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To my dearest friend, Polly. Who, despite being French, is one stand-up gal (and SilverV shipper).
Knock, knock, knock…
“Fucking finally!”
V shot up from the couch, almost face-planting over her own two feet and punting poor Nibbles out of the way as she beelined to the door.
Fifty-three minutes. Fifty-three goddamn minutes for one pizza. Yeah, sure, she’d ordered right in the middle of Friday dinner rush, but what the hell happened to Buck-A-Slice’s “29-minute guarantee, or it’s free”? False advertising, corpo bullshit, the lot of it.
She yanked the door open, already ready to cuss somebody out, only to freeze.
“Hey, V!”
That voice. That steroid-pumped body. That one too-friendly smile under a chrome eye and that big, shining, cue-ball head.
Her jaw dropped. “River?!” V wasn’t even looking at the box anymore. “Why the fuck are you delivering me my pizza?”
The man just grinned and shoved the box toward her. “S’my job, now. Started last week.”
V grimaced like River had just handed her a bomb. “What the hell happened to being a cop?”
“I’m on administrative leave. Ninety days and counting.” He chuckled, shoulders shrugging with the weight of a man who’d stopped giving a shit about anything. “Joss said either get a job or get out. And lemme tell you, those anti-homeless benches aren’t exactly Tempur-Pedic.”
V blinked at him. “…The fuck happened?”
River laughed again, the pizza box bobbing in his hands like it was in on the joke. “Officially? Improper use of an emergency siren.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Guess I flicked it on when I wasn’t supposed to. Got nailed for it.”
“How the hell do you even—”
River scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Me and my partner used to, uh… pick up dolls by flashing the red-and-blues. Supervisor walked caught us when she was in the middle of a sex worker sting.”
V just stared at him for a long moment. “…Dumbass.”
“...I know.”
V snatched the box from River’s hands and was halfway through slamming the door when he stuck a hand out, stopping her.
“Hey, wait!”
“Ugh… What now?”
River dug into his back pocket and fished out a battered handheld. A few taps, and he spun it around for her to see. “You gotta pay for your pie.”
Right. She almost forgot. That would’ve been a hell of a headline: ‘Merc accidentally steals pizza from cop on suspension.’ Not that River seemed to give a damn… he looked downright cheerful about it.
V took the device from the guy’s hands and skimmed the screen. Options blinked back at her. Donate to charity? Yeah, right. Leave a tip? Absolutely not. Not in this economy. She just jammed her card in, confirmed the total, and shoved it back into his ‘ganic hand.
“Huh… no tip?”
WHAM!
The door shut in his face.
V padded back across her shoebox apartment, weaving around piles of clothes and half-disassembled chrome, before plopping down at her coffee table. Well… it was more like her coffee/dining/everything table. With a flick, the box was open, and a wave of warm, greasy, synthetic aroma hit her square in the face. Not exactly like real pizza. Not exactly food either. But perfect.
And as if summoned by the scent alone, Johnny flickered into existence beside her on the couch, leaning over the box like a street junkie casing his next fix. He squinted at the toppings, lip curling.
“Pepperoni and bacon? Pfft… basic bitch.”
V arched a brow, pizza slice already in hand. “That not good enough for you, dickhead?”
Johnny leaned back, arms crossed, smug as sin. “Nope.”
“Oh yeah? What would you recommend then, oh culinary messiah? Bell peppers and onions?”
“God, no. Don’t insult me.”
“Then what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t.”
“Really? You don’t know? Fuck… Kids these days, no sense of taste.” He leaned forward, slid his shades down just enough to glare at her bare-eyed, like he was about to reveal the secret to take down Arasaka. “I’m talkin’ about… pineapple.”
V recoiled like he’d pulled a gun on her. “Pineapple? Are you fucking wacked?”
Johnny blinked, dead serious. “What?”
“WHAT?! What do you mean, what? That’s revolting! A crime against society! Humanity!”
He waved her off, shaking his head with a sneer. “No, it’s not. It’s goddamn divine. Sweet and salty, hot and juicy, grease cutting through sugar. It’s a fucking symphony of flavor.”
“More like a chorus of screaming tortured souls.”
“Whatever. I’ve seen the shit you eat. You still dip your chicken strips in ketchup. Your taste buds are completely fucked.”
“Chicken strips and ketchup are a classic combo! What the hell are you talking about?”
Johnny scoffed. “Yeah, at the kids’ table, maybe. You’re twenty-three, V. Even your output, Judy thinks it’s weird.”
V scowled. “And what, oh wise sage of trash cuisine, would you suggest I dip my tenders in then?”
“Ranch. Obviously.”
“Ranch?”
“Yeah. What? Your dumb ass never heard of the Hidden Valley before?”
“I know what ranch is, shit-lips. Shut up.”
Johnny smirked, leaning in. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Say what like what?”
“Ranch.”
“…What?”
“You say it like ‘RAY-anch.’ It’s ranch. No Y in it.”
“I don’t say it like that.”
“Do too.”
