A/n: Hello, friends! This is the sequel to Newton's Third. While it was nice to take some time off from writing, a month has been quite long enough. I hope to see you all back for this story too :)

Random aside: I have a Pinterest if y'all want to connect? My username is "fortunesque", same as it is here. I won't be upset if nobody bothers to look, though XD

Mohr's Circle- a representation of the state of stress at a point.

Being married didn't mean much in New Vegas, except that someone was in a committed relationship. There were no government benefits like those of the NCR, nor were there strict punishments for stealing someone's wife like in the Legion. Most Mojave couples were fine with this; after all, it was often that tough circumstances brought them together, and they were content to live together and raise their children, farm, cattle, or what-have-you. Vulpes and Six raised a constant ruckus, and not much else. Words like 'husband' and 'wife' felt strange in their mouths. She was still standoffish, and he was still anxious.

So when Vulpes and Six declared that they were married, nothing changed.

Vulpes should have known that his enraptured feelings wouldn't last forever, and that he would have to put actual work into what he was doing. Perhaps, she loved him all along, and that was why things returned to as they were before when she said it. Were mere words so powerful? He liked to think so; given the immense elation he felt when she uttered them. But she was gone half the time, anyway, trying to flatter or intimidate the Brotherhood of Steel to join her. Vulpes didn't believe it would be possible; they would only talk to Six, and only if Veronica was with her.

He sighed and stared down into his drink. Vulpes was having vodka more often, lately. He quickly lifted his shirt to look down at his stomach, and his heart sank as soon as he saw the roll of fat hiding his once flawless physique.

"What are you looking at?" the Butcher grumbled.

Vulpes looked up to the doorway, watching as Lanius entered the cocktail lounge. The man stood in front of him and crossed his arms, waiting for an answer.

"I'm getting fat," Vulpes lamented.

The Butcher stepped forward to his seat at the bar and yanked his shirt upward to see.

"That's your skin wrinkling, you idiot," he growled, "You're sitting down. You look the same as you always have." Lanius let go of the shirt in disgust.

"Why are you here anyway?" Vulpes frowned, his pity-party effectively ruined.

The Butcher ignored him for a moment as he walked down the aisle behind the bar, examining the various bottles that lined the shelves. A particular whiskey from the lower shelf – barbarian swill that it was – caught Lanius' eye and he took it.

"Am I permitted to drink?" he asked, looking at Vulpes.

"Why should I care?" Vulpes countered. He didn't even own this place.

"When I drink," Lanius explained, "things get broken."

Intriguing.

"I just live here," he shrugged.

It wasn't exactly the answer Lanius was looking for, but he didn't care, judging from the fact that he uncorked the bottle as soon as the words left Vulpes' mouth. The Butcher sat in the stool next to Vulpes and took a long gulp of the cheap whiskey. Vulpes couldn't help but cringe; it had to taste disgusting.

"I plan on getting trashed," Lanius clarified.

Vulpes shrugged and sipped his drink.

"I have never been that drunk before," he admitted, "buzzed, but only out of necessity to fit in."

"Then I'm not going to make you become an apostate like me," Lanius frowned, "so behave."

Vulpes laughed out loud as Lanius shot him a quizzical look. He sobered immediately as he realized that he hadn't told Lanius the truth about Mars and Caesar yet. It wasn't that he meant to put him off; rather, he meant to come up with the opportune time to let him know. He supposed that moment was then and there. Vulpes took another sip of his drink and smacked his mouth at the unexpected amount of vodka that hit his tongue. The drink separated.

"Another question," Lanius grumbled, "Why are you so hormonal?"

The question wasn't even 'something seems to bother you'. Lanius was calling him a woman, which was completely preposterous. Vulpes frowned at him; perhaps, he would wait until the man was drunk to tell him, watch him destroy everything in the lounge, and then get him in trouble with Six. He turned to look at the other man, and didn't have the heart to be so cruel, despite everything Lanius had done to him. Vulpes blamed Six for this disgusting, newfound conscience.

