Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Vaughn awoke to someone groaning, low, and in pain. The sound reverberated in his head as he awoke on his stomach, face against something soft and fluffy. The soldier slowly cracked open his eyes, sticky with blood, but that was useless as all he was greeted with was black cloth keeping him from seeing his surroundings. It took him another few moments to realize the groan was coming from before he finally cut it off in favor of sucking in the dust-filled Mojave air. He swallowed, ignoring the dirt that now coated his tongue and throat as he tried to move his arms, only to find them bound tightly to his body and twisted behind his back.

He tried to recall falling unconscious, tried to remember what had led up to him being where he was, wherever that was. He remembered running through the night of the desert with Legionaries on his heels, firing potshots at his feet and yelling at him to stop where he was. 

Vaughn had never been one for authority, especially not the false kind, so of course, he hadn’t stopped when the shots were fired. He could remember the aching pain of hunger, having run out of his rations the NCR had sent him out with after a bunch of damned Geckos got into his bag. He grit his teeth together as he remembered firing at the animals, those scaly little-

No, no, he had to stay on track. His current situation was far more pressing than his hate of those little bastards.

Nobody caught one of the best snipers in the NCR off guard, so how had the Legionaries gotten him? He scrubbed his brain for an answer, picking through the fog to find pieces of the vague memories of the events leading up to his capture. The throbbing pain in the back of his head probably had something to do with why Vaughn was having issues recalling the important details of the legionaries getting to him. Vaughn groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as he dredged the fog in his head, piecing together the events that must have happened for him to end up wherever he was.

He could remember firing at Legion soldiers, soldiers that had been following him for two months, or maybe more, the timeline of the tracking was unclear. Pain in his stomach from hunger, but his first two bullets still hit their marks. Two Legionaries down, four to go, that’s what he told himself in his hunger-riddled brain, but he’d miscounted. He slid down the hill, he ran, he was chased. He hadn’t given enough attention to the number, four soldiers behind him, one looping around the hill to cut him off. Pain blossoming across the back of his head, falling face-first into the dirt, boots stopping around him, cursing at him for shooting the two legionaries who’d gone down.

There was another, gravel-like voice, saying something about a cult, saying that he’d be mad if they hit the “Sniper” too hard. Vaughn guessed that it had been him, and he was this sniper that “he”, whoever “he” was, wanted preferably alive. Vaughn could also guess that the legion soldiers hadn’t cared, as he’d gotten quite the beating. He could remember covering his face, his arms being grabbed. He could remember swinging his penknife into someone’s leg, more kicking. Then, more pain in the back of his head, making him see stars. Another slam of pain into the injuries already there. The fourth blow to the back of the head had been the one to knocked him unconscious, and whatever had happened from there? There was no telling. He was honestly amazed the bashing hadn’t knocked the life force out of him.

Vaughn clenched his jaw before carefully rolling, managing to roll onto his side, breathing heavily as he tried to get a bearing on his surroundings. Some sort of fur was under him, with his mind cleared he could hear what must have been a large group of people in the distance.

Talking, laughing, the sounds of metal on metal clashing, it sounded like what he imagined feast halls from some of the books he’d read sounded like. Then, his ears picked up another sound much closer. Footsteps, low voices that he could barely make out through the buzz in his head, and the chirping cicadas.

“Disobedience is punished, my orders were clear and you still broke them, you pitiful wretch.” It was a man’s voice, suave and lilting, almost musical. The voice was followed by sobbing and pleas for mercy, that they would do better.

Another man, who sounded nothing less than completely terrified. Vaughn tensed, before forcing his body to relax, pretending to be unconscious yet again as footsteps entered wherever he was, the sound of fabric shifting gave him the vague idea of being in some sort of tent. He couldn’t tell how many soldiers there were over the drone of the first man’s voice and the pleading of the fearful one, but many. More than just the two for sure, at least four, he’d guess a maximum of seven.

He’d never seen legionaries in groups bigger than seven, maybe it was hardwired into their brains. Vaughn almost jumped when there was a sharp snapping noise and a scream of pain, he couldn’t help but flinch ever so slightly at the second one, more screaming, making his head bloom with renewed pain as it pounded into his aching brain. The screams forced a groan out of his mouth as the stabbing pain forced into his poor head became too much, serving to make him squeeze his eyes shut tighter behind the blindfold in an attempt to curb the hurt.

