family’s kitchen. Moz wonders what he thinks of it, her bringing him food every weekend, but she notes that she never sees leftovers, and whenever she does, they’ve been remade into another meal, like the stew she’s been minding. That might be a sign…

A sign of what? Of him liking me? Moz wonders. He probably just likes that I feed him.

“Thank you for the food,” Ulysses says, fixing himself a plate from the spread in front of him. He takes a bite of the lumpia and makes an appreciative noise. “Did your brother make this?”

“I did, actually,” Moz admits. “It’s my great grandmother’s recipe.”

Ulysses nods. He takes another bite. “Keeping your family’s delicious traditions alive, Courier.”

“Thanks.” The compliment makes her smile, even if the way he has been addressing her has been bothering her for a while now. “Can you stop calling me ‘Courier’ though? I’m not a courier anymore. I haven’t taken an official courier job since Benny shot me.”

“Hm.” Ulysses thinks on it.

“How about you call me by my name?”

“Your name...”

“Yes, my name. You know it.”

“Of course. Moz.” he says. There’s a curious glint in his eye. He looks at her expectantly. “The name your mother gave you?”

“My initials,” Moz replies. “Marahan Ortiz-Zepeda. M-O-Z. Moz is just easier to say.” She almost never used her full name since people kept saying it wrong.

Telling him feels intimate, somehow; as if she’d undressed in front of him. Hell, she wishes she was actually physically undressed in front of him. Being naked would feel less like she’d shown him a secret part of herself.

“Marahan,” he repeats slowly, as if savoring the feel of her name on his tongue. It sends a thrill through her. He even said it right, copying her cadence, emphasizing the second syllable properly. Ma-rah-han. She wants to kiss him for it. She stops herself.

“Yeah, Marahan. It means ‘gentle’ in my language.”

“Beautiful name. Suits you.” Ulysses pauses, considering something. He studies her face. “Marahan, Moz – both define who you are,” he says eventually. “Which would you rather I use?”

Any, Moz thinks, as long as you’re saying my name. “Moz is fine,” she says instead. “Marahan is too long.”

“Moz, then,” he says definitively, smiling at her. She matches it with her own.

As they tuck into their meal, they catch each other up on the past week. Moz rants about the minutiae of running the Mojave, all the logistics she has to keep in mind, the petty and not-so-petty disagreements between the faction leaders she had convinced to ally with each other. Ulysses listens intently, offering sympathies and advice at all the right moments. He almost never has anything as intriguing to report to her — his watch over the Divide is largely unremarkable, save for her visits and the occasional combat — but Moz hangs on to his every word.

They eat their fill, managing to polish off the stew that Ulysses made. He starts to clean up while Moz packs the leftovers into its respective containers and puts it all in her insulated bag.

“Should we bring these along with us?” she wonders aloud. “Could get hungry after dealing with the tunnelers nest.”

Ulysses considers it. “Extra weight might slow us down. Clearing the nest won’t take long.”

“Right.” Moz sees him eyeing the doughnuts though, and she takes them out of the insulated bag and into her backpack. “I’ll just bring these. As a snack for after.”

He nods, looking pleased. “Good idea.”

They finish cleaning up their camp and head towards the nest. It’s the third one they’ve spotted, a few miles past the Cave of the Abaddon — not the biggest one they’ve seen but sizable enough for concern. Since Moz had killed the tunneler queen and they’ve been targeting nests, there are markedly fewer tunnelers running around. Still, they’re a problem that needs to be solved, and sooner rather than later.

The nest is underground, down a crack in the road between two crumbling buildings. They’ve been there before; they've already scouted where to enter and exit to be as out of sight as possible. Ulysses slips into a split in the concrete. “Careful here,” he says. “There’s unstable ground below.”

He drops down easily and turns to help her, reaching out his hands for her to hold. Moz gratefully takes them – she’s not as tall as he is, and the gap from where they enter and the platform where Ulysses stands would be quite the jump for her. She lands with a silent thud, almost falling into his arms.

Even though Moz is already safe on the platform with him, Ulysses doesn’t let go of her hands. His touch lingers, almost as if waiting for something to happen.

