⎯⎯ ୨ You Don’t Know Her ୧ ⎯⎯
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 enjoy 🧡
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.
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.
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 couldn’t 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.
“They used to play this one all the time,” Dean mused, smoke drifting from his lips. “Packed crowds, beautiful women, expensive drinks. Hell, when I walked on stage, people practically worshipped me.”
Eugene rolled his eyes but said nothing.
“That’s what Vegas used to be, kid. Glamour. Style. Not the dump it is now.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette. “Back then, everyone knew Dean Domino. King of Swing. Couldn’t walk five feet without some starlet hanging off my arm.”
Eugene leaned back further in his chair, already regretting staying for this conversation.
Dean chuckled to himself. “Women loved me. Singers, actresses, dancers… hell, I knew half of Hollywood personally.” He tilted his head slightly. “Especially around the time the Sierra Madre was being built. That place attracted all sorts of famous faces.”
The ghoul’s grin widened faintly.
“There was this one,” he said casually. “Real classy dame. Black hair, red lipstick, elegant dresses. Hung around Vera a few times after rehearsals.”
“She had this look to her,” Dean continued, staring absently toward the stage as he reminisced. “Could light up a whole room just by smiling. Real knockout.“ Dean continued casually. “Always had people staring at her. Hell, half the room stopped breathing whenever she walked in.” He smirked slightly. “Can’t blame ‘em.”
Dean took another drag from his cigarette, completely unaware of the nerve he had just struck.
“Sweet thing, too. Smart. Funny….” He chuckled. “Think her name was Jane something…”
Eugene’s jaw clenched hard and his stomach twisted painfully.
“….hmmm…. Jane Russell I believe it was.” Dean said quietly.
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.
For the first time in a long while, the ghoul actually sounded uncertain. “Yeah. That was it.”
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. “You know her or somethin’?”
Eugene stared forward at the ruined stage, his expression unreadable.
The words hit the room like a gunshot.
Dean’s 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. “So if you’re 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,” he muttered bitterly, “don’t.”
Dean blinked behind his sunglasses.
Then, surprisingly, the ghoul let out a quieter breath and leaned back into his chair.
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.
“Hold on,” Dean said, letting out a raspy chuckle as he leaned back in his chair. “Jane Russell? Your mother?” He motioned vaguely toward Eugene with the cigarette between his fingers. “Kid, no offense, but unless you’re secretly two hundred years old, I’m calling bullshit.”
Eugene’s expression darkened instantly.
Dean either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care. “She’d be ancient even before the bombs dropped,” the ghoul continued. “And trust me, sweetheart, I knew Jane. Really knew her.” A crooked grin tugged at his ruined face.
The chair beneath Eugene creaked sharply as his hands clenched into fists. Dean finally noticed the shift in atmosphere but kept talking anyway. Eugene’s eyes narrowed immediately. Dean leaned back further into the theater seat, crossing one leg over the other like he wasn’t sitting beside a man one bad sentence away from snapping his neck. “So what’s the story here?” he asked. “Cryogenic freezing? Weird science experiment? You some kinda pre-war popsicle?”
Eugene exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to keep himself calm. “Cryostasis….”
Dean barked out a surprised laugh. “No kidding? You got frozen like a TV dinner and woke up in the wasteland?” He shook his head. “That’s rich.”
Dean looked him over again, more carefully this time. “So let me get this straight… your mother was the Jane Russell, old-world Hollywood sweetheart…” He paused. “And your father?”
The mention of his father instantly soured Eugene’s expression worse than it was.
The silence that followed answered enough.
Dean’s smirk widened knowingly. “Ah. Daddy issues too. You really are a walking pre-war tragedy. No wonder you came out all broody.”
Eugene’s fingers twitched against his knees.
“Your Mother, Jane, She really was gorgeous though,” Dean continued, exhaling smoke into the air. “Whole room used to stop when she walked in. Men wanted her, women wanted to be her—”
“She used to hang around backstage sometimes while Vera rehearsed. Always dressed to kill too.” He chuckled. “I remember one night—”
This time the warning came sharper.
Dean finally glanced toward him, though the smug grin never left his face.
“What?” he scoffed. “You’re really gonna get all protective over stories from before you were even born?”
Eugene stood abruptly from the chair.
The metal legs scraped harshly against the theater floor.
Dean raised a brow behind his sunglasses. “Easy, kid. I’m just askin’.”
“No.” Eugene stepped closer. “You’re running your mouth.”
Dean slowly lowered the cigarette from his lips, his own expression hardening now. “Touchy subject, huh?”
The theater felt colder by the second.
Dean scoffed lightly. “Look, if she really *was* your mother, then congratulations. But forgive me if I’m having trouble understanding how a kid from the Mojave ended up being the son of a pre-war movie star.”
Eugene’s breathing grew heavier.
“Say another thing about her,” he warned quietly.
Dean tilted his head, clearly unimpressed. “Or what?”
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 ghoul’s cigarette tumbled to the ground.
The collar around his neck began beeping slightly faster from the sudden movement.
Dean’s grin vanished immediately.
“I said don’t talk about her like that.”
Eugene’s hands clenched tighter into the fabric of Dean’s suit. Rage burned behind his eyes now, real rage, the kind that had been building for years beneath grief and exhaustion. “You don’t get to sit there and say shit like that about my mother.”
Dean’s face hardened slightly at the sudden aggression, though there was still irritation underneath it rather than fear. “Oh, come on,” Dean snapped. “I knew her before you were even a thought. Don’t start acting like you own the damn memory of her.”
Eugene slammed him back harder against the chair. “You knew of her,” he shot back angrily. “You knew the celebrity. You knew the actress everybody wanted a piece of.” His voice cracked bitterly. “You didn’t know my mom.”
The collar beeped again. Faster.
Dean glanced toward it briefly, annoyance flashing across his ruined features. “Kid, unless you wanna decorate this theater with both our brains into abstract art. I suggest you let go.”
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. “She was all I had,” Eugene growled. “Do you understand that?”
Dean’s expression shifted slightly at that.
For a brief moment, the usual arrogance faded enough for something quieter to show through.
“…Yeah,” Dean said more softly than expected. “Actually, I do.”
The beeping continued. Dean slowly raised his hands in surrender. “Now unless Elijah’s plan suddenly involves turning ourselves into fireworks, maybe loosen the death grip a little.”
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.
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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t friendly. But it also wasn’t 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.
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