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Boone didn’t know much about Jill, but he knew her hair smelled like broc flowers because the tent they shared when traveling was real small. He didn’t know what it felt like, but knew it would start out real curly right after she washed it and then the curls would drop out as the days dragged on until it was just a gentle wave over her shoulders.
Moving into the 38 was different. Cass and Veronica shared the big bed. They started out sleeping back to back, but that didn’t last long. Jill was hardly ever there, except when she would switch them all around depending on which one she needed. In and out like a puff of smoke, chatting and talking with her hands. She kept her nails painted. Bright orange-red and glossy. When they’d been traveling together, he’d watched her paint them by the light of the camp-fire and blow on them to get the paint to dry faster. She only had the one bottle. Nicked it from the Doc who patched her up, she said.
Eventually, Boone got it in his head that even though he was no good with words, he did sort of know Jill, the kind of things she would like. Pretty things, bright things, things like New Vegas that always sparkled in her eyes as she came through the door.
He couldn’t find enough flowers to make it look right. So he found a suit instead, one that nearly fit, though it was a little tight in the shoulders, and when she walked through the door he said they should drink. Jill liked drinking. Vodka, with fruit in it, if it could be managed. When she nodded he felt his heart skip. She let her hair down then tied it up again, sitting high atop her head but even then brushing against her shoulders.
He should have let her get changed, rather than walking her across the street with dried grass in her hair and blood streaked across the chestpiece of her armor. Somehow, though, this felt right, her face was still flushed from whatever it was she had been doing. They didn’t talk about it, though she talked a lot. About things she found and things she killed, but not really about where all of this was going.
“What’s with the costume anyway, buddy?” She waited until they both had drinks in their hands to ask. Tugged at the lapel of his dark suit to emphasize her question.
“I thought it was nice?”
She shrugged her shoulders and leaned back with her elbows on the bar, facing out toward the casino floor. Boone was somewhat surprised the Tops barkeep didn’t hassle her to keep her weight off of it. But she was making a name for herself around the Mojave. “Courier Six, Jill with no last name she cares to share.” Boone knew it, though. Thought about changing it a whole lot too, but he couldn’t say that.
“It is nice, but it’s not like you. Now what is it you couldn’t tell me back at the 38?” Her nails pressed against the glass in her hand. The fanciest things Boone had seen in a long, long time.
“I thought it was nice?”
Her brow furrowed and she nodded curtly. “Yeah, you told me that, buddy. But normally you lot are completely content to drink in the suite. And you’re all adults. Didn’t realize I had to take you out for daily walks or anything.”
“I think you’re nice.”
The way she was acting, all sure of herself and beautiful, Boone couldn’t even look at her anymore. Tugged on the sleeve of his suit jacket. Under it he was wearing a tshirt. He hadn’t realized that was wrong until just then. She must have thought him a fool.
She was laughing, but trying not to, stifling it with her hand until she regained composure. After that had passed, she stood up straight, put her glass down on the bar. With that smile on her face she looked happy, so happy. He’d done good, to make her happy.
“Oh, buddy. We’ve been over this before.”
Boone’s heart sank. He was sure, though. And what did she mean, they’d been over this before?
“What?”
“When we talked about how you couldn’t come to Cottonwood with me? Although believe me I would have liked nothing better than to tear through some Legion assholes, don’t get me wrong.”
“I couldn’t go, because they had something important.”
“Someone. Someone important.” She corrected.
Boone scowled at his empty tumbler on the bar and the things he had managed to forget. “I don’t get it. He shot you. I shoot other people for you. It should be easy.”
She was still smiling, but not for him. “You, of all people, know nothing is easy.”
They ordered another round and she patted him on the back when they both rushed through it much too quickly.
“Boone, were you going to ask me to dance?”
“Yeah.”
“Now I’m sorry I stopped you when I did.”
He looked at her hands again, with the dirt and blood still under her nails. When he frowned, she insisted she was never the woman for him anyway. Like she knew better than him.