"You were right to mistrust me," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lanius frowned. He eyed the bottle in his hands with suspicion.

"I lied to you and everyone else for years," Vulpes replied.

The Butcher stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

"It wasn't out of contempt," he explained, "rather, it was out of respect, and the belief in a higher goal. The goal of Caesar was my priority, in everything that I did."

"Just say it," Lanius interjected.

"You really want me to?" Vulpes asked, "This is more painful than ripping off a bandage, you know. In fact, it is far worse than having your shoulder put back into its socket. It is something that requires tact, and understanding."

Goodness, he was getting chatty. He had to stop drinking.

Lanius gripped his bottle and appeared ready to club him with it. Sighing, Vulpes figured he ought to get it out of the way.

"Caesar found a book on Rome," he announced, "and made everything up. His claim that he was the Son of Mars was a fabrication in its entirety. He told me himself, years ago."

Vulpes narrowly dodged the fist that headed for his face. He leaned back to stare up at the enraged face of the Butcher. He had only seen him this furious once before, and that was when the man had him sentenced to death.

"You told me to just tell you," Vulpes accused, backing away until his chair nearly tipped. "Nobody knew. Do you really think I would betray Caesar for anyone?"

His answer came in a rebuking slap across the cheek. It was gentle, as far as a slap was concerned, but equally humiliating.

"Then you'd better drink more," Lanius grunted, "because there's no judgment for it." He offered a faint smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. Though whether he was going to betray him, or was trying to save face, Vulpes couldn't tell.

"Drink," the Butcher ordered.

Vulpes was disgusted as he found himself obeying and downing the last of his vodka and sarsaparilla. He wondered why he was listening as Lanius poured him another drink, this time a short glass of nothing but vodka. Then, he started drinking that as well.

"This is disgusting," he protested, "and you are a disgusting, vile human being."

Drink upon drink was poured for Vulpes, and he didn't stop until his head was swimming.

"How's that feel?" Lanius asked, leaning in too close. His eyes were wide and conspiratorial.

"My brain is aroused," he mused. Glancing down at the bulge in his lap, he chuckled. "Both of them."

Lanius found this hilarious and began laughing – genuinely laughing – and couldn't stop. Vulpes looked on in wonder; he had never seen the man laugh in amusement or joy before.

"Have more to drink," the Butcher chuckled, "it'll go away."

This seemed like sound advice. Six wasn't expected back for days, and truthfully, Vulpes was tired of sleeping in a bed by himself. To his muddled mind, it was an excellent solution.

After three more drinks, Vulpes began to wonder when it would take effect.

Graham looked up from his reading as the suite's intercom beeped. Each of the room's occupants looked at each other, wondering who would be the one to stand up and take the call. Neither the praetorians nor Arcade made a move, and Graham sighed.

"Is Mrs. Courier available?" came a voice, thick with a wasteland dialect. "It's the Gundersons calling."

Graham was within a foot of the intercom, ready to press the button.

"No sir!" Yes Man chirped, answering for him.

"How about the man of the house?" the caller asked.

Graham was about to leave, when the robot's next words made him freeze.

"He's had a handful of drinks," Yes Man replied, "but I'm sure he could hold up a halfway decent conversation."

He didn't need to hear more. Graham pressed the button to summon the elevator, stepped in, and directed it to the cocktail lounge. Idle hands were the devil's tools, and Vulpes had been idle for too long.

The elevator dinged and opened; Graham didn't have to look far. Vulpes sat in a gigantic cluster of chair pillows in a booth, his shirt conspicuously absent. He stared out at the Mojave and leaned into the pillows. On his back, between long rows of flagellation scars, there were angry, red marks from fingernails.

"Put a shirt on," Graham sighed, "you've got company coming."

Vulpes craned his neck to look at him and smiled.

"They should look," he slurred, "they'll never see anything so amazing again."

