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“No, no. Like this.”
Dean took the tin can from the Courier’s hands, daintily holding it between his thumb and index finger. “You must stir it evenly, not mash it incessantly like a mutant on a rampage,” he chided, taking the old bent spoon in hand. The Courier crossed their arms over their chest, obviously put off.
“I’m sure Dog would appreciate that kind of talk,” they said, leaning against the counter spread with various ingredients and a hot plate.
“Bah,” was how the ghoul replied, “Poppycock. The blue skin couldn’t understand even a third of that sentence.”
The Courier retorted, “God could.”
Dean just brought the now fizzling concoction to his mouth, pinkie up. He replied with a click of the tongue, conveying his annoyance before knocking back a swig of the ‘martini’. He passed the can to the human with a nudge, letting out a soft grunt in the process.
“Drink, you need to stay healthy if you mean to survive this mad man’s nightmare.” The Courier looked down at the mixture of old food, cleaner, and God-knew-what, nose wrinkling in disapproval.
“Domino, that’ll kill me.”
“Nonsense. I digest it just fine. And I’d kill you myself, if it didn’t bite me in the ass,” he snorted back, picking up another jar of Cloud residue.
The Courier settled with a nearby package of potato crisps, it sure as hell wasn’t the healthiest crap to eat, but it was preferable to Death in a Can.
“You know, they’ve got real drinks,” they said after a quiet moment passed. The deafening silence of the Villa was disturbing, not even the irradiated parts of the desert had been so dead. “Back in the Mojave, I mean. The rest of the world.”
Dean lit a fresh cigarette. “As long as humanity survives, so will the time honored tradition of getting pissed.” The Courier tilted their head at this, and the ghoul sighed, “Shitfaced, as you bloody Americans call it.”
The Courier stared, half-eaten bag of chips in hand.
“Oh for the… Nevermind it.” He puffed a cloud of smoke in the human’s direction. “I wonder how much of the world has changed, since the war.” He mused aloud. “If it’s hell here, I can’t imagine how the rest of it turned out.”
“It’s not so bad,” they said, inspecting a crisp. “It’s been two centuries since shit hit the fan, and we don’t have Ghost People or Clouds to worry about. Deathclaws can be an issue though,” they popped the potato chip in their mouth. “They stay away from settlements, mostly. It’s other people I’m worried about.”
“Such is the human condition,” Dean replied dryly. His thoughts briefly fell on the memories of Vera, thoughts of Sinclair. “We’ve always been at each other’s necks. I would never expect that to change.” He set the can be had dubbed ‘The Sierra Madre Martini’ down on the corroded counter top, lowering his sunglasses to glance around the decrepit room.
They had come inside to scavenge, out of sight of the Ghost People, away from the Cloud. Trash lay scattered around the room, they’d pulled anything salvageable out and into the counter, then after examining the spoils, Dean had pulled the Courier close to show them how 'it was done’. 'It’, of course, being the can of food now sitting forlornly by itself, spoon still poking from its mouth.
“You were a lounge singer, right?” The Courier asked, breaking the silence. “You’ve got a nice voice. It must have sounded lovely when you sang.”
Surprised, but not taken aback, Dean looked down at the Courier, smile growing behind cracked lips. “My, don’t youhave the silver tongue.” Dean Domino, the man that he was, loved to have his ego stroked.
“That’s not all my tongue is good for,” the Courier replied coyly, laughing as they held out their hand to the ghoul. “Sing something, would you?”
“Flattery is something I’ve dreadfully missed, you devil. I will comply, albeit quietly. We wouldn’t want any hecklers interrupting my performance.” And he took their hand in his, the other falling to their hip in a careful embrace.
It had been over two hundred years since his last performance, though it hadn’t been that long since he last sang. His voice was still strong, even as it was hushed, low, but loud enough for Courier Six to hear as they swayed back and forth, dress shoes and boots scuffing softly against the old, worn tile.
As much as he hated being interrupted, this time could be an exception. His hand cupped the back of the Courier’s neck, their arms wrapped around his, and the lyrics, though so very, very fitting, were cut off and quieted as mouth met mouth.
Even now, standing in the City of Dead, surrounded by (literal) Ghosts of the past, he felt so vividly alive.
The Courier, after their lips had parted, smiled cheekily. Smarmy and coy, the ass. “Come on,” they said returning to the counter to stash the spoils in their pack. “Let’s get to the Fountain before the Christine and Dog start to worry.”
"Wait now– Hold the bloody phone!“ Dean began to protest, but the Courier was off, laughing as they fled out a door, back into the dreary streets of the villa.
”Typical,“ he muttered, searching his coat for a fresh cigarette. "Cold feet, always the cold feet.” But a grin was on his face as he strolled after them, steps lighter than they had been in years.