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He’d almost lost her today.
They were practically on the doorstep of New Vegas, and the relatively calm peace of California had turned into a mess of Legionnaires, Powder Gangers, and Fiends.
Deadly and insane, the lot of them, and somewhere between gas stations and fist-fights, they’d fallen into, well, this. Into stars overhead, and a fire in front, and the milling sounds of a trader caravan - close enough for protection, far enough that the moment still felt private.
Fiends had set upon the lot of them, a few hours before, with dogs and guns and pupils like saucers, high off whatever the fuck they’d mixed together in whatever hole they’d crawled out of. They were mad, mad enough to wield knives and explosives and barely maintained guns, the kind of madness you earned through chem use, through hardship and pure anger at the world.
They’d thought the caravan an easy target. Brahmin were slow, after all, and even the best mercs out there could find themselves overwhelmed in an instant, out here.
She’d been clipped by a bullet.
More than clipped.
The sound of her gasp had hit him in the chest, surprise mingling with rage, and his retaliation had been brutal. The one he’d been killing had been wielding a ripper, and whilst it wasn’t his weapon of choice, it had sure felt satisfying to rev the chainsaw blade into the chest of the Fiend who’d given her the injury, the one who’d tried to spit on her as she’d crumpled down, holding her arm in shock.
He went down with ease, skull-helmet falling to the ground at Cooper’s feet, splattered with the blood of its once-alive owner.
No one in the party was a doc, but Cooper had been alive long enough to know what to do. The bullet had gone clean through, and whilst it meant he didn’t have to go looking for the thing in her arm, he knew just from looking at the hole that she needed something stronger than a stimpack.
They’d given him a discount on the Doctor's Bag, originally. Offered it for free when he gestured to the bodies, when the dog started growling, at his feet.
It was a merc who stepped in, who pulled the thing out of the trader's hand and passed it into his.
“It’s the decent thing to do.”
Damn fucking right it was the decent thing to do. The wound was hardly bleeding anymore, but she’d been groggy as he’d gotten the fire lit, needy as he’d sat down.
When he’d gotten comfortable enough to let her get this close, he wasn’t sure. Somewhere between California and Novac they’d gone from that to this. To his arm tucked over her shoulder, to her head on his chest. She’d brought shampoo with her, of all things, and her hair still smelt like flowers, like a tea he’d tasted a lifetime ago, one that just felt like her, now.
Intoxicating in a way he didn’t want to admit.
He didn’t think he’d ever find this again.
Not that he even wanted to acknowledge to himself what this was, in truth.
All he knew was that she snored, just a little, in her sleep. That she talked too much when she was awake. That people flocked towards her - for better and for worse - and that she felt warm and right beneath his arm.
They were catching up to her dad, and that would be… difficult, but right now he was stuffed full of roasted gecko, his dog was asleep with her head right on his ankle, and a woman he absolutely didn’t deserve felt safe and comfortable enough to sleep deeply against his chest - tucked in as tight as a goddamn puzzle piece.
He threw his empty beer to the side and pulled his hat down over his face, the sounds of the traders melting into absolute nothing as he shut his eyes and enjoyed the rare moment of safety.