A plastic bottle sailed through the air to crash onto the table at which Vulpes sat. Graham turned around to see the Butcher grumble about missing. Lanius stepped forward, ran into a bar stool, and froze. Glaring at the stool, he picked it up and threw it behind him, the legs of the stool warping upon impact with the floor.

"You're breaking things, you thick-headed ass," Vulpes accused. The look the Butcher sent him hinted at a promise that he would be next.

Just as Graham readied himself to break up a fight, the elevator dinged and opened. He turned around to face the guests and hoped that Vulpes' training would sober him up enough to hold a decent conversation.

A man in a suit and cowboy hat stepped forward with a smile. His wife trailed in behind him, her entire composure shaken and nervous. She could barely look at anyone, especially Vulpes. And from the ex-frumentarius' mischievous grin, Graham could tell that they all knew each other, one way or another.

"You've gotten me in trouble," the man signed, looking down at the inebriated Vulpes. "They're saying I was in with you lot the whole time. Now we both know that ain't true."

Vulpes laughed, his voice cracking.

"I can issue a statement," he replied, "They love statements almost as much as they love getting their own paper money back after they've printed it."

The man laughed in agreement, and Vulpes offered him a seat. Instead of joining Vulpes on his mountain of pillows, the man grabbed a chair and sat near the table. Vulpes told Lanius to pour the guest a drink, calling him 'the official pourer', and upon watching the Butcher pour a half a glass of straight whiskey, it was no wonder how Vulpes came to be so intoxicated.

"Is it top shelf?" Vulpes asked. He gave Lanius a serious look.

"It was on a shelf," Lanius replied, "does it matter?"

Vulpes looked at him in horror as the guest burst out in laughter and declared that he was fine without a drink. Lanius shrugged and offered it to Graham.

"Mormons don't drink, idiot," Vulpes slurred.

"A Mormon out here?" the man marveled, "you must have done quite a bit of traveling, mister?"

He was looking for a name, and Graham was about to provide one – a false one – before Vulpes spoke up.

"Joshua Graham," he interjected, "and that over there is Sand-Rock."

"Shut up, Foxpaw," Lanius glared.

Their argument dissolved into Latin and a mix of tribal slurs. As they bickered back and forth, Graham sighed. It was a wonder that the Legion lasted as long as it did with these two constantly at each other's throats. He suspected that Ed got a kick out of them continuously outdoing each other for his attention.

"So, 'the' Joshua Graham?" the guest asked, giving him a sideways glance.

Graham frowned at Vulpes and wished that he had kept his mouth shut. Vulpes always liked to be in the middle of things and craved attention.

"God took me back," he remarked, "though I did not deserve it. I found a calling in an unexpected place."

The man offered his weathered, calloused hand to shake.

"Heck Gunderson," the man replied, "Brahmin baron, businessman, dabbler in a bit of farming and mining. It's amazing what folks can do with a rule of law. Have you seen Freeside?"

"Before and after," Graham nodded, "it's been a good change."

"They still don't bathe half as often as they should," Vulpes interjected. Heck Gunderson broke out in laughter and nods, making his wife visibly uncomfortable.

"Now, I've gotta ask," Gunderson chuckled, "Why are you piss drunk before 11am?"

Vulpes pointed an accusatory finger at the Butcher, who had a bottle of scotch tipped against his lips. If Lanius saw this, he didn't make any indication. Graham had the mind to give Vulpes a lecture after the Gundersons left, but he supposed it would fall on deaf ears.

"Why're you asking questions before 11am?" Vulpes asked. He grinned smugly as if he thought of something clever – which he hadn't. By then, Graham was positive that old Ed was rolling in his grave.

"We've got some problems up around the mine," Gunderson nodded, "the deathclaws are coming back. I'll pay well to have them exterminated."

A smile broke out on Vulpes' face, and Graham wondered if he ought to put a stop on the conversation, or if it was too late to do so.

