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Sees the Courier taking down a Deathclaw with a single shot of his revolver from hundreds of meters away and thinks, he needs to get him close.
Difficult thing to do. Can hardly ask. Won't survive the encounter if he doesn't find a way. Long-range the Courier's his superior, but he's no good with melee weapons. Doesn't even carry them, except that bowie knife he stole from the Marked Men. If he can only get him close enough to engage in short range, he'll win.
Speaks to the Courier through that machine, multiple times across the Divide. Still hasn't come up with a plan. Ideas floating around, but they're vague, unspecified. One in particular ... no, he has not sunken that low.
Keeps sinking, though, while around him the Old World waits for its wake-up call and the Courier tears the Divide wide open. Trying to get to him. For no other reason than that he's curious. Can that be the only reason?
Thoughts keep circling around that idea, that half-plan, half-mad, and half-possible. If it's not just curiosity ... if the Courier has come for him, out of hate, rage so burning it resembles passion. Ulysses knows that feeling. Could be the Courier's feeling it, too.
Won't work. Can't work, not after all that has happened, all that has fallen to history beneath the thundering blows of the Courier's feet.
But if it did ...
Courier arrives at the Temple with eyes burning and Ulysses knows it can work. Doesn't know if he wants it to work until the Courier pulls off his mask and reveals lips twisted in disapproval, a hard line of something that stirs hatred in him.
"Made me come all this way for a fight? Well I ain't-"
"No."
"... what?"
First time ever he sees the Courier hesitate. Steps used to be so sure, walking east and west. Strong enough to make roads, never faltering, never worrying. Now, as Ulysses walks down the steps towards him, he falters, he worries.
Raises his gun, but it's a half-hearted gesture and it dies when they come face to face. What to say? How to lull the Courier into trusting him long enough to get rid of the armour, drop his gun?
First plan was just to get him close, but Ulysses is close now and finds he wants more. Wants the Courier weak and defenceless when he kills him, wants him to look him in the eye and know his fatal mistake.
"Made you come here to test your resolve," Ulysses says. Not a lie, although speaking it still makes his stomach twist. "To see if you ... felt the same."
One good thing to come out of this. Even if the Courier sees through him, it will have been worth it to see him so dumbfounded.
"Felt the same ... you don't mean what I think you mean ..."
Ulysses closes the distance between them, loathing and disgust roiling in his stomach, but it's still strangely easy to reach out, touch the tips of his fingers to the Courier's neck, feel the fine baby hairs at his nape.
The Courier does not stop him. He keeps staring, eyes darting down to Ulysses' hand, to the weapon at his side. Ulysses deliberates for a moment, decides if he can get the Courier to drop his weapon, he'll be stronger even if he himself has to fight unarmed. Flicks open the clasp securing his submachine gun, drags his fingertips over Divide torn skin when the Courier startles, makes to reach for his own weapon.
With overly careful motions Ulysses pulls the gun from its holster and, kneeling down, places it gently on the floor. Together with Old Glory, and the sniper rifle that would be no use at this range anyway. Has to let go of his, he shudders, caress of the Courier, but it's worth it to watch him from his kneeling position on the floor, look down at Ulysses and swallow.
"Oh sweet baby Jesus," the Courier mutters. And then, a clarion call for Ulysses' victory: "I must be the biggest fool in all the wasteland."
He drops to the floor, discards gun and hat and his fingers burn hot as atomic fire across Ulysses' cheeks when he undoes the latches on his mask. Years since anybody touched him, forgot what that felt like. Courier's hands are molten steel on his face, make his eyes burn from fiery fumes, make his cheeks glow red-hot.
Air on his skin when the mask comes loose feels like the icy winds of Chicago. Gulps in air, feels himself losing control when the Courier's thumbs brush disturbingly gently over his lips. Looks into his eyes, lets himself be pushed backward until he's half-sitting, half reclining, another man straddling his lap looking at him with a strange expression.
"You sure about this? Didn't come here to fight, but I didn't get the feeling you were here for this, either."
He's sure about wanting to kill the Courier, sure about what needs to be done. Get him vulnerable, get him trusting, pliant, and open. Then he will strike, break every bone in his body and send the message he is meant to.
Growls, pulls the Courier in by the collar, intent on kissing him but when he gets close he finds he can't. Doesn't know what to do, stutters, hesitates. Eyes flicking from the Courier's lips to his eyes and back again. Courier sighs, curls a warm hand around Ulysses' nape like he did before, and pulls him in.
Lips meet and Ulysses forgets why he's doing this. Remembers but first it feels good, the weight of another body against his, the warmth of someone else's lips. Pressing on his so gently as if the Courier is worried he will break Ulysses. As if he hasn't broken him already, in the destruction he wreaked on the Divide.