V flashed the rockerboy a casual middle finger. “Fuck you.” Shaking her head, she then lifted another slice from the box. There was no glorious cheese pull to behold, just limp triangles and crust that felt more like the box it came in than actual dough. Still, she took a bite. Artificial flavor, synthetic grease, and food dyes guaranteed to shave a few years off her life. Whatever. Nobody orders pizza because they’re health-conscious.
Johnny piped up again. Refusing to back down. “Why the hell did you order from Buck-A-Slice anyway? I’d rather tongue Kerry’s asshole than eat that shit.”
V chewed, swallowed, and leveled him with a look. “You’d do that anyway. For fun.”
“Fuck you,” Johnny shot back, bristling. “Point is… doesn’t it scare you to put anything that cheap into your body?”
“Are you, of all people, really giving me a lecture on health?”
“M’just sayin’. Nothing that cheap ever came from anything good.”
V smirked, wiping grease off her chin. “Explains you.”
Johnny’s head snapped toward her, already prepared with a comeback that was locked and loaded. “Oh, that’s rich. Real fuckin’ funny, V.” He leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the soggy slice in her hand. “You’re sittin’ there eating discount cardboard with cheese spray on it, and I’m the cheap one?”
She shrugged, smug. “If the boot fits.”
Johnny barked a laugh at that. “Please. Buck-A-Slice is the culinary equivalent of a back-alley blowjob. Sure, it’s fast. But it’s also hella dirty, and guaranteed to leave you with something you don’t want. But if you at least put pineapple on it? That would’ve at least made it somewhat tolerable. Dunno why you couldn’t just order from Trattoria Tethyr anyway. Now that’s fine dining. Class.”
V nearly choked on her next bite. “Class? You were just spewing ‘bout fruit on pizza, and now you’re thinking you’re classy?”
“Damn right. And I’m telling’ ya, V. Double T’s Hawaiian deluxe is the shit. It’s sweet, salty, juicy. It’s like foreplay for your taste buds. That shit’s straight up erotic. Meanwhile, you’re sitting here deep-throating grease like a sad drunk at 3 a.m.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re a coward who’s afraid of flavor.”
“For the last time! It’s fruit, you dipshit! Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza!”
Johnny shot up to his feet, pacing in front of the couch like he was about to give another one of his signature long-ass speeches. “That’s where you’re wrong. Pineapple on pizza is revolutionary! It’s… It’s punk rock on dough! Like biting into anarchy itself!”
“Anarchy?!” V stood too, another slice firm in her hand. “It’s a crime! Might as well smear Nutri-Paste on it while you’re at it!”
Johnny whirled on her, veins in his neck popping. “Nutri-Paste doesn’t have notes of caramelized sunshine, V! It doesn’t melt into the cheese like a lover into bed—”
“Oh my fucking god, shut up!”
“You know what? That greasy slab you’re holding ain’t even food, it’s a hate crime against dough! You’re out here acting like you’ve got taste, but you’re basically tonguing a corpse!”
V’s face went red. “Better than tonguing fruit salad! Who the hell puts tropical shit on an Italian classic?!”
They were nose-to-nose now, shouting so loud the walls of the studio rattled.
And then—
PLOP.
Nibbles leapt onto the coffee table like a missile, snatched V’s slice straight out of her hand, and bolted across the apartment with it dangling from her teeth.
Both V and Johnny froze, mid-scream.
“…Did your cat just punk you?” Johnny asked, deadpan.
“Motherfucker,” V growled, lunging after Nibbles.
The cat shot under the table, tail high, slice dangling like a trophy. V dropped to her knees, swiping an arm underneath. “Give it back, you little nutsack on legs!”
A growl, a hiss, then the sound of wet, frantic chewing.
“Don’t you dare—”
By the time she dragged Nibbles out by the scruff, all that remained was a grease-stained string of cheese hanging from the cat’s chin. Nibbles licked her chops, utterly unbothered, and wriggled free to saunter off like a bandit who just made off with a huge score.
V slumped back onto the couch, defeated. “She ate the whole damn thing.”
V collapsed back into the couch, arms folded tight across her chest. Nibbles licked her paws in the corner, looking smug as hell.
Then, as if right on cue...
Grrrrrnnnnhhh…
V’s stomach growled loud enough to rattle the pizza box. She winced.
Johnny tilted his head, a smirk spreading. “Was that you or the cat coughing up regret?”
“Fuck off.”
But then…
Gggrrrrrrrnnnhhh…
Another one! Louder! Johnny’s own gut answered a second later, a hollow, metallic churn that made him scowl.
They locked eyes. Both hungry. Both beaten.
“…Tom’s Diner?” V muttered, tilting her head.
“Yeah. Tom’s Diner.” Johnny smiled. “They got the best chicken and waffles.”
V looked like she was about to hurl. “Chicken and waffles?! That’s just as fucked as pineapple on pizza.”
Johnny leaned back, grinning wide. “Oh, here we go again. You ever had crispy chicken skin melt into maple syrup? That’s sex on a plate, V.”
She groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “I should have just starved.”
“Should’ve just ordered pineapple.”
“Fuck. You.”
And with that, the argument started all over again.