Guilty let out a small puff of air, with the helmet on it sounded horribly like the wheezing of a gas-mask the Ghosts used and Dean felt an uncontrollable urge to scrub himself clean - it being impossible in current circumstances wasn’t something his brain gave a fiddle-stick about. She had stopped counting hoops she had to jump through to get him to stay in one place as far back as the previous district. The Strip didn’t demand this much micro-management and it had, among many other attractions, cannibals running a deluxe restaurant.
“Far be it for me to tell you but…” the tone of voice she had adopted immediately put the ghoul on edge. It reminded him too much of a woman using a pretense hug as her hand slid down his back reaching for his wallet-… “Dean, a man with cold feet isn’t someone any woman would share her bed with.”
Had crickets survived nuclear blast, and if in some spectacular case they had survived Sierra Madre, they’d surely be supplementing the atmosphere right now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked tersely, cigar out of his mouth and quickly forgotten under his heel. It happened a lot since they became ‘partners’ in this little heist.
“Christine. You wall-flowered away when she gave you the silent treatment, didn’t you?”
Muscles around the remains of his nose flared, and she knew that his eyes had narrowed as well. If there was one thing Dean Domino did not take light of, it was mocking. Now, an angry Dean was not a manageable Dean, but the Courier refused to try and placate him.
“There’s no need to spit fire and radiation. You got away scot-free and in one piece. Not many could say that after propositioning to an assassin from Brotherhood of Steel.” Who also wasn’t interested in men in any way, shape or form, but the Guilty decided that she shouldn’t crumb-stomp Domino’s ego too much. It might backfire.
“Brotherhood of what now-…?” He had no idea what she was talking about and it certainly had no bearing to-…“Assassin?!”
The black helmet and her shoulders shivered a bit in what he assumed was suppressed laughter – and so much worse for her if it was! – but she wasn’t about to elaborate further as the helmet sagged to the side. Regardless, he looked incredibly glad that nothing came of it his ill-timed proposition in the end. So much so that he didn’t even bother to hide that he had tried something to begin with. His focus was once more squarely set on the postman and the ridiculous insinuations she had been concocting.
“Let’s clear something up here. I am not scared. I never said I was. And you’re being ridiculous if you think so. I’ve played to worse crowds than this. I can hold the fort here.” Especially if it meant he’d finally get into the casino, and into that vault. “But listen… try and get in the Sierra Madre without me. You’ll wish you haven’t,” he leaned over her, all imposing-like, with a look, and a lowered voice, and promises of unpleasant things left hanging in the air. Things he could provide in the centuries past, when situation called for it.
Guilty paused, and she was not amused. He threatened her. He – a spoiled lounge singer who was lucky enough not to be killed outright by radiation and managed to survive in this little old world pocket of hell, was threatening her – someone who was born and bred into the survival-of-the-strongest reality of the post-war world.
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 8b
“Far be it for me to tell you but…” the tone of voice she had adopted immediately put the ghoul on edge. It reminded him too much of a woman using a pretense hug as her hand slid down his back reaching for his wallet-… “Dean, a man with cold feet isn’t someone any woman would share her bed with.”
Had crickets survived nuclear blast, and if in some spectacular case they had survived Sierra Madre, they’d surely be supplementing the atmosphere right now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked tersely, cigar out of his mouth and quickly forgotten under his heel. It happened a lot since they became ‘partners’ in this little heist.
“Christine. You wall-flowered away when she gave you the silent treatment, didn’t you?”
Muscles around the remains of his nose flared, and she knew that his eyes had narrowed as well. If there was one thing Dean Domino did not take light of, it was mocking. Now, an angry Dean was not a manageable Dean, but the Courier refused to try and placate him.
“There’s no need to spit fire and radiation. You got away scot-free and in one piece. Not many could say that after propositioning to an assassin from Brotherhood of Steel.” Who also wasn’t interested in men in any way, shape or form, but the Guilty decided that she shouldn’t crumb-stomp Domino’s ego too much. It might backfire.
“Brotherhood of what now-…?” He had no idea what she was talking about and it certainly had no bearing to-…“Assassin?!”
The black helmet and her shoulders shivered a bit in what he assumed was suppressed laughter – and so much worse for her if it was! – but she wasn’t about to elaborate further as the helmet sagged to the side. Regardless, he looked incredibly glad that nothing came of it his ill-timed proposition in the end. So much so that he didn’t even bother to hide that he had tried something to begin with. His focus was once more squarely set on the postman and the ridiculous insinuations she had been concocting.
“Let’s clear something up here. I am not scared. I never said I was. And you’re being ridiculous if you think so. I’ve played to worse crowds than this. I can hold the fort here.” Especially if it meant he’d finally get into the casino, and into that vault. “But listen… try and get in the Sierra Madre without me. You’ll wish you haven’t,” he leaned over her, all imposing-like, with a look, and a lowered voice, and promises of unpleasant things left hanging in the air. Things he could provide in the centuries past, when situation called for it.
Guilty paused, and she was not amused. He threatened her. He – a spoiled lounge singer who was lucky enough not to be killed outright by radiation and managed to survive in this little old world pocket of hell, was threatening her – someone who was born and bred into the survival-of-the-strongest reality of the post-war world.