Chapter Text
The muffled sound of shattering glass sends a shiver up Porter Gage's spine, while his right arm scoops up his new shotgun on reflex. He blinks, blearily scanning the room, then lowering the shotgun again when he finds nothing but peeling wallpaper and dirty floors. He sighs in relief, free hand rubbing his good eye, then scratching his close-cropped mohawk.
Rising from the rickety chair, Gage frowns at the stiffness in his limbs. He lifts his arms in a stretch, turning his head this way and that, and releasing a small groan when his neck cracks. Time to find out what the Overboss is destroying now. It's always something.
He has a hunch about where he'll find her too. She's obviously in hearing range, and the only thing she seems to enjoy as much as destroying and killing, is building and fixing.
Gage saunters down the hallway of the FizzTop Grille, pushes through the doors to the patio, and immediately turns left to face the Power Armor crafting station.
It's the Overboss' favorite spot, but not in the same way it was Colter's, who probably would've slept in his suit if it were comfortable. No, she's more interested in tinkering and upgrading it than using it as a security blanket or a power play to show off.
Lo and behold, she's crouched in front of a clunky suit of T-60 power armor with chipped and faded red flames. In her left hand, a wrench makes adjustments to the servos in the legs. She swigs on a beer with her right hand.
"BRRRUP", she doesn't pause in her ministrations, shameless in her indulgence and focus. Gage grunts. He gets the impression this isn't her first drink, though he hasn't spotted any bottles to prove it yet. The small pile of caps next to her is highly suspicious though and he narrows his eye at it.
Suddenly, she's growling and rising from her crouch.
"Fuck!" The Boss fumes and chucks her wrench, hitting a broken animatronic mannequin. She sighs, shrugs, then chugs the last of her beer, and immediately turns toward the balcony shouting, "LOOKOUT BELOW!!"
The bottle flies from her hand, sailing through the air and is closely followed by a shatter and an unintelligble scream from downstairs. Gage winces.
Looks like he found her destructive outlet for the evening.
There's a brief moment of silence, then another enraged scream, though the words are discernable now, "MY FUCKING LEG! WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Gage lifts an eyebrow at the Overboss. She simply shrugs again, this time with an ornery smirk, then turns back to the armor.
"What? Do people not say that anymore? Stimpaks work wonders anyway - he'll be fine." She pauses and goes on with a growl, "What isn't FINE is my GODDAMN POWER ARMOR!"
Gage walks over to the edge of the patio, near the lift, and looks down. Brown glistening shards litter the ground below like grains of sand on a beach, only there are no waves to smooth the edges or carry them away. Just a polluted pond and bunch of raiders without conscience or hygiene; not the kind to sweep up a mess or care about such things.
Except for him and maybe the screaming raider downstairs. Gage chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head before lighting a cigarette.
"Always with the damn poison."
"Says you, through a cloud of poisonous smoke."
Gage huffs and puffs on his stale tobacco again, with a unwilling grin this time.
"My back doesn't have a target painted on it though. Better if you stay sharp Boss," he says critically.
She snorts at that, "you're the one who put it there, and they don't scare me Gage. This suit is a lovely shade of fuck-my-eye-sockets-blue, so it's been a bullseye since I left the damn vault. Quit your hassling."
He turns around at that, finding her pulling a bunch of junk out of the tool box next to the crafting station. Making another mess. Her movements are getting jerky and frantic, fueled by frustration.
Smoke accompanies his words as he exhales, "Just give it a rest, will ya? You're reminding me of Colter. The armor ain't goin' anywhere without ya."
She waves an arm at him dismissively while continuing her search.
"I swear I had more screws than this. Oh! I might've put 'em in the weapon workbench," she slams the toolbox closed, leaving her junk and heading for the blue interior doors of the FizzTop Grille. Gage takes another drag from his cigarette, rolls his eye, then dutifully follows her inside. She begins tearing through her weapons stash, muttering something along the lines of "thank god for cheap guns."
She breaks down a pipe rifle and a 10mm pistol, then she's back to swearing.
