Characters: F!Courier, Boone Relationship: General Series: Standing Alone
Charlie stumbles back into the Lucky 38 just as twilight settles in on the Strip, riding on the kind of downward slope the bender he's currently going up on will most assuredly produce the next day. She wanders over to the elevator, does a double-take of her surroundings when she gets there, and vaguely reverses course, eventually washing up on the bar next to him. A waft of considerably nicer alcohol than what he's currently imbibing comes with her.
Boone keeps staring into his glass as she hangs her duster off the back of her chair, removes her hat and gloves, then places a stained deck of cards down on the polished wood and carefully starts to lay them out. He thinks she might be setting up a game of Solitaire. "Charlie."
"Boone."
"Evening."
"Seen Raul?"
"No."
Charlie stops playing and rests her head on her hands, leaves it there for a long moment and then snaps it back up, dragging the cards together so fast that some of them bend in half. "Any of that hooch you're drinking left?"
"Like you need more."
Charlie cants an eyebrow at him, sounding testy as she puts the deck away. "Like you need it at all."
Boone decides he is not in the mood for her sourness; whatever snit she's gotten herself into doesn't match his current hell. It's a bad day. A birthday. One that will never happen for the woman it belongs to. The present for it is still tucked away, hidden where she would never think to look and destined to sit there until everything around it rots into dust. "The fuck you know about what I need."
"Well, why don't you tell me, then."
The answer pours loose before he can think it might be a good idea to stop it. "I want Carla, for one more night. This night. I want my baby in my arms. Deliver that." He digs around in a pocket and slams a handful of NCR scrip onto the bar. "There. That's what you need, isn't it?"
Charlie picks the sheaf of bills up, eyes it, then firmly tucks it all back into his hand, her face inscrutable. "I'm not that kind of Courier. Carla's gone. You can't bring back what's dead, Boone, only make something new."
Oh, this is definitely not the sort of discussion he should be having in this state; probably one that he shouldn't have at all, but he can't help himself. The sad thing is, Charlie might be the only person who could understand exactly why he finds it so unfair. Why she's so unfair. "You're back. Why the fuck should it be you, come out of the dirt like an undead joke. Some barren, illiterate bitch can come back, so why not my heart-" Boone suddenly finds himself staring up from the floor, Charlie's busted knuckles matching his busted lip.
"You are one melancholic, mean little sonofabitch when you're drunk, you know that?"
He stares up at her dumbly, the viciousness in his voice traded for a sullen petulance. "You hit me." Joining this revelation is the feeling that he has finally made Charlie genuinely angry with him, almost uncontrollably so. Hand still cocked and her jaw clenched tight, she's breathing so hard the air is practically roaring out of her as she glares down at him. Boone decides there is some small satisfaction to be found in that, at least.
"If I didn't think I'd punch your lung in with a rib, there'd be a kick joining it." She turns to head for the elevator.
"You hit like a girl." It isn't bright, but it is the best he can come up with, unless he really wants to- "Should read up on it and improve yourself. Wait, right, scratch that."
Five Times Boone's Brawled With Charlie: Dead Rabbits 1/?
Relationship: General
Series: Standing Alone
Charlie stumbles back into the Lucky 38 just as twilight settles in on the Strip, riding on the kind of downward slope the bender he's currently going up on will most assuredly produce the next day. She wanders over to the elevator, does a double-take of her surroundings when she gets there, and vaguely reverses course, eventually washing up on the bar next to him. A waft of considerably nicer alcohol than what he's currently imbibing comes with her.
Boone keeps staring into his glass as she hangs her duster off the back of her chair, removes her hat and gloves, then places a stained deck of cards down on the polished wood and carefully starts to lay them out. He thinks she might be setting up a game of Solitaire. "Charlie."
"Boone."
"Evening."
"Seen Raul?"
"No."
Charlie stops playing and rests her head on her hands, leaves it there for a long moment and then snaps it back up, dragging the cards together so fast that some of them bend in half. "Any of that hooch you're drinking left?"
"Like you need more."
Charlie cants an eyebrow at him, sounding testy as she puts the deck away. "Like you need it at all."
Boone decides he is not in the mood for her sourness; whatever snit she's gotten herself into doesn't match his current hell. It's a bad day. A birthday. One that will never happen for the woman it belongs to. The present for it is still tucked away, hidden where she would never think to look and destined to sit there until everything around it rots into dust. "The fuck you know about what I need."
"Well, why don't you tell me, then."
The answer pours loose before he can think it might be a good idea to stop it. "I want Carla, for one more night. This night. I want my baby in my arms. Deliver that." He digs around in a pocket and slams a handful of NCR scrip onto the bar. "There. That's what you need, isn't it?"
Charlie picks the sheaf of bills up, eyes it, then firmly tucks it all back into his hand, her face inscrutable. "I'm not that kind of Courier. Carla's gone. You can't bring back what's dead, Boone, only make something new."
Oh, this is definitely not the sort of discussion he should be having in this state; probably one that he shouldn't have at all, but he can't help himself. The sad thing is, Charlie might be the only person who could understand exactly why he finds it so unfair. Why she's so unfair. "You're back. Why the fuck should it be you, come out of the dirt like an undead joke. Some barren, illiterate bitch can come back, so why not my heart-" Boone suddenly finds himself staring up from the floor, Charlie's busted knuckles matching his busted lip.
"You are one melancholic, mean little sonofabitch when you're drunk, you know that?"
He stares up at her dumbly, the viciousness in his voice traded for a sullen petulance. "You hit me." Joining this revelation is the feeling that he has finally made Charlie genuinely angry with him, almost uncontrollably so. Hand still cocked and her jaw clenched tight, she's breathing so hard the air is practically roaring out of her as she glares down at him. Boone decides there is some small satisfaction to be found in that, at least.
"If I didn't think I'd punch your lung in with a rib, there'd be a kick joining it." She turns to head for the elevator.
"You hit like a girl." It isn't bright, but it is the best he can come up with, unless he really wants to- "Should read up on it and improve yourself. Wait, right, scratch that."