Shuddering breath escapes him and the Courier makes a sound that rings of need and pity in equal measures. Parts, lets Ulysses catch his breath, then kisses him again, one hand curling into his locs, the other roaming across his body.
Takes time to touch his scars. Not like the partners Ulysses had before, who did it with admiration or pity. Courier traces their patterns, breaks away from the kiss to take a closer look.
"Those mean something?"
Ulysses is about to let him have his body. He will not let him have this.
"Courier," he says and tugs insistently at his jacket, sees brown skin exposed and ducks his head underneath the Courier's chin.
Places open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone, licks into the divot of his neck, and shudders when the Courier tugs at his hair with a choked off, disbelieving moan.
"Daz." He strokes Ulysses' back then grips him by the waist and flips them around, choosing to sit on the cold hard floor and let Ulysses bracket him from above. "If we're doing this, you gotta call me by my name."
Ulysses draws back, looks the Courier up and down. Finds an odd satisfaction in seeing the glassy eyes, the yellow crown of hair coming loose from its rubber band, the heaving of his chest. Affected by this, just as much as Ulysses. Wants this, he was right, Courier came here out of more than curiosity. Daz came here out of more than that.
He shrugs off his jacket, undoes the buttons of his shirt, pulls at Ulysses' duster. Figures no harm in it, can give that much if it will get him an edge in the fight to come. Eyes flutter closed when Daz strokes up and down his arms, almost doesn't notice when he pulls off the bandoleer as well, then makes for his armour and shirt.
Stops him, iron grip around his wrist and for a moment he fears he has given himself away. Poor lay who does not want to undress. But Daz simply withdraws, nods.
"Want to keep that on?"
No judgement in his tone, no suspicion. Ulysses makes a hesitant, wary gesture of affirmation.
"Alright. What about the rest? Boots, Trousers?"
For a wild second Ulysses is tempted to claim he wants to keep those on, too. Just to see what he will do. Too considerate, too much of something he doesn't want to examine closer. Not the gesture of a man who destroyed a nation without a second thought.
Responds by undoing his bootlaces, bites his lip when Daz takes over for him, nudging him to draw his knee up and his boot closer to the Courier's hands. Watches, mesmerised, as he undoes the knots, gently loosens the laces and pulls his boots off his feet, as tender as the slaves in the Legion camps do. But more so, better so, because he is doing this out of his own free will.
Never thought someone would. Not like this. Has been years since Ulysses has done this kind of thing. No one ever treated his possessions like they were valuable. Like he is valuable. No, can't think like that. Daz, the Courier, Courier Six, the scourge of the Divide, does not get to make him second-guess.
You're still making assumptions, he'd said on the way to the High Road. Ulysses doesn't want to think that's true.
He shuffles closer, chest nearly touching Daz's, pushes the shirt from his shoulders, finds more of that brown skin, same shade as his own, different hue. Scars litter his chest, starburst bullet wounds painting constellations connected by long lines of slashes from knives and claws.
Almost there now. He ignores the drive to touch, the need to find out if his scars feel as strange and alien as the ones the machines gave him when they pulled him out of the rubble. Reaches instead for Daz's belt, undoes it with trembling hands. Any second now he will realise what his true intentions are.
Will stop him, will draw that gun and shoot him dead and all of this will have been for nothing. Hasn't even spoken the words that will wake up the bomb, stupid, foolish mistake, should never have done this ... and the belt comes loose, skitters across the floor and Daz doesn't seem to notice.
His mouth has found Ulysses' shoulder, his neck. Kisses and bites, leaves a wet trail across the skin he covers, makes it draw taut, like there is suddenly much more it needs to stretch over. Strange feeling, too much, almost. Daz's hands are everywhere, branding him, tearing him apart.
He tries to keep up, reciprocate as best he can. To convince Daz he is serious about this until he sees his chance to strike. But he fails, and falls, into his waiting embrace, face buried in Daz's shoulder, shuddering under every stroke of his quick fingers.
It's been too long. Should have known Daz would be better at this, too. While Ulysses braved storm, and poisoned air, the Courier who caused it was traipsing through Vegas, shielded by House's wall. Plenty of opportunity to practice what he's doing now. Made others gasp like Ulysses, when he pushes up and against him, bulge in his trousers unmistakeable.
Should do it now. Kill him now, opportunity's not going to get better. Shouldn't rock on his lap, lips parted, mouthing at Daz's shoulder, feeling himself grow hard, chasing every bit of friction he can get. Does anyway and is rewarded with Daz's hands slipping underneath his waistband, between his trousers and pants, and squeezing his ass, pulling him closer.
He speaks, words although he doesn't know them himself, half-formed pleas that Daz picks up on. Uncanny how he knows exactly where Ulysses wants him, one hand cupping his ass, almost possessive and Ulysses can't help himself, he whimpers, like some weak and helpless creature when the Courier's hands find his locs and pull, ever so gently.