Gage sits back in the rickety chair again - the very same one where the glass woke him. His eye follows her, twinkling with amusement.
The Boss checks the armor workbench, but finds nothing of use. She begins systematically checking every container and locker, then starts pacing the room with a furrowed brow.
He grins around his smoke. Secretly, he loves when the Overboss gets likes this - it makes her extra feisty, which usually ends with them heading out together to clear another park. It's part of the reason he enjoys ragging on her and pushing her buttons. It gets results.
Only this time she stops. She's on the platform, near his bed and she's tilting her head like a puzzled puppy.
"Is that - " she cuts herself off and sidles over to the bed. For a moment Gage wonders if he left his dirty magazine out. Except, now she's standing at the end of the bed, and it suddenly hits him - there's a safe embedded in the floor there. His safe.
She hums in excitement, then withdraws her bobby pins and screwdriver. Finally, she crouches and bends over to get a better angle for cracking the safe.
Gage's mind goes blank. He licks his lips and leans forward a little too, and it's moments like these he wishes he could still see with both eyes.
Her vibrant blue vault suit is skin-tight to begin with, but when she crouches or bends it hugs her curves like it's been poured onto her. On someone else this might be a curse, but the Overboss has curves like one of the pre-war pinups in Gage's dirty magazine.
He doesn't know how a woman so tough can have a body that looks so soft. He figures she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment as much as he does though, so he's never voiced it; even if he does imagine sliding his hands up those shapely thighs and bending her over the nearest surface everytime she finds a floor safe. Or a door. Or a suitcase. Or a wall safe. Or a chest. Okay, maybe every time she finds something locked and low.
However, in these situations her riveting rear isn't the only distraction - which is saying something.
His eye is drawn to her hands. He's fixated on her nimble fingers delicately manuevering the bobby pin into position. Those tiny hands fire 50. cal rounds into Super Mutants' brains with precision. After Kiddie Kingdom, he's seen them cleave through ferals with nothing but a sword and vigor. They tenaciously clack keys to hack terminals, and even build weapons of death from old toasters and duct tape.
He doesn't care much for the last two, may not always approve of her methods, but even Gage can't deny he's in awe of the things she can accomplish with those skilled hands of hers.
Gage knows how capable they are, knows how observant she is, so he can't help but wonder how her clever fingers would feel wrapped around his cock, finger nails digging into his hip, urging him on as she looks up at him from her knees with half-lidded, watery eyes. She'd watch him and find all the ways to make him gasp.
For now though, watching her pick locks is the only time he gets to see her on her knees, which is fine since he genuinely enjoys watching her bend over to pry into people's secrets and coveted belongings.
He'll take what he can get.
Especially when the act of lockpicking is a direct contradiction of her usual do-gooder attitude. Despite how she denies being like the rest of them, this is when the casual raider in her shines; not the leader, the powerhouse, or the genius. Just a woman taking what she wants because she can.
Her other hand turns the screwdriver gently into position. She readjusts the bobby pin, so she can hit those tumblers jussst right. Her mouth parts slightly, tongue moistening her lower lip, appearance completely forgotten in her focus on the lock.
"Yesss," she gasps triumphantly when the lock gives.
The urge to shiver is as strong as if she'd tossed another beer bottle.
"Ain't nothing gonna stand between the Overboss and what she wants," Gage drawls, ignoring the way his worn black jeans feel a bit more snug now. She doesn't seem to notice his fascination or give it a second thought, which is probably for the better, he thinks.
The Boss smiles, pocketing her tools as the safe door swings open to reveal her prize: some ammo, caps, a heavily modded pipe pistol, a magazine, and an old camera.
Gage doesn't tell her it's his safe. Not outright anyway. Instead, he watches with heady anticipation as she unrolls the magazine with excitement. Doubtless, she thinks it's going to be some technical publication she can learn from, like the usual magazines.
Instead, her eyebrows pinch and color spreads across her cheeks as her eyes scan the provacative pages and lewd positions.
He watches with a smug smirk, relishing her reaction; the surprise, the curiosity, and the coy way she slaps it shut with a gasp after flipping through a few pages.
