At the End of the Road

Chapter 6

His old quarters in the Temple – if they could even be called that – were Spartan, to say the least; more like an indoor campsite than anything else. A dingy old mattress lay on the floor of an ancient command room, a few bottles of water standing beside it. Piles of books were scattered about: those still legible by the bed, whereas those too charred or dirtied or otherwise damaged to be read were heaped near the remains of a makeshift campfire. Several boxes of ammo were stacked around what looked to be a small crate of grenades, and a threadbare old duffle bag held his food stores: some scavenged pre-war foods, like Cram and Dandy Boys, but mostly just the noxious MREs; no wonder he never hesitated to eat the food that she brought. A tattered Old World flag dominated one wall, looking strangely forlorn in this abandoned place.

Ulysses strode in without comment, propping Old Glory up against the wall.

"So," Jane said, taking it all in. "I'm guessin' you ain't been bringin' many girls back here."

He gave her a flat look, not dignifying that with a response. He swept past her instead, seating himself beside the miserable mattress, facing the cold ashes of the fire; perhaps out of habit more than anything else. Jane set her own weapon aside and took a seat next to him, sweeping of her hand and smoothing back loose strands of hair from her forehead. Ulysses fumbled with the straps on his breathing mask, casting it off to take a long swig of water, then passing the bottle wordlessly to her. As she drank, she couldn't help but notice how the water glistened on his lips, couldn't help but remember, back in the canyon, how he'd touched her, how she'd felt his warmth beneath her...

She turned to browse through a book pile, searching desperately for something to distract her from the rising heat in her cheeks. For a moment there, after the Deathclaw left, she had thought- But no, if the mood had not carried past the cold metal walls of the Temple, then her pressing the issue would probably just lead to discomfort all around.

The books were all over the place in terms of subject matter; Ulysses had clearly salvaged all the surviving tomes that he could find. Another thing they had in common, Jane thought idly as she flipped past a few worryingly dog-eared issues of the Patriot's Cookbook. When she saw what lay beneath, she let out an appreciative whistle.

"King Lear? Nice. I used to make regular deliveries for some NCR fat cat down in Shady Sands, real big fan of this stuff. Once paid a thousand caps for a copy of Hamlet that the prospector swore was fully intact. Turned out there was a big chunk of Act Four missin'." She frowned. "Y'know, I never did see that prospector around again."

"Not surprising," Ulysses scoffed. "For all its pretensions, Bear can be just as vicious as Bull... same cruelty, same vengeance, with none of the self-awareness."

"Dunno about that, my man," Jane replied thoughtfully. "I ain't never seen NCR put a guy up on a cross an' leave him to linger. Now, gangs of New Reno, on the other hand..."

Ulysses nodded.

"Killing fields of Golgotha, graveyard for those fool enough to cross Reno's families; walked there before. Put Inculta to shame."

"Ha."

It was not a happy laugh; more the bitter laugh of one who has seen far too many horrors than should be allowed in one lifetime.

Yet another thing they had in common, she supposed.

Ulysses glanced at the book in Jane's hands, and shrugged a shoulder.