Barely there, acknowledging his hair, its sensitive roots, far less intense than his claiming of Ulysses' body.
"How do you wanna do this?" he murmurs against Ulysses' skin, strokes his thigh, outside, then inside and Ulysses has to bite his lips bloody to not moan out loud. Daz keeps doing it, sensation muffled through the cloth of his trousers. If it were not, Ulysses might die. It's too much, too intimate. Having another's hand between his legs, whispering to him a question that speaks of want, even need, without ever foregoing respect.
Daz wants to know what Ulysses wants. Waits for an answer he doesn't have because he didn't plan on going so far. He has a chance now, he should take it. The only weapon within reach is the bowie knife slipped into Daz's boot. Easier for Ulysses to reach from this position. Easiest thing to take it, drag it across his throat.
Would have done it, if Daz hadn't in the moment just before drawn back and held Ulysses' face in his palms.
"You alright there? Just got mighty tense."
Ulysses wants to cry out and curse. Frustration, need, and hate fight each other for the territory of his mind. His hesitation chased away the opportunity, Daz is on edge, brow drawn tight. Has to withdraw, take the chance in a direct fight. Or keep going.
Daz kisses him again, chastely on the lips. Rocks against him in the motion, unintentional, but it reminds Ulysses that while he knows that his goal is to kill the courier, his body does not.
"We can stop. Talk. 's why I ca-"
"No."
Gets to his feet, pulls Daz along with him. He goes willingly, surprises Ulysses by how pliant he is, how eagerly he follows along when he guides them to the small room he turned into a shelter. Could lead him anywhere. Would follow, brown eyes wide and trusting, pupils blown from want.
Makes him feel strangely powerful. Held power before, but always at the barrel of a gun, turn of a phrase. Never in his hand, grasping another, pulling him down onto the mattress, Daz on top. Will be easier to strike, he tells himself, once the opportunity comes back. Truth of it, he doesn't know what to do.
Daz undresses fully, unconcerned with where he's standing and with whom. Kneels before him, an offer, a promise. Ulysses' chest rises and falls heavily with the implication. Nods when Daz's hands hover over the fly of his trousers. Foolish, foolish thing to do, expose himself, make himself so vulnerable. Has to, if he wants to get another shot at ending his life.
Expects him to sit in his lap again, kiss and pet him like he has before. Finds his lips suddenly dry, face hot, when Daz settles between his legs, looks up.
"You followin' me?"
As if there was any ambiguity about what he intends to do. Hot breath ghosts over his hipbone, smoke grenade revealing rather than concealing what lies behind. Nods, again, struck speechless by the easy submission he is shown.
No, not submission. Ulysses swallows a shocked cry when Daz hitches up his leg and kisses and bites at the inside of his thigh. Trembles with every scrape of teeth, every teasing flick of his hand over his cock, knows he is not in charge here. Has no power except to hold on, find the carefully shaped golden curls and take a fistful into his hand. Pushes, pulls, doesn't know where to go, what to do.
Whines when Daz swallows him, presses a hand over his mouth to muffle himself, shakes like the foundations of the Divide collapsing on itself. Has been so long, his body forgot what this is, what it could be. Hasn't even touched himself since those machines dragged him from the ruins of his home. Pays for it now, when every gentle touch, every brush of Daz's fingers over his fevered skin tear him loose from everything he thought was true and right.
Daz strokes his sides, his legs, traces the lines of bone and muscle as far as he can reach, lips soft and plump around his cock, tongue tasting him, throat working around him when he takes Ulysses in to the hilt. Eager, wanting this. More than Ulysses does. More than Ulysses thought he would.
Realises he's going to cum from this. Daz's mouth on his, hands roaming over his body, hard but not touching himself. Will want Ulysses to do it. Pulls him out of this maelstrom of fire and quakes when he realises the thought does not put him off. Looks forward to returning the favour, should disgust him, anger him. Owes the Courier nothing but a bullet between the eyes, a knife across his throat.
The knife. Eyes dart to where Daz discarded the rest of his clothes, boots, trousers. Knife glints, slipped from its sheath. Has to do it now, won't get another chance, feels his body drawing tight, climax building in his centre, won't get another chance ...
Ulysses grabs the knife and slashes it down on the Courier's neck. Doesn't know how he could see it possibly coming but Daz yelps, teeth nearly clashing, nearly making Ulysses bleed. Pulls away and scrambles backwards, shock written over his face.
He truly, honestly, didn't expect Ulysses to do this. Still doesn't understand.
"Could have just said 'stop'," he accuses, blind to the true reason they are here, why Ulysses made him come here, why he needed him close.
Can't let him continue, won't let him get a word in. Daz, Courier, won't use his mouth to do anything but scream. Ulysses dives in, slashes at the Courier's face, arm drawn up in self-defence, expecting a counter blow that never comes.
