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Graham was extremely well-mannered and annoyingly religious. He patiently talked about the Judgment Day while Courier waited impatiently, biting her lips, and fought the desire to hit him with something. Anything.
The belief in God, Jesus, Buddha, Zeus – any of these almighty guys she read about in old dusted books from the Old World – seemed ridiculous to her. Where were any of them when the world was being teared apart with the crooked greedy fingers of atomic bombs? Where were any of them when people dug the roads with their bleeding hands from the grave of the Old World to build the new one atop its bones? Humanity was very independent bringing ro life Ten Plagues of Egypt by itself without any divine help.
She never said it out loud out of respect for him or his gun – almighty doctor Mitchell unlikely would have rushed from the other end of Mojave to take another bullet out of her head – and tried to keep all of these questions to herself just to avoid possible confrontation. She barely even spoke to him, silently complying with any requests he had. She wanted to come back to Mojave and only Graham could help her. Quid pro quo – she believed it was fair.
It is the first time when Graham follows her once she gets out of the cave. He keeps the distance, not coming any closer than a dozen feet, and does not bother to hide his presence. She does not bother to hide her anxiety. Shit happens – it is the first thing Mojave teaches you. The radiation did not grant humanity the additional pair of eyes, so staying alert all the time has become a necessity.
She tries to keep her hands off the gun, convincing herself that he is no threat to her, but the unpleasant nervous itch somewhere in the very brain stays with her until she reaches the ranger substation Osprey. She climbs the tower and tries to catch her breath now when she gets a minute break at last. The sticky tension that she almost could feel in her rib cage finally seems to fade away and is replaced by exhaustion. Muscles are cramping up, the burns on her skin sting like crazy, and she feels almost on edge. This day is fucked up on so many levels.
She inspects the small platform recalling that last time she was here she saw an unbroken bottle of whiskey somewhere in the boxes. However, all she finds is a few doses of jet and half-emptied bottle of tequila. She hides jets deep down in her pockets for the worst of times. She grins. Any second in Mojave can take a turn for the worst in the blink of an eye. She keeps herself away from drugs because otherwise she would have died long ago. It is hard to use a gun while your mind is lost in a drug frenzy. The alcohol allowed her to remain in control so from time to time she allowed herself to get wasted. More often than she would like to admit.
She sits right on the table, pulls her feet under her, finally taking two sips from the bottle. Tequila burns the throat and hits hard, and she coughs, feeling tiny fireworks exploding in her head. And it feels just like the moment when the giant The Ghost of She splitted herself into four yao guai just as furious and sizzling. She lets out a slight nervous chuckle.
She spent a good couple of hours trying to ease the pain with some stinky ointment that one of the Sorrows gave her, and to dress up the wounds. Later Graham who had been watching her all the time approached her with a new psalm and a new request. The point of no return.
He looked straight into her eyes with a visible anticipation. And even though he said he would await her answer patiently, something was telling her otherwise. He said he would obey any of her decisions. Literally any. She struggled to understand why he would let her decide his people’s destiny when she was the stranger in his world, and still. That was annoying.
There was a lot of annoying things about him, but more than that there was exciting things as well. She accepted this excitement and barely tried to hide it. He was a myth, a walking dead, a person whose very name was forbidden in Legion on pain of death and hence became legendary. The walking dead happened to be more alive than any of Mojave’s inhabitants. And there was something about the impression that he made. A pile of bandages that would have been enough for the entire troup, and the bitter smell of ointment - these were his venomous features that stuck in her head.
He himself stuck in her head since the day they met. He aroused a curiosity, the need to uncover him from his bandages and examine as thoroughly as a new shiny rifle. Of course, he was much more than this; at least, she never met a rifle that would quote whole psalms with that husky low voice of his.
She laughs loudly and hoarsely, and it sounds more like a bark so she stops right away, embarrassed. She stretches her back and looks at the bottle that is still in her hand. The throat still hurts but at least the head does not, and she closes her eyes in disgust and drains the rest of tequila at once under Joshua’s unreadable gaze.
