β―β―Β ΰ¨Β You Donβt Know HerΒ ΰ§Β β―β―
Notes: Hello Vaulties! I recently played Dead Money and got inspired to write about my Courier OC Eugene Russell, who happens to be the son of Hollywood starlet Jane Russell. The other half of me was basically beefing with Dean Domino the entire time I played, so this fic ended up being a bit of a personal writing outlet. Still, I hope you enjoyΒ Β π§‘
The orange-red shimmer of the Cloud bled through the ruined streets of the Sierra Madre, wrapping the city in a suffocating haze. Smoke drifted endlessly through the air, curling around shattered buildings and rusted signs like ghostly fingers. Everything about the place felt wrong, cold, silent, dead. The only sounds that truly lived here were the distant whispers carried through the toxic fog and the awful choking noises of those ghosts and poor souls that had once wandered too far into the Cloud and never returned.
The Sierra Madre Casino stood in the center of it all like a rotting monument to greed and obsession. Inside remained a theatre, and a few other rooms which had once been beautiful. Even now, buried beneath decay and radiation, traces of elegance remained. Torn crimson curtains still hung from the stage, and dusty chandeliers dangled overhead like dying stars. Rows of velvet seats stretched through the room, faded and ruined by centuries of neglect.Β
And sitting lazily in one of those seats was Dean Domino. The ghoul lounged comfortably against the cushion as if he owned the place, one leg crossed over the other while smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers. Despite the centuries that had ravaged his skin into something leathery and corpse-like, Dean still carried himself with the swagger of a celebrity. His tuxedo, though aged and worn, remained surprisingly clean compared to everything else in the Mojave. A pair of old pre-war aviator sunglasses rested on his face, hiding his eyes beneath their tinted lenses. Even looking half-dead, Dean Domino somehow still managed to look smug.
A crooked grin pulled at his scarred face as he took another slow drag from his cigarette.
Next to him sat Eugene. Unlike Dean, Eugene looked exhausted.
The white Sierra Madre jumpsuit hung awkwardly off his frame, the massive red X painted across the back feeling more like a target than a uniform. His Pip-Boy rested against his wrist while the heavy metal collar around his neck blinked softly in the dim light.
One wrong move. One wrong sound. And his head would explode.
He hated this place.
More importantly, he hated Dean Domino.
The entire journey through the Sierra Madre had been a nightmare from the very beginning. Kidnapped, dragged into this hell by Father Elijah, and forced into some elaborate scheme centered around the casino vault, it was enough to make anyone lose their mind. Yet somehow Dean managed to make the experience even worse.
The two of them had spent most of their time together trading insults, arguing, or barely tolerating one another long enough to survive. Dean was arrogant, manipulative, and impossibly self-centered. Every conversation somehow circled back to himself, his music, or the glory days before the war.
And Eugene couldnβt stand him.
Unfortunately for both of them, they needed each other.
So they sat there together in the ruined theater, trapped beneath bomb collars while old jazz music crackled softly through the speakers overhead.
Dean claimed the songs were his, of course.
βThey used to play this one all the time,β Dean mused, smoke drifting from his lips. βPacked crowds, beautiful women, expensive drinks. Hell, when I walked on stage, people practically worshipped me.β
Eugene rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Dean continued anyway.
βThatβs what Vegas used to be, kid. Glamour. Style. Not the dump it is now.β He gestured vaguely with his cigarette. βBack then, everyone knew Dean Domino. King of Swing. Couldnβt walk five feet without some starlet hanging off my arm.β
Eugene leaned back further in his chair, already regretting staying for this conversation.
Dean chuckled to himself. βWomen loved me. Singers, actresses, dancersβ¦ hell, I knew half of Hollywood personally.β He tilted his head slightly. βEspecially around the time the Sierra Madre was being built. That place attracted all sorts of famous faces.β
The ghoulβs grin widened faintly.