Moz wants so badly to see where the moment is leading, but they are about to attack a tunneler nest. This is just not the time. She pointedly clears her throat, slightly raising their clasped hands; he gives her a look she can’t quite decipher in the dark, then squeezes her hands, once, before reluctantly letting them go.

He points at a far corner, not-so-subtly shifting his focus back to the task at hand. “Saw a few tunnelers over there,” he says quietly. “Farther away than we'd planned. Was thinking we could use flares again, lure them to the nest.”

“Then blow it up, yeah.” It was their go-to strategy and it had worked pretty well the last two times. Moz takes out her flare gun. “You ready?”

He nods at her, and they descend the platform as carefully and quietly as they can. There’s a spot a little ways below them that makes for the perfect vantage point. As soon as they reach it, they get into position immediately, almost instinctively; by now they’ve fought tunnelers, Marked Men, and deathclaws together more than enough times to know how the other works.

Ulysses readies his rifle while Moz aims the flare gun. He gives her the signal. She shoots – the flare arcs through the darkness like a comet, and hits the swarm of tunnelers dead center.

The creatures flee their spot, some of them on fire, panicked and surprised by the attack. Ulysses opens fire on the rush, targeting the ones not ablaze; they drop one by one. Moz shoots another flare to guide the tunnelers to their nest.

The nest itself is just an arm’s throw away from them, and is crawling with the tunnelers’ young. Some of the attacked ones congregate there, which is perfect – Moz takes out grenades and gives a couple to Ulysses. Out of the two of them, he’s the one with more experience with explosives, so he throws the first grenade. It lands on the edge of the nest.

The blast takes out most of the tunnelers. The remaining ones go into a frenzy again, running wildly across the cracked earth. Moz throws her grenade into the horde and it explodes a good portion of them.

She’s about to throw another when she hears a loud groaning from above. Looking up, she sees something shift – before she even knows what’s happening, loose earth and debris are raining down on them. Moz warns Ulysses and moves out of the way, a little too late; a slab of concrete lands right by them, surrounding them in clouds of dirt. The collision breaks off parts of it, and chunks of concrete fly into the air and right at Moz.

The impact is enough to knock her down. When the dust settles and the world comes back into focus, the first thing she sees is Ulysses’s face. Above the mask, his eyes show concern and alarm so intense, it flusters her a bit.

“Moz,” he says, distress clear in his voice. “Marahan. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she says, her own voice raspy. She’s fairly sure something hit her head because it aches, and when she touches her forehead, her fingers come away wet with blood. Other than that, though, she feels fine. “I’m okay, I think.”

“You’re bleeding.” Ulysses gently helps her lean against the slab of concrete. He holds up three fingers. “How many?”

Moz huffs. “Three. See? I’m fine."

Ulysses ignores her claim and looks her over, making sure the rest of her is intact and unharmed. He checks the cut on her forehead and mutters to himself. Moz watches him fuss over her – a part of her is touched by this, but another part just wants to take a nap.

“I want to lie down,” she tells him, and he shakes his head. He holds her steady, stopping her from sliding down the wall.

“Might be concussed,” he says, stern. “Need to stay awake, Moz. Stay with me.”

“Okay,” she says simply, too achy to continue disputing her injury. Ulysses reaches into his bag for a clean cloth bandage, then folds it into a thick square and puts it to her bleeding forehead.

“Apply some pressure,” he tells her. She holds the bandage to her head while he bends down to lift her up in his arms. He carries her with ease, like she weighs nothing; Moz loops her free arm around his shoulders and Ulysses starts walking to their exit. Thank god they don’t have to climb to get out of here. Moz isn’t sure if she could manage it.

“Going to the nearest safehouse,” Ulysses says matter-of-factly. “Remember where it is?”

“Mhm.” Moz knows he’s trying to keep her from falling asleep, but it’s so comfortable to be in his arms. “It’s a couple blocks over,” she answers obediently. “Blue graffitti over a grey door."

“Correct. Which way?”

They’re at the exit now, and the sudden flood of bright light makes her head hurt a little more. She turns her face away from the light, burying it into the shoulder of his duster. “Just go forward from here,” she says, voice muffled by fabric. “Then turn left at the end of the road.”