He watches her closely, leaning against log railing, and does not move. Only when she sets aside the empty bottle, he makes a step forward, crossing arms over his chest. Without a word, she reaches out and touches him for the first time, her fingernails scratching his flak jacket.
Joshua Graham. He felt like a complete mystery, and she couldn’t tell if she knew even a bare minimum about him. But he aroused something in her. Something that required a move, a hit, a sparring just to make sure that he really existed, that he was made of bones and flesh as any normal human being, and was not going to disappear at dusk. She couldn't bring herself to forget even for a second what was under his bandages.
Joshua – a stupid name, his dog’s name suits him better – looks straight and almost through. He hesitates for a second and moves even closer, placing his hands on the table accidentally or intentionally brushing against her hips. Shade runs down her face, and she frowns but does not avert her eyes.
Their staring contest is exhausting, she never knows when she can break eye contact without looking weak, but with every second it becomes harder to bear the fluid iron of his gaze running down her spine. Joshua Graham, The-Fucking-Burned-Man, survived his execution because his flesh and bones, all his inner self, were made of iron. He was completely armoured and the fire could not handle him. Neither one that burned on his skin, nor the one that was raging inside.
She tries to straighten up so that she does not have to look up at him so hopelessly, but he does not let her, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder. His burned brownish-black fingers grip the skin beneath her overall, and she gives up. There is a flame older than the Earth itself hidden deep in his cold eyes. Never was he obedient, no. He just needed a sign from heavens; maybe he saw her as his Messiah. She grins once more. People see her as a crazy bitch, a murderer, a mercenary, a scavenger. Some look a bit further and see that she only tries to survive, clinging to life and alcohol and no longer to memories. Cass sees that she cannot sleep at night; and she herself avoids mirrors to not see the fear in her eyes. Messiah, huh. Joshua is mistaken and she has no idea how to prove him wrong.
She covers his burned fingers with hers and squeezes them gently. She does not raise her head, preferring to stare at the velcro on his flak jacket, and bites her lips. Graham smells like gunpowder, gun oil and ointment, and it disturbs her. She feels dizzy for a moment and awkwardly shakes her head. She tries to think straight, but nothing seems to work. She moves forward, swinging her legs off the table to keep her balance, and pulls him hard against her. She traces her fingers up his arms softly not to cause any pain but insistently so she can feel that his skin beneath the bandages is hot as burning coals, and she pauses for a moment before pulling the bandage down from part of his face, exposing his lips. Joshua Graham does not disappear under her touch, so she grits her teeth and waits for him to shoot her, or hit her, or just push her down from the tower, so when he leans towards her, she freezes.
He does not do anything. At all.
She exhales, feeling his breath burning her eyelids. He looks down at her, too close, his scent mixing with the smell of tequila, and she slowly loses her control. There was something about that in the books that she read with Veronica and she made a mockery of it because it was too unrealistic, too...carefree. In those books, the word "tenderness" was often used.
Tenderness does not work either. She bites his lip and feels the blood on the tip of her tongue. He retaliates by squeezing her in his hands until it hurts, and opens up for the first time, forcing her lips apart with his tongue, demanding a revelation in return.
It is neither sweet, nor gentle. They are testing each other, their strength, that they both, risen from the graves, are still alive. His hands touch her waist until there are bruises, moving down, and pressing her into himself, and she responds. She squeezes his shoulders, scratching on purpose, getting under the bandages touching the edges of burns and scars, making him exhale from pain through clenched teeth. And then he kisses her once more time – again and again – impulsively and painfully.
They are greedy, aiming to know more, to taste the pain of each other, to examine it and to give more in return, as if they burn a brand on their memories. Her skin burns under his fingers and he listens to her shallow breathing, feeling the excitement rising in him. She pulls away for a moment just to bite his neck, feeling the bandages under her teeth, and with a hiss he pulls her by the hair, forcing her head back, and runs his lips from her throat to her chin, slightly biting the vulnerable skin. Then he stops, panting, his fingers tangling in her hair. The last butterfly-light kisses touch her cheeks, he kisses her slowly as if it was an apology.
If only they had more time.
Suddenly he steps back and repeats his request one more time, cutting off any retreat. She laughs.
They have absolutely no time, as he has no patience.