The sound of snapping stopped, replaced by the sobs of the fearful man and complete silence. It was the first sign to Vaughn that he’d just messed up, the second was when the suave man spoke, and there was a different sort of snapping sound, one that Vaughn was beyond familiar with.

Something intended for beatings, smacking against something, a threat unspoken “Well, look who’s awake, and here I thought my men had knocked you into the next world. Get him up. ” That voice, that fucking voice that Vaughn could have sworn he knew , the name of the man on the tip of his tongue, something that tickled the back of his brain before fleeting when he tried to reach for it. Somewhere on a holotape, perhaps? Somewhere, for sure.

Multiple pairs of hands grabbed him, more than he cared to try and count as they righted him onto his knees. Another hand forced him to right his head, making stars bloom behind his tightly shut eyes as for a moment the noise vanished in a high-pitched whine. Nausea bubbled up in his stomach, making him suck in a breath to stave off the vomit that burned the back of his throat. He forced it back down, keeping his composure as the whining faded, replaced by the commanding voice of the suave man, who sounded like he was repeating a question. Someone’s hand gripping his shoulder and giving a tight squeeze forced Vaughn to tune into what was happening.

“This is the last time I’ll ask you, are you listening?” The man sounded annoyed, but it was a kind of annoyance that Vaughn was used to, the kind in his commanding officer’s voices when they repeated the command he’d been ignoring for the tenth time. Vaughn swallowed, processing the words, rolling them over in his burning skull before slowly starting to nod until his chin was caught in someone’s hand, a thumb and forefinger gripped him tightly as there was a hissing noise before something tapped his shoulder.

Vaughn knew leather when he felt it, and it didn’t take his brain too long to make the connection between the snapping noise of the man being beat and whatever leather was tapping him oh so gently.

“If I’m to believe the things I found in that bag of yours, you’re a major, I expect a soldier to know how to use their words.” The voice sounded gentle and prompting, but Vaughn was smart enough to recognize a threat without needing it to be vocalized. He swallowed down the taste of bile, blood, and dust that permeated his mouth before responding in a hoarse and slightly slurred voice. “Yes.” He dropped his head back down, chest heaving from the effort of giving a single-word response. His throat burned, but he hadn’t noticed it until he had to force out the reply to what must have been a legionary soldier of some kind.

The thought hadn’t pressed on him before, but there was no telling how long he’d been unconscious, left to be without water or food. The thought was interrupted by the snapping sound and burning over his face, making him hiss and fall back. He tried to correct the motion but found himself far overcompensating and slamming one of his bound shoulders into the floor. He rolled as pain bloomed through his shoulder as it was forced out of the socket from his idiotic maneuver.

Once again, hands found Vaughn, pulling him back onto his knees. More hands felt his shoulder and there was a distinct popping noise as his joint was forced back into place, making his head reel as pain flashed through his shoulder. He swallowed as there was the feeling of leather gently tap-tapping, that time against his side, making him painfully aware that he didn’t have on his heavy-duty leather armor. The hand grabbed his face again, that time he felt it slid under his jaw and grip his head tightly in place, forcing him to look up to the point his neck ached.

“As I was saying before that interruption, do I have your attention, Major?” The way he spoke reminded Vaughn of a father, speaking over his child throwing a temper tantrum. That’s all his pain was to this man.

Vaughn licked his lips uselessly, his tongue far too dry to do anything but further dry out his lips before he choked out another response from his parched throat. “Fuck you.” The words earned him another crack of whatever leather device the legionary held, that time it cut into his arm, making pain bloom over already present bruises and boot prints stamped hard into his arms. “As I was asking, do I have your attention, Major? ” The voice was prompting something with the use of his rank like that, he knew it, and he knew what it wanted. He could have complied oh so easily, really, given the tormentor what he wanted to hear.

Instead, he choked down his pain with the Mojave air and responded. “Fuck you, sir .” Pain, that time something solid from behind him, a boot nailed into the middle of his back, forcing him down into the dirt. When had the man gotten behind him? He couldn’t tell, his head swam like his brain was free-floating and bouncing around in his skull. Talk about a head full of hurt.

