Chapter Text
The frozen-in-time air of the Lucky 38 was creepy as fuck, but Cass put up with that because it also involved untouched bars with a fine selection of whiskey. She was availing herself of that luxury in the presidential suite's kitchen while Mel cleaned up before what they hoped was her final confrontation with Benny.
It'd been a long, strange trip since the night at the Outpost when Cass had gone out to stretch her legs, saw a courier choosing a few things from Larry's wares, heard her ask, "So how much do I owe you?" and then hastily stepped in to prevent her complete fleecing. If Cass were a nicer person, her first motivation for intervening would have been pity for someone naive enough to say that to a hardened caravaneer, but really she just wanted to wreck Larry's night since she was in a shitty mood and he was an asshole anyway.
The courier had introduced herself as Mel and sheepishly bought Cass a drink as a thank-you, and they chatted a while. Eventually Mel confided that she hated bargaining because she was bad at arithmetic; it just wasn't something her tribe of Bighorner herders in far northern Nevada ever used. "I was learning about plants and how not to get trampled instead. I mean, now I can count it when people pay me in NCR money, and I can add things up if you give me a piece of paper and a little time, but traders go too fast for me. So I figure paying their markup is just part of the cost of doing business."
Cass wondered how someone so unworldly had become a courier, of all things, but when she'd asked, Mel had just waved her hand, given a sad little smile, and said, "Things happen." Over the course of the conversation, Cass gathered that she'd left her tribe on bad terms as a young adult, gotten married and had a baby -- Cass suspected that her tribe had objected to her husband -- and then been the only survivor when her family's house burned down. She'd gotten back on her feet working as a courier, and then been robbed, shot, and left to start over yet again.
It was the kind of life story that made Cass feel pretty lucky, and some combination of that strange feeling and all the whiskey they'd put away convinced her that helping Mel fuck up this fancy city boy who'd dumped her in a grave would be a hell of a lot more fun than propping up the bar at the Outpost. And, well, so far it sure had been. Mel was a magnet for interesting shit, treated people decently, had a dry wit under her seriousness that made her pretty good company, and had the skills and nerve to fillet a still-living Deathclaw with that knife of hers. Not that they'd tried, though. Yet.
"So I talked to Swank," Mel called from her bedroom, interrupting Cass's woolgathering, "and he really needs to stop hitting on me, but at least he's on board. I shouldn't have any problems with the other Chairmen."
Cass took the bottle of whiskey she was working on, pocketed a spare, and crossed the hallway. "Sounds good to me." Mel was standing by the bed in her underthings, brushing her hair. Cass had never seen it loose before. Still crimped from its time wound around her head in her trademark braids, it hung in waves all the way to her ass. "Damn, your hair is long."
"Heh. You should have seen some of the elders in my tribe. We never cut our hair."
"Ever? Wow."
"Well, I cut mine really short once, right after I started out on my own, but it felt so wrong I never did it again." She picked up a hand mirror from the bedside table and held up a hank of her hair experimentally. "Have to decide how to put it up. I'm going for something sexier than my usual, since a little distraction never hurt."
"Well, it's plenty distracting like it is right now. You could probably test it out on Boone. He ever seen your hair down?" Cass seriously doubted it. The two of them had done nothing but warily circle each other for a while now, and frankly she was starting to wish they'd just fuck already and get it over with. Sure, they had one dead spouse each, but life had to go on.
Mel stiffened, and not just because she didn't like her current updo. "No." That was significantly more emphatic than usual. Cass had apparently hit a nerve without even trying.
Part of her wanted to say Jesus, Mel, go get laid, it's been years since the fire, but she was pretty sure bringing that up now would be an asshole move. So Cass sighed and didn't say anything while the least sexual person she knew tried to make herself look sexy.
"How's this look?" She'd settled on a hairstyle that left most of her hair loose, corralled back from her face by small braids on either side that met at the back of her head. Simple, but definitely attention-getting.
"I'd fuck you without even getting drunk first. 'Course, I am a little lit up already."
"Thanks, I think." Mel laughed and pulled on a low-cut red silk cocktail dress with a black lace overlay. Cass zipped her up and stepped back to let her arrange her hair to cover the parts of the burn on her shoulder that the straps of her dress, wide as they were, did not.
"You really gonna fuck Benny if he goes for this?" She had trouble picturing Mel in seductress mode, let alone completing the act.
"I'd prefer not to. It's on the table, though." She shrugged. "You use what you have." She looked herself over critically. "I think I'm ready. Let's get you set up."
Mel led Cass to the cocktail lounge, stationed her at one of the plate-glass windows overlooking the Strip, and handed her a pair of binoculars. "I think without his hired Khans he'll try to run, so if he makes it, I want you up here to tell me where he goes. Don't do anything the Securitrons wouldn't like while I'm gone."
Cass chose a chair and settled in. "As long as the Securitrons haven't made a rule against whiskey, I'm fine."
Mel grinned and clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't get so hammered you can't pick out an ugly checkered suit."
"If it's half as ugly as you described it, there ain't enough booze in the world. Now go kill that son of a bitch."