Moz expects him to put her down once they’re on steadier ground, but he doesn’t; instead, Ulysses holds her tighter to him, stepping carefully over the cracks and exposed beams blocking his way. He makes small conversation as he carries her all the way to the safehouse.

It’s on the second floor of a tucked away building, just a small one-bedroom unit with an attached bathroom. There’s nothing much there: a bed, a table, a kitchenette. Once inside, he gently places her on the bed. He takes their bags and puts them at the foot of it before removing his mask.

“Don’t lie down yet,” he says before she could even think of doing it. “Need to check your wound.”

Moz nods. She takes the soaked bandage off her forehead. Ulysses brushes her hair from her face and examines the cut, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Is it bad?” she asks, if only to fill the silence.

“A shallow cut. Better, now – no longer bleeding. Still, need to clean it, bandage it.” Ulysses looks her in the eye. “How is your head?”

“I’ve been hit worse. I’ll live.”

“Hm. No dizziness, nausea?”

“Nope. I told you, I’m fine.”

He visibly relaxes. “Good.” He gets first aid supplies from his pack, then goes to the nearby bathroom sink to wet a new square of cloth. He returns to her with the supplies and a small basin of water.

With the damp cloth, he lightly cleans the blood from her forehead, his touch soft and tender. The cut is less alarming without all the blood; Ulysses checks it a final time before applying an antiseptic and a couple of butterfly bandages down the length of it.

He examines his handiwork. “Should be enough,” he tells her. Their faces are only a whisper away from each other – it would be so easy to bridge the gap and kiss him as thanks.

“Thank you, Ulysses,” Moz says instead, giving him a small smile.

“Had me worried,” he admits, smiling back. “Should rest here for the night – don’t want to overexert you.”

“Alright.” Just the thought of walking back to the overlook is enough to make her tired. She takes her shoes off and scoots over to the far end of the bed, where it’s flush against the wall. There are no pillows on it, and it’s not the softest mattress in the world, but it’s a welcome comfort. She pats the empty space next to her. “Join me on the bed?”

Ulysses drops the cloth into the basin and neatly puts it and the first aid supplies out of the way. He unlaces his boots and kicks them off as he makes his way to where she’s sitting.

Moz smiles at him once he settles beside her, so close that their sides are touching. “You think we got all of the tunnelers?"

“Not all,” he answers. “Some stragglers left – but don’t think of them now. Rest.”

Moz hums in agreement. Her head does feel a little heavy. She unconsciously rests it on Ulysses’s shoulder – he’s tense, but soon relaxes, leaning towards her so that she’s more comfortable. His hand is within reach, so she takes it in both of her own before she could stop herself.

She idly turns his hand this way and that, tracing the lines and scars and calluses with her fingers. He lets her draw patterns on his palm, even splaying his fingers obligingly so that she can twine theirs together. Despite the dull pain in her head, Moz soaks in the moment – a small pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos surrounding them.

“You have really nice hands,” she says. “Strong, capable. Gentle when you want them to be. I like them a lot.”

“Could say the same for yours,” he replies, voice low and amused. He slowly rubs the back of her hand with his thumb and lays his cheek on top of her head. He gets comfortable, his leg softly pressing into hers as he cuddles her. “Falling asleep?”

“Maybe.” She wants nothing more than to stay like this with him – but maybe somewhere nicer, far away from the wreck and ruin of the Divide. Somewhere she can show him just how much she likes him, as loudly as she wants, without the threat of enemies hearing them... God, her head aches. “Actually, can we lie down for a bit?”

“Only if you stay awake for me, just for a while longer,” Ulysses says, adjusting his weight. Moz nods a little, lifts her head from his shoulder, and moves to the middle of the bed. She lies down on her back, trying to get comfortable on the thin mattress.

Meanwhile, Ulysses goes to the foot of the bed to grab Moz’s bag. He takes the small blanket that he knows she carries for emergencies, as well as the last of the doughnuts they had earlier, and goes back to her. He folds the blanket into a makeshift pillow.

“Lay on this,” he tells her, before placing the blanket pillow under her head. He settles next to her, doughnuts in hand; Moz sees them and giggles.