"We can kill them," Vulpes boasted, "you could even stand there and watch us do it. Both of you could. A deathclaw or two isn't much."

"Would be interesting to watch," Gunderson admitted, "I'll take you up on your offer, then."

Graham shook his head. Making blood sport out of deathclaws was exceptionally dangerous. Before he could attempt to talk the visitors out of their agreement, the elevator door dinged and opened. An excited Marcus stepped out, followed by an ambivalent Crassius.

"What's going on?" Marcus asked, glancing around the room.

"We're killing deathclaws," Vulpes announced, "that's what."

Marcus' eyes widened and he broke out into a big grin. Bounding down the stairs, he sat down next to Vulpes and began to excitedly recount a story of Lucius ripping out a deathclaw's toenail – dewclaw, Vulpes insisted – and slitting its throat with it. The story dissolved into a three-way argument between Vulpes, Lanius, and Marcus, with an amused Heck Gunderson asking questions that had three different sets of answers.

"Well, this meeting has clearly dissolved," Gunderson's wife sighed.

"I'd say so," Graham agreed, watching as Crassius sighed and nodded as well.

"Victoria Gunderson," the woman nodded, "the one without an opinion, apparently."

This quickly snapped Heck out of his conversation, and he began to attempt to reassure his wife that it would indeed be safe. She stared dispassionately at him, holding completely still, her silent protest saying more than mere words.

"I'd never let harm befall you or your loyal husband," Vulpes smirked.

Graham watched the woman bristle at Vulpes' emphasis on the word loyal. The conversation hit a lull, and Vulpes took the opportunity to open his mouth once more. He loudly declared – in Latin; God was a merciful God – that he fucked Victoria Gunderson in multiple positions about a year or so back.

Marcus gasped and recoiled in shock, glancing between both Vulpes and a visibly flustered Mrs. Gunderson. He was about to ask a question, but Crassius interrupted.

"These deathclaws are at the mine, correct?" he asked.

"Yep," Gunderson replied, completely unaware of what was going on.

"Give us three days," Crassius nodded, "and we will be there to exterminate them."

The brahmin baron quickly agreed on the deal, and Graham offered to show the Gundersons out before something even worse could happen. Ushering them into the elevator, he let out a small sigh of relief when the doors closed behind them.

"He's not much different when he's not spying," Gunderson shrugged, "it's interesting how sinners and saints can be almost interchangeable at times." He sighed and shook his head.

"Mrs. Courier is going to have to be careful," he added, "a lot of regrets come from having a lonely spouse. I missed my boy growing up, and neglected Vicky."

"You do good work, Heck," Mrs. Gunderson protested, "it's been lonesome at times, but we've managed." She leaned in to hug him, but her eyes were elsewhere. Her guilt was palpable.

"They're both driven," Graham interjected, "that could either help or hurt them. Which it will be, I cannot be sure." He was eager to change the subject away from its dangerous turn.

Heck Gunderson nodded in agreement. The elevator opened on the casino level, and the couple stepped out. Graham ushered them to the door, exchanged quick pleasantries with them, and watched them leave. He wondered when he became the Courier's doorman.

One thing was certain; he didn't do it for Vulpes, who needed to be thoroughly humbled. He did it for the Courier – the gentle, kind young woman that the wasteland needed more of. And given Vulpes' intoxicated condition, it was clear that Six was his moral compass.

He frowned as he rode the elevator back up to the cocktail lounge. The Butcher was becoming a terrible influence on Vulpes. A ding signaled his arrival to his destination, and Graham stepped out of the elevator in hopes of salvaging whatever he could from the situation in the cocktail lounge.

He stepped down the faded vinyl stairs and shook his head. Lanius had wedged himself into a booth to sleep, the table next to the cushion kicked over to provide more room. As he breathed, the silvery-blond hair around his face stirred slightly in a slow rhythm. He was out cold.

