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Chapter Text

The dim, flickering lights of the Atomic Wrangler cast long shadows across the worn-out stage—if you could call the slightly raised platform in the corner a stage—as Giselle Darnell adjusted the microphone stand, her fingers brushing against the cool metal. The air smelled of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke, the usual perfume of Freeside’s finest dive. A few patrons nursed their drinks, barely paying attention, until her voice cut through the haze like a knife.

Here, in this dingy little corner of Freeside, she could still be herself, not the infamous Courier Six, not the woman with a bullet-shaped scar on her forehead, or just another average drifter of the Mojave Wasteland, but just Giselle, the woman who used to sing. This was her sanctuary, even if only for a little while.

She adjusted the microphone, her fingers trembling just slightly before she steadied herself. The room quieted, some out of curiosity, others out of drunken politeness. A few drunks, a couple of NCR troopers on leave. The usual. Then, with a deep breath, she began to sing.

"I love my man, I'm a liar if I say I don't..."

Her voice, rich and velvety, wrapped around the notes of Billie Holiday’s "Billie’s Blues" like smoke curling from a cigarette, like an old friend. The song had always been her favorite—a song about love, pain, and the kind of men who made you regret both.

The few patrons who bothered to listen sat still, some with their mouths slightly open, as if they hadn’t expected such soul from a woman in a dusty duster with a pistol strapped to her thigh.

At a corner table, Arcade Israel Gannon nursed a lukewarm beer, watching with quiet admiration. Beside him, Rose of Sharon Cassidy—Cass—leaned back in her chair, boots propped up, her sharp eyes scanning the room for trouble. They’d been through hell together—more than once—and tonight, they were here to make sure Giselle got through her set without some drunk bastard ruining it.

"Damn, she’s good," Cass muttered, swirling her whiskey.

Arcade nodded. "She always was."

Their moment of appreciation was cut short when a drunk patron slurred something ugly under his breath. Cass’s hand tightened around her bottle. "Oh, this asshole’s about to learn today—"

But before she could move, the man’s companion elbowed him hard, hissing a warning. The drunk shut up.

Giselle didn’t let it faze her. She poured her soul into the song, allowing the ache in her chest to bleed into every note.

"I love my man, like a schoolboy loves his pie..."

Then she saw him.

Halfway through the song, a well-dressed man in a crisp suit with an eyepatch leaned against the bar with a shot of whiskey in his hand, watching her with an expression that wasn't just passing interest. It was calculation. Tommy Torini, talent scout for The Tops, had heard whispers about a singer with a voice that could melt steel. He hadn’t expected this.

She knew him. Not personally, but she knew where he worked. Who he worked for.

Giselle’s voice cracked just right on the high notes, raw and real. The pain in her lyrics wasn’t just performance—it was lived. Tommy leaned against the bar, intrigued. This wasn’t just some dive-bar crooner. This was talent.

When the last note faded, the sparse crowd erupted into applause, some genuine, some just drunk enough to clap for anything. Tommy, however, clapped with genuine enthusiasm, as if he had seen the greatest show on Earth. Giselle gave a small, tired smile, graciously bowed, and stepped offstage, wiping sweat from her brow.

Backstage (if the cramped storage room behind the bar could be called that), Giselle sat in front of her makeshift vanity, holding a hand to her forehead. The world was spinning again, her head throbbing like a drum. Ever since that rat bastard Benny shot her, she's been getting these migraines every time she sang.

An unfortunate side-effect, Doc Mitchell said back in Goodsprings. Regardless, she will forever be grateful to him and Victor for saving her life. The best she could do for the doctor was to finally sing him a small tune when she re-remembered how to sing again before she left Goodsprings to embark on her quest for vengeance. She still remembered Mitchell's expression when she sang to him. One of surprise, not expecting a no-name courier to sing like one of those Old World starlets of a bygone era, but in the end, despite the brain damage, Mitchell was glad that