Such a good girl. There's still a scrap of pre-war housewife in her that the Wasteland will never erase. He probably should've warned her, but he couldn't resist.
Hell, he likes seeing the rosiness in her cheeks - a thought he doesn't care to examine too closely.
Gage clears his throat, and holds out his hand boldly, with a shit-eating grin, "I'd like that back princess. They're hard to find."
"Didn't know you were a fan of vintage Gage," she breathes huskily, then seems to catch herself and slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Gage's lopsided smirk widens, but he doesn't call her on the flirtatious comment. He just rises, takes a step toward her, and extends a capable, calloused hand. He doesn't miss the way her eyes scan him furtively, lingeringly.
Her hand drops away from her mouth as she hands him the magazine with a sudden, brazen glint in her eye. Then, she turns abruptly away, almost dismissively, and bends down again to retrieve everything else.
Gage can't help but wonder if she knows exactly what she's doing. She's a smart woman afterall, knows he's still right behind her. The view is noticeably better from this distance too. She's close enough he can see the lines of her underwear through her damnably tight outfit. He wants to slide his hands up her thighs this time and splay his fingers over her ass to feel that last layer of fabric teasing him through the vault suit.
He wants to show her what she does to him.
Instead, he tamps down his desire and shakes the vision from his head. This is the boss, not some raider bimbo. She's too pristine, too good to sully herself with the temptation of laying with a raider. Though if he's being honest, he's never really liked the jet-fueled raider women around here either; always wanted something more, and something about the Overboss certainly makes his palms itch with the desire to reach out.
He crosses his arms and grunts when his eye inevitably catches her again, just in time to see her snag the camera. Colter had given it to him as a gag gift.
"Ya oughtta take a picture Gage, it'll last longer!" He'd cackled - Colter enjoyed teasing Gage for the way he watched his back and worried about the gangs.
Now, while Gage watches the new Boss, he thinks he probably would take a picture if the damn thing worked. Shame it doesn't. He also doesn't understand why she decides to keep it when she has enough caps to make an Operator blush, but he let's it go.
He only realizes his grunt caught her attention when his musing ends with her eyes, staring widely back at him. She's frozen, still slightly bent at the waist, caught in his hungry gaze devouring the sight of her.
A normal man might panic or rush out the sorries, but not a raider like Gage. It's obvious he got a good eyeful, they both know it, so his shrug is casual, unapologetic, when he says hoarsely and with honesty, "lookin' good Boss."
The Overboss straightens and faces him then, cheeks pink and rosy, and fuck is it vindicating to be the cause.
For a moment, he thinks he must still be sitting in that chair, dreaming about bobby pins, broken bottles, and dangerous women.
Except there's no way he's imagining the way her eyes shine when, for the second time today, they trace his broad shoulders and arms, scarred and weathered from fighting. They continue roaming this time, down the contour of his abs through the filthy yellowed tank top, over the cut of his hips, then snap back to his face. Her eyes have sharpened, like she's never really looked at him until just now.
Gage knows he's a stark contrast to her pale, soft, mostly unmarked form and he's never been more aware of it. No pretty boy here, just a man who's accustomed to fighting for what he wants, or taking it forcefully.
He won't take this though; will never touch her without an invitation.
Gage rolls his shoulders, eyes intensely wary and his body forcefully casual. His throat is dry when she raises her hands to her hips, then turns on her heel with nothing more than a, "Hmph".
Porter Gage figures he should be grateful, but the tension in his shoulders doesn't ease when she stalks away. Instead he finds himself iritable and frustrated. Unsatisfied.
It's petty, he knows, but undeniably true.
He would've understood if she punched him or threatened to shoot him. Hell, he'd hoped she might push him onto his ratty mattress to have her way with him, heedless of the stains. He doesn't know what to do with nonchalance.
The raider in him grinds his teeth at the passive response. He can't screw this up though, and she's the best chance he's got at claiming Nuka-World for the gangs. Gage isn't a fan of waiting, but he watches her hips swing as they leave to take another park and thinks he won't mind waiting for her to get on her knees to pick another lock.
He can wait for the perfect moment.