Daz dodges, jumps to his feet, stumbling over each other as he tries to get backwards out of his range without letting him out of his eye.
"Let's talk about this, come on, put that knife down- shit!"
Ulysses draws blood, a slice of skin parted at the shoulder. Won't be the last. Goes into the offensive when he realises Daz won't fight back. Furious at being denied this, this struggle, but he will take what he can get if it means the Courier will die.
But he's too nimble, quick on his feet, dancing out of his reach into the silo itself, between the computers calculating the trajectory towards his home. Should have let him climax, should have finished it, wait for him to fall asleep. Hasty, but he has to make do now. Daz keeps talking incessantly, wastes his breath and his words.
"Didn't come here to fight you, fuck, let's just talk. Ulysses, hell, doesn't have to end this way, you have to-"
All at once he changes tactics. Ulysses, stubborn with rage, bull-headed going for the heart, can't react fast enough. Daz barrels into him, takes the wound Ulysses drives into his arm, barely noticing it as he bears down on him.
"Stop. You have to stop."
Ulysses struggles, tries to buck him off. Never met anyone stronger than him, but Daz straddles him, pins him down easily. Forces his fingers apart and takes the knife.
Ulysses gets only a moment of panic. Of thinking, this is it, he's going to die, and his vengeance with him, everything's over, all his efforts for nothing.
And Daz throws the knife away, makes it skitter across the floor, hit something metal, a desk or computer casing. The clanging of it reverberates in the cavernous room, mingles with their heavy breathing. At the far end the machines of the Divide whistle through electronic lungs. More absolute than pure silence, each sound amplifying the ones that aren't there.
He's still half-hard. Half-naked, lying underneath the Courier he meant to kill. Half out of his mind, feeling sweat-slick skin rubbing against his.
Strikes him how absurd this situation is, what his plan ended up being, a mess of rejected intimacy and simmering fury trying to remind Ulysses what is important. Kill Daz, destroy his home, deliver the message he meant to.
Fury loses the battle when he looks into Daz's eyes, finds them sad and full of remorse, and still, beyond all that something else. Something he cannot give name to until Daz does it for him.
"You're still beautiful."
Acid beneath his eyes, sand and stone in his guts, and he's shaking, swallows past the tension that wants to burst of of his body by way of his heart.
Daz eases his grip on him. Ulysses does not fight. Lets him drop to the floor by his side, heavy, tired. Sighing as he runs a hand through his hair, looks up at the ceiling. They both do, have no fight left in them. Only words, and nothing to drown them out, prevent them from being spoken.
"Let's talk," Daz says. "Let me try to convince you. Alright?"
Asks, the same way he asked for his permission to touch him, undress him. Values his opinion, even now. Different from what Ulysses thought he'd be, not the monster, terrifying and awful, painted in his imagination.
Just a man, speaking of symbols, talking to Ulysses in a way that makes him believe, for the first time, someone truly understands what he's trying to say. Points out the flaw in his argument, offers an alternative. Offers peace.
Ulysses takes it. Not his words of philosophy that ring in his ears, but that admission, pulled from his mind like Daz himself could hardly believe thinking this way. Finds Ulysses beautiful after he tried to kill him. After betraying his trust, after luring him into a trap.
Wants him still, eyes raking over every inch of him. Ulysses returns that heated gaze, watches Daz grow hard again, curiously detached until the fire in himself burns up the wall he tries to keep between them.
Lets himself be straddled again, hands pinned over his head.
"No offense," Daz says as he locks him in place, apologetic shrug as if this didn't send sparks down Ulysses' spine, testing his bonds, finding them loose and choosing not to break them.
Gives himself over, has Daz swallow his moans with his kisses, rutting against him, taking both their cocks in hand and rocking them both to climax. His name spills from his lips when he cums, bucks up against him, desperate to wring every flame, every spark out of this. Daz in turn whispers 'Ulysses' against his lips, voice wrecked, hoarse and breaking in the wave crashing down over them.
Speaks his name again between kisses, breaks him in the first syllable, rebuilds him in the last. Stays, body covering Ulysses', until they have calmed down, then drives him to insanity again. Fucks him three times that night, insatiable, hungering for Ulysses' body, taking him as if he is the only thing he ever wanted. As if he walked the length of the Divide to get it.
Expects Daz to be gone come morning. Has come, done what he came here for, stopped Ulysses from destroying his home and taken more besides. Nothing more he could want. Arrived at the Divide owning Ulysses' rage and all his focus. Will have left with more.
Hasn't left. Still there when Ulysses wakes, watching him come to. Smiles when their eyes meet and kisses him. Asks him to leave the Divide together and lures Ulysses out of the temple and into the blue sky world beyond with the promise of his touch.