“Good thing I brought those, no?” she says playfully. She turns to her side to look at Ulysses. “I knew we’d get hungry.”

Ulysses smiles down at her. “You were right,” he just says, splitting one doughnut into two. He offers half to her; she props herself up on an elbow and accepts it. They eat their respective halves wordlessly, their mouths too full of the pastry to talk. Moz finishes hers first – she didn’t realize how hungry she had gotten – and notices Ulysses watching her.

“What?”

“Have sugar on you,” he says, gesturing at the side of her face. She brushes her cheek, but he shakes his head. “Still there…” He bends down and softly sweeps sugar from the corner of her mouth. He cups her cheek, caressing the soft skin there. Moz is pretty sure the sugar is gone, but he doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t want him to. She presses her face to his palm.

“I think you got it,” she says eventually, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes. Her lips part slightly, and Ulysses’s breath hitches.

“Moz,” he whispers, but then he forgoes his words and simply leans forward, closing the gap between them. Their lips meet, so tender and sweet and lovely that Moz is dizzy with it… but then it’s over before she could get too deep into the kiss.

Ulysses begins to move away. She whines at the loss of his lips on hers, and, her head spinning, she surges forward. Surprised by the movement, he catches her, his arms instinctively wrapping around her middle, and holds her close – so close that, when he falls on his back from the impact of her body on his, she falls on top of him.

Ulysses starts to say something, but all Moz wants to do is kiss him again, so she does, more eagerly than before. His hands are warm on her back as he matches her intensity; when she moans into his mouth, he takes the chance to slide his tongue against hers.

Moz has kissed many people before, but none of those past experiences could compare to how it feels to kiss Ulysses. He kisses her so intently, so engrossed in the act – every touch and movement emanating an emotion so fierce that she can feel it in her bones.

There’s no denying it, now, that there’s something unspoken between them, and that whatever it is, it’s mutual. Moz had thought it was just her feeling it, that she was just assigning meaning into every lingering touch, every heated gaze. She’s never been so glad to be proven wrong.

He shifts underneath her, breaking off their kiss to take a breath. Their exhalations mingle in the shared air between them. She brushes her lips against his, loving the electric feel of it, the thrill of being able to kiss him at last. Ulysses tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the look in his eyes impossibly fond.

“Moz…” he says again, full of wonder. She waits for him to say something else, but he trails off, apparently speechless, distractedly tracing her spine with the tips of his fingers.

She kisses him once more, then rests her chin on his chest. She’s satisfied – for now, at least – though she does want to kiss him until the sun sets, then rises, then sets again. Still, the initial rush has died down, and the disregarded aching in her head makes itself known. Forcefully.

Moz groans. She rolls off of Ulysses’s chest reluctantly and sits up, rubbing her temples. He rises with her, concerned.

“Something wrong?” he asks. He rubs her back in soothing circles, and it helps a little.

“My head hurts,” Moz says miserably. “I guess I got too excited.”

“Got carried away as well,” Ulysses mutters. “Knew you were hurt – should’ve taken it more slowly.”

“No, it was perfect.” She turns to grin at him. “I would’ve gotten excited regardless. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while.”

“Feel the same as you,” he confides, a small smile on his lips. He pauses, looking as if he wants to say more, but thinks better of it. “But now, it’s time for you to rest.”

“I thought I needed to stay awake?” she jokes weakly, doing her best to keep her eyes open, to continue drinking in the loving way he’s looking at her. She lies down on her side, resting her head on his lap.

Ulysses moves, changing the way he sits so she could lie more comfortably on him. “No – you can sleep. Don’t think you’re concussed.” He lightly strokes her cheek. “Just have to avoid excitement and physical activity for now.”

“Damn,” she says sleepily, finally letting her eyes close. “I love excitement and physical activity.”

Ulysses laughs. “Could have physical activity later,” she hears him say. She chuckles at that, delighted at the promise in it; she wonders if he'd kiss her again if she asked, but before she could, he starts to gently run his fingers through her hair. The motion is enough to lull her to sleep.

Maybe I don’t hate the Divide after all, she thinks, before finally drifting off.

#courier moz #Ulysses #friends’ fic #fallout: new vegas #lonesome road

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