Leather snapped and pain blossomed over his back above where the boot kept him pinned to the ground.

Vaughn kept his breathing under control, he knew what someone trying to get you to break looked like, felt like. Many people had tried to beat obedience into Vaughn in one way or another, but he was quite a resilient bastard, resilient and clever. He thought of picking the switches when he was younger, the fact you only picked a green one once, and never again. 

The fact that you learned, you adapted, you made things easier on yourself, and Vaughn had already learned one thing. His venomous words brought pain. He didn’t care.

“Well, normally I’d make quite the example of someone who’s been such a headache, there are lessons you NCR Roaches need to learn, but perhaps I’m feeling… generous,” The boot ground into his back, more pain, more biting back his cries, “What do you think I should do, hm?”

Leather ran over his cheek, tapping along the swollen purple bruises that lined his jaw and lips. Vaughn knew the type, he’d met plenty of them of varying intelligence. Just a bunch of self-gratifying pieces of shit, who would only be happy if you kissed the ground they walked on like they were the virgin mary.

The boot left his back and hands grabbed him once again, pulling him back up onto his knees, forcing him to turn as his head burned with pain. He swallowed a few times to try and clear the dust from his mouth before responding in accordance “No fucking clue, sir.”

The moment the words left his mouth something wet soaked his face, making him recoil as he inhaled only to choke on the fluid. It was pure, filtered water, cooling off his burning skin, soothing the itch of dust.

It took the bound NCR soldier a few moments to recognize that it was water before he started to drink whatever he could catch in his mouth, washing away the taste of bile in his mouth. The dust that made it difficult to breathe was washed down as he swallowed, being forced to face the stream of water as the hand that held his head in place until suddenly wasn’t, and his head was being forced down, water dumped onto the back of his head, running down onto his neck and his aching back.

He bit back a hiss of pain when fingers ran through his hair, roughly cleaning away blood mixed with dirty, forming a sort of thick red-tinted mud on the back of his head from where the rifle had been jammed into his head to knock him unconscious. He could feel his chest heaving as each run through his hair brought more searing pain to the gashes, and for a moment, Vaughn could see stars again and hear that high-pitched whine as he struggled against the pain to stay away. Then the pain subsided as the hand withdrew, followed by the sound of cloth rubbing as whoever it was dried their hands before sopping up the mess of bloody water soaking through Vaughn’s hair. He twisted, kicking blindly for whoever had touched the injury. His foot only met air.

“I’m getting tired of this childish behavior.” The man sounded annoyed, that time. Truly, very annoyed. Vaughn hissed as hands grabbed him, twisting his arms further behind his back in their bindings and shoving his face down into whatever soft fur carpet covered the floor. It could be worse for sure , he thought to himself, it could rock instead . He wished he had his gun, and unbound hands, even if he had just a single bullet he could end the literal and figurative headache.

“Fuck you.” Vaughn simply slipped back to ol’ reliable, the best of the best, his trump card. Really, how was someone supposed to counter that? He was oh so unaware that he was going to find out. 

“Oh, that will happen soon enough. Of course, such things aren’t usually looked upon kindly in the legion, but not even The Caesar himself will frown upon anything I do, as long as I work to further His cause.” The voice ragged against him, but the content is what he rolled over in his head. The man must have been high-ranking if he could get away with whatever he wanted.

Who? Vaughn couldn’t see, not without seeing the uniform. He felt hate boil in his stomach as he thought back to two months prior, to the slaughter of his squad, to-

Wait what were those first words? What would happen soon enough? He couldn’t remember what he had said exactly.

Oh, right. He’d said ‘Fuck You’.

Ah, fucking hell.

“Honestly, how cute. Two entire minutes to realize intent, that’s not very fast, is it? I like the fire, but I grow tired of it. Men, help him get back to sleep.”

Vaughn didn’t need to see to know what was about to happen, the transition from blindfolded darkness to his blunt-force-trauma-induced rest was seamless as he was knocked unconscious by the butt of a rifle. At least this man knew how to bash someone unconscious in one go.

Darkness swallowed his mind, no dreams could take hold in the kind of rest he was given. In a way, he would be grateful for that after the non-stop nightmares that had overcome his sleeping world. He’d be grateful, at least, were he not quite completely and totally unconscious.

When he opened them next, a light burned his eyes, causing him to squint, blindfold no longer keeping him in the dark (literally and figuratively). Vaughn cringed away from the light, tight bindings kept him from covering his face. He could only turn his head away from the burning oil lamp that was the cause of his light-induced pain. Vaughn blinked rapidly to try and clear the tears and ache from his eyes as his vision adjusted to the lamp’s flickering flame. He slowly dragged his eyes around the room, vision returning to him slowly as he studied the area he was in. He was propped up against the post in the middle of the tent, and finally, he registered there was someone else in the room with him.

Vaughn squinted, trying to peer through the blur of tears at whoever stood before him. Features cleared and for only a moment he thought he was back at Camp McCarran, looking at that poster on the wall. The one that cracked him up every time he saw it.

He wasn’t laughing then, it wasn’t as funny when faced with the real deal.

“Oh is there anything better in this disgusting world than fear written so plainly on someone’s face?”

Vaughn swallowed down the emotions that came raging to the surface, he was better than that, he knew better than that. He wouldn’t give the enemy the satisfaction of his fear. Especially not this one. He knew that face, through posters, through word of mouth, through the lens of a scope. Nipton. He’d seen him razing Nipton and its inhabitants.

You didn’t forget the smell of charred flesh, and even if simply heard from afar, you could never rid your mind of the tormented screams of people burned alive. No matter how hard you tried.

“I can see those gears spinning in your head, Major. I’m amazed you’re still full of that fire, the women and even most of the men in your rank would have broken already. Impressive, for nothing more than an NCR grunt to last through any sort of pain. I have a special sort of plan, for someone of your caliber.” The Legionary had walked closer, close enough to grab Vaughn’s jaw in one hand, forcing him to tilt his head back and take in the chilling tug at the corners of Vulpes’ lips. Vaughn wanted to spit in his face, but he wasn’t going to play the legionary’s game.

Vaughn didn’t want to find out what sort of special sort of plans the frumentarii had in mind for him. He twisted, jerking his out of Vulpes’ hand. The twist caused some sort of noise close to his ears, making him jump slightly. He twisted his head to look, confusion twisting his features only to be replaced by that flickering fear as he saw it was a chain, connected to something heavy and padded around his neck. Chain. Collar. Keeping him nice and secured to the post he was propped up against.

Not even a nice long chain, he reckoned he wouldn’t be able to even touch any of the tent's corners, not even if he stretched the chain to full length.

Vaughn probably should have used the context clues to figure out the tent was Vulpes’ bedroom before he saw the bed, but hey no matter how smart a man was, a good few rifle butts to the head could really knock your perception down a few pegs. He jerked his head up when fingers were snapped at him, making him grimace and clench his teeth together in anger.

“How endearing, you even bare your teeth as a dog does.” Vulpes Inculta practically purred the words, that sickening smile twisting over his lips. Vaughn finally focused his eyes on something in the legionary’s hand, and couldn’t help but snort softly at what it was. Riding Crop, a fucking riding crop, used to train horses. Funny, he used to like being hit with those, but he was pretty sure from then on they’d be completely ruined.

“You know, I was just about to compare you to a dog too.” He really should have learned to bite down on those witty remarks, but he just never knew when to shut up. 

Vulpes’ didn’t hesitate to knock Vaughn to the ground, leaving his ears ringing and vision swimming. He couldn’t hear what the other man said next as he slipped into the welcoming arms of darkness once again.

The concept of time and its pacing had always escaped Vaughn, it simply slipped by like sand through his fingers or dragged on like wading through a thick swamp, sucking at his boots, his body, trying to pull him under. The first few days rolled by in a blur of beatings and blooming pain as he simply thought to himself. He remembered the doctor's words, chiding like he was talking to a small child. ‘ Vaughn, you need to be in charge of your own mind, you need to get a grip on your thoughts. If you don’t, I can’t help you. ’

He never had the balls to tell the doctor he’d spent far too long being in charge of his own mind. He liked to hide in it, especially when he wanted to ignore the world. When there was a target at the end of his scope he wasn’t quite sure about, it was easy to retreat, pretend like someone else pulled that trigger. Someone else watched that man drop dead, there was no enjoyment in the work. He did what he always had to to survive.

Survivor first, NCR soldier second. He couldn’t help but wonder what they’d think of him, sitting there, concocting his plan. If only the Doctor knew the oh-so-wonderful things he could do with his mind.

That wonderful, brilliant, fortified mind. His fortress of safety. The place he could tuck himself away, and hide in, but he wouldn’t be hiding this time. He had to think, still, he had to bite back the information, choke it down. He knew how to do that. Nobody was a better liar than Vaughn. Except maybe the Chairman on the strip.

Those fucking smooth-talking bastards were-

“I know you’re awake.” Vulpes’ voice invaded his thinking, and his boot invaded his personal space, digging between two of his ribs, making him cry out. He had been so lost in that brilliant mind of his that he hadn’t heard the man approach, and it took that to force him to try and open his eyes. Blackness. Inky blackness. Cotton rubbed across his face, the blindfold had been back in place for days, only Vulpes truly knew how long. The boot dug in further drawing more pained noises from Vaughn, hisses, and sharp huffs. It withdrew when Vulpes’ tired of the torment, making the major groan at the painful ache.

“How annoying, you can’t even cry out in pain properly. You’ve outlasted all the other NCR profligates who arrived here, so very… impressive..” Vaughn knew the other man's words were no compliment. Just another game of push and pull. Compliment. Berate. Compliment. Berate.

Vaughn had grown sick of that game far before he ever met Vulpes, but the last time he’d been forced to play the dreaded back and forth it hadn’t been with a man nearly as intimidating. Stature really was everything, wasn’t it? The way you held yourself, the things you said, how you said them, your authority. No matter how hard the whip beat, it was the man behind it who drove the fear into the slave.

He’d learned quickly Vulpes hated the way he accepted the beatings so readily, and would only hit harder. Bruises were worked into his back, his chest, across his thighs. Fresh and deep purple and blues worked over fading greens and yellows, fresh pain beaten over the old. Days, maybe even weeks, had given him time. Time to study the way the Legionary who beat him worked. An hour of sleep at a time, sometimes the kind of sleep from a boot to the back of his head where gashes were slowly healing.

God damned he was tired, and so even when the boot connected with his head, he was thankful for the inky black that it brought with it.

He remembered promises made to himself as he was dragged alongside a caravan. Promises that if he ever got away, ever got free, broke from the cycle of hands-on his body drawing gasps to drawing screams, he’d fight like hell. He’d told himself, over and over and over like a holotape on repeat in his head, he’d rather die. He had been young back then, only fifteen, or perhaps sixteen? The mind of a child truly was unique, the only words of comfort he’d had were his own, whispered in the dark as others slumbered.

But he supposed that was the thing about being such a good liar, everyone believed you. Even yourself.

Vulpes stared down at the man, the ghost on the ridge. He remembered the first time he'd heard of him, from Lucius of all people. Casual discussion, of course, talking about an NCR Captain who was truly a Legion Soldier in disguise. How she'd lead a group of the best, the best of the best really, into a Legion Ambush. Vulpes had watched that odd faraway look take over Lucius' features as he'd stared across the encampment. The words he spoke had never left Vulpes' head.

“For a moment there, I could have sworn I saw an NCR sniper on the ridge. He almost looked like... a ghost.”

Vulpes had simply suggested the other legion man had too much to drink, but the idea had intrigued him, a sniper upon a ridge? Watching the slaughter? The idea had seemed so ridiculous, he considered him a man too smart to fall for superstitions, ideas of a burned man, a ghost sniper.

He hadn't believed it, not until Nipton. Not until he'd turned his head, and seen a man upon a ridge, looking down the scope of a rifle. Vulpes had raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, convinced that in some way he had to be imagining it, that perhaps the heat had wormed its way into his brain.

Oh, but it had been no illusion stood before him. The man was there, stood on the far ridge, ghostly pale, like he was untouched by the beating heat of the Mojave. A ghostly sniper, upon a ridge. Watching the slaughter.

He wanted him, he wanted to know why, he wanted to know who. So it started, a sort of lingering obsession, a lingering... idea.