After seeing the Butcher for the first time months ago, Graham instantly knew what made Caesar choose him to be the next Legate. Lanius was gigantic, with a deep, powerful voice. His blond hair and blue eyes were reminiscent of old world paintings of Christ. Edward likely loved the idea of such a powerful man bowing before him and believing he was a god. His lies were the only thing that would keep the beast from snapping his neck.

A large part of Caesar's plans – whether he admitted it or not – was subjugating the strongest and brightest men, in order to make himself the best. It was why Caesar initially spared Vulpes, all attachments aside. He wondered if Vulpes was aware of this.

Graham looked over to Vulpes, who was somehow still sitting up. He nursed a bottle of whiskey as Marcus excitedly talked about deathclaw hunting, while Crassius slumped backward on the mound of pillows in boredom. Graham caught the large praetorian's eye and nodded toward the door. Crassius immediately understood and interrupted Marcus to tell him that they ought to go back downstairs. As they left, Vulpes attempted to follow, but he was too inebriated to successfully stand up.

"Just sit down," Graham ordered.

Vulpes flopped back onto the cushions without protest and stared up at him, his expression sad.

"What do you think you're doing?" Graham asked. He crossed his arms, unwilling to give him so much as a tiny bit of an excuse.

Graham was surprised when Vulpes pouted, tucked his legs up by his chin, and hugged his knees.

"I never got to say goodbye," he lamented, his voice taking on a quavering tone.

No. Graham didn't want to deal with this. The man who lit him on fire was emoting over the man who ordered that he be lit on fire.

"I married the woman that killed my father," Vulpes murmured, "so screwed up."

Graham nodded in agreement, gave Vulpes a gentle pat on the back, and then quickly stood to find a bottle of water. Thankfully, there were some behind the counter, presumably kept for the Courier's plant experiments. He brought the bottle back to Vulpes, opened it, and offered it to him. Vulpes looked at the water in suspicion before quickly snatching it away to take a long gulp. When he was done, he handed the bottle of whiskey to Graham.

"Lanius says Aurelius gave him a bottle of this for you," he stated, "but he drank it all before he got into town."

Graham chuckled and accepted the bottle. He would put it back on the shelf later when Vulpes wasn't looking.

"That raider trash is still alive?" he asked, eager that there was a change of subject.

"A centurion, now," Vulpes slurred, "still chewing, smoking, and eating people."

Vulpes finished the bottle of water and lay back on the pillows, his eyelids drooping.

"Don't fall asleep yet," Graham ordered. Vulpes simply turned his back to him and closed his eyes. He curled up in a fetal position and quickly passed out.

Graham sighed and shook his head. At least he made an attempt to have Vulpes drink some water. Still, something had to give with the Courier's negotiations.

To say her feet hurt was an understatement. Six hauled herself through the desert as quickly as she could in order to try to get back home early. She would surprise her husband with a few days of laying around in bed, only getting out to eat or whatever was important.

Husband. She still couldn't believe she was married, but there it was. Six wore his mark, as well as the ring that he gave her; she was marked as his, from the Legion, to the Mojave, and to the NCR. The thought brought a smile to her face.

"There you go again," Veronica teased, "You're absolutely glowing. I can guess as to why you're practically walking us into the ground."

Six giggled and continued toward the city, her face heating up. She was going to do all sorts of naughty things to Vulpes when she got home.

As they entered Freeside, the Courier began a mental list of what she would do. Maybe, she would find a way to tie him up and touch him all over until he went crazy with want. Or, she could reverse their roles and beg him to take her as hard as he could; she would be so loud that they would hear her all the way down the hall. Nobody would sleep that night until she did.

They quickly passed onto the Strip and walked up the stairs to the Lucky 38. Once inside, Six called out to Yes Man and asked him where Vulpes was.

"He's in la-la land," the bot replied, "I mean, he's in the cocktail lounge."

Six wondered what Yes Man meant, but figured that she would find out soon enough. She entered the elevator with Veronica and pressed both the presidential suite and the cocktail lounge buttons. When they reached the rooms, the Scribe hopped off, allowing Six to ride up to the lounge by herself. With each passing floor, her anticipation grew until the Courier knew that she was going to pounce at her first available opportunity.

The elevator dinged as it opened up at the cocktail lounge. Stepping out, the smell of alcohol hit her full force and made her cover her nose. She glanced about the room and saw tables overturned, booths missing cushions, stools thrown down, and empty bottles and glasses littering the counter. Everyone had one hell of a party and she missed it all.

Sighing, Six took the short stairs down to the seating level of the lounge. To her left, Lanius had crammed himself into a booth to fall asleep, his golden hair a veil across his face. But where was Vulpes?

She walked around to the right, and wondered where everyone else was. Two people couldn't have made such a huge mess, and they certainly couldn't have had that much to drink, especially Vulpes. He never drank much. That was when she saw him.

He was laying back in a booth on a mountain of pillows, his shirt gone to who-knew-where. One arm was dramatically thrown over his face to shield his eyes, and he took deep, slow breaths in his sleep. Six watched him for a while, her eyes trailing down his torso to the jeans that lay low on his hips.

Smirking, she got an idea and crept forward. Six reached Vulpes quietly, without waking him up. As she slowly stuck her hand down his pants, she hoped that her hands weren't too cold. Any second now, he would be awake and ready.

Six frowned when her fondling did nothing. He wasn't dead, was he? She quickly turned in a panic to see his chest rising and falling. She leaned over to be near his face. The strong smell of vodka overpowered his natural scent.

"Hey," Six whispered, her mouth close to his ear.

No response.

The Courier moved his arm away from his face and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm home," she cooed.

Still, nothing.

Six frowned and narrowed her eyes at the sleeping man. Quickly, she removed her hand from his pants and grabbed his nipple for a vicious pinch. Vulpes finally stirred and grunted. His eyes slowly slid open.

"I'm home," Six repeated, leaning in to give him a solid kiss. She tried not to recoil from the smell of alcohol, and succeeded to a point. He did not kiss back, but she figured he was just waking up. Six knew how to get his attention, though.

She swung her leg over one side of his hips, settled down on top of his lap, and dramatically draped herself across his chest. There was a twitch of a smile on his face, but he didn't wake up, at least, not completely. And there was definitely no reaction 'down there'.

Six stared at him in confusion; he was always ready to be with her, and if he wasn't, it would take him only a few seconds. The Courier watched as Vulpes fell asleep again and huffed in indignation. She came back early for nothing.

Six quickly stood and stared down at the man who clearly had replaced her husband with someone else. He never turned down the opportunity to be intimate with her. Besides that, Vulpes had never been one to get wasted.

A loud snore behind her made the Courier turn around. Lanius shifted in his sleep and settled back down. Six narrowed her eyes; this had to be his doing.

She wasn't stupid; she saw the glances he sent Vulpes' way. Their bickering was another form of flirting. She made sure to let Lanius repeatedly know that Vulpes belonged to her by accidentally letting him catch them in intimate encounters.

Perhaps, she would have to do more.

"Where'ya goin?" Vulpes slurred. Six snapped her attention back to him.

"Downstairs," she huffed, "to be with the people who care about me."

"M'm not downstairs," he replied. Vulpes slumped in his seat, his legs bracing against the floor in an attempt to keep himself from sliding all the way down. His lap looked inviting. Maybe this was her chance.

Six went back to straddle him and kissed her way down his chest. Vulpes let out an appreciative grunt and laid back on the cushions. Her hand snaked down to cup him through his pants.

"Can't" he grunted, "s' broken. Vodka."

"Fix it," Six ordered.

"Can't," he repeated.

Six narrowed her eyes at him. She left early and practically ran through the desert specifically to come back to attend to her – their – physical needs.

The Courier recoiled in disgust and stormed off, her husband calling her a brat the last thing she heard as she disappeared into the elevator.