βThere was this one,β he said casually. βReal classy dame. Black hair, red lipstick, elegant dresses. Hung around Vera a few times after rehearsals.β
βShe had this look to her,β Dean continued, staring absently toward the stage as he reminisced. βCould light up a whole room just by smiling. Real knockout.β Dean continued casually. βAlways had people staring at her. Hell, half the room stopped breathing whenever she walked in.β He smirked slightly. βCanβt blame βem.β
Dean took another drag from his cigarette, completely unaware of the nerve he had just struck.
βSweet thing, too. Smart. Funnyβ¦.β He chuckled. βThink her name was Jane somethingβ¦β
Eugeneβs jaw clenched hard and his stomach twisted painfully.
ββ¦.hmmmβ¦. Jane Russell I believe it was.β Dean said quietly.
Eugeneβs mother.
The theater suddenly felt smaller. Hot anger mixed violently with grief inside his chest as memories of his mother flooded back all at once, the sound of her laughter, the smell of expensive perfume, her hand resting gently against his shoulder when he was younger.
And now Dean Domino sat here casually talking about her like she was just another woman he once knew.
Dean paused.
For the first time in a long while, the ghoul actually sounded uncertain. βYeah. That was it.β
Silence settled between them.
The old jazz continued playing softly in the background while the collars around their necks beeped steadily in the quiet.
Dean slowly turned his head toward him. βYou know her or somethinβ?β
Eugene stared forward at the ruined stage, his expression unreadable.
βShe was my mother.β
The words hit the room like a gunshot.
Deanβs smug expression faltered almost instantly.
For once, he had nothing clever to say.
Eugene swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure together despite the storm building in his chest. βSo if youβre about to sit there and tell me another story about how you flirted with her backstage or took her drinking or to your bedroom after rehearsals,β he muttered bitterly, βdonβt.β
Dean blinked behind his sunglasses.
Then, surprisingly, the ghoul let out a quieter breath and leaned back into his chair.
ββ¦Well, Iβll be damned.β
Dean stared at Eugene for a long moment, the usual smugness on his face replaced by something closer to disbelief.
Then, unfortunately, his mouth kept moving.
βHold on,β Dean said, letting out a raspy chuckle as he leaned back in his chair. βJane Russell? Your mother?β He motioned vaguely toward Eugene with the cigarette between his fingers. βKid, no offense, but unless youβre secretly two hundred years old, Iβm calling bullshit.β
Eugeneβs expression darkened instantly.
Dean either didnβt notice or simply didnβt care. βSheβd be ancient even before the bombs dropped,β the ghoul continued. βAnd trust me, sweetheart, I knew Jane. Really knew her.β A crooked grin tugged at his ruined face.Β
The chair beneath Eugene creaked sharply as his hands clenched into fists. Dean finally noticed the shift in atmosphere but kept talking anyway. Eugeneβs eyes narrowed immediately. Dean leaned back further into the theater seat, crossing one leg over the other like he wasnβt sitting beside a man one bad sentence away from snapping his neck. βSo whatβs the story here?β he asked. βCryogenic freezing? Weird science experiment? You some kinda pre-war popsicle?β
Eugene exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to keep himself calm. βCryostasisβ¦.β
Dean barked out a surprised laugh. βNo kidding? You got frozen like a TV dinner and woke up in the wasteland?β He shook his head. βThatβs rich.β
Eugene said nothing.
Dean looked him over again, more carefully this time. βSo let me get this straightβ¦ your mother was the Jane Russell, old-world Hollywood sweetheartβ¦β He paused. βAnd your father?β
The mention of his father instantly soured Eugeneβs expression worse than it was.Β
The silence that followed answered enough.
Deanβs smirk widened knowingly. βAh. Daddy issues too. You really are a walking pre-war tragedy. No wonder you came out all broody.β
Eugeneβs fingers twitched against his knees.
βYour Mother, Jane, She really was gorgeous though,β Dean continued, exhaling smoke into the air. βWhole room used to stop when she walked in. Men wanted her, women wanted to be herββ
βStop talking.β
Dean ignored him.
βShe used to hang around backstage sometimes while Vera rehearsed. Always dressed to kill too.β He chuckled. βI remember one nightββ
βI said stop talking.β
This time the warning came sharper.
Dean finally glanced toward him, though the smug grin never left his face.
βWhat?β he scoffed. βYouβre really gonna get all protective over stories from before you were even born?β
Eugene stood abruptly from the chair.
The metal legs scraped harshly against the theater floor.
Dean raised a brow behind his sunglasses. βEasy, kid. Iβm just askinβ.β
βNo.β Eugene stepped closer. βYouβre running your mouth.β
Dean slowly lowered the cigarette from his lips, his own expression hardening now. βTouchy subject, huh?β
βYou have no idea.β
The theater felt colder by the second.
Dean scoffed lightly. βLook, if she really *was* your mother, then congratulations. But forgive me if Iβm having trouble understanding how a kid from the Mojave ended up being the son of a pre-war movie star.β
Eugeneβs breathing grew heavier.
βSay another thing about her,β he warned quietly.
Dean tilted his head, clearly unimpressed. βOr what?β
That did it.
Eugene stood abruptly from his chair, metal screeching loudly against the theater floor.
Dean barely had time to react before Eugene grabbed the front of his tuxedo and slammed him violently against the seat.
The ghoulβs cigarette tumbled to the ground.
βDonβt,β Eugene hissed.
The collar around his neck began beeping slightly faster from the sudden movement.
Deanβs grin vanished immediately.
βEasy there,Iββ
βI said donβt talk about her like that.β
Eugeneβs hands clenched tighter into the fabric of Deanβs suit. Rage burned behind his eyes now, real rage, the kind that had been building for years beneath grief and exhaustion. βYou donβt get to sit there and say shit like that about my mother.β
Deanβs face hardened slightly at the sudden aggression, though there was still irritation underneath it rather than fear. βOh, come on,β Dean snapped. βI knew her before you were even a thought. Donβt start acting like you own the damn memory of her.β
Eugene slammed him back harder against the chair. βYou knew of her,β he shot back angrily. βYou knew the celebrity. You knew the actress everybody wanted a piece of.β His voice cracked bitterly. βYou didnβt know my mom.β
The collar beeped again. Faster.
Dean glanced toward it briefly, annoyance flashing across his ruined features. βKid, unless you wanna decorate this theater with both our brains into abstract art. I suggest you let go.β
But Eugene barely heard him.
All he could think about was Dean casually reminiscing about her like she was some old fling. Another pretty face from the glory days before the bombs. βShe was all I had,β Eugene growled. βDo you understand that?β
Deanβs expression shifted slightly at that.
For a brief moment, the usual arrogance faded enough for something quieter to show through.
ββ¦Yeah,β Dean said more softly than expected. βActually, I do.β
Eugene hesitated.
The beeping continued. Dean slowly raised his hands in surrender. βNow unless Elijahβs plan suddenly involves turning ourselves into fireworks, maybe loosen the death grip a little.β
Eugene stared at him for another tense second before finally shoving him backward and stepping away. Dean adjusted his wrinkled collar with an irritated scoff.Β
βHell of a temper.β
βYou deserved worse.β
βProbably.β
That answer caught Eugene off guard.
Dean bent down to retrieve his fallen cigarette before realizing it had gone out. He muttered a curse under his breath and tossed it aside. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Eugene finally sat back down heavily in the chair beside him, though every muscle in his body still felt tight. The adrenaline from nearly choking Dean hadnβt fully faded yet. Neither had the grief.
Dean adjusted the front of his wrinkled tuxedo with an irritated mutter, rubbing at the spot where Eugene had grabbed him. Surprisingly, he kept his mouth shut this time. It wasnβt comfortable. It wasnβt friendly. But it also wasnβt sharp anymore. Just the kind of quiet that comes after everything important has already been said, and neither person has the energy left to turn it into something worse.
Dean leaned back slightly in his seat, exhaling through his nose as the ruined theater creaked around them. Eugene stayed where he was, staring toward the broken stage, hands slowly unclenching now that the fight had drained out of them both.
The Sierra Madre kept breathing and for a brief moment, neither of them moved like they were preparing for the next blow.
Just two survivors sitting in a dead place, letting the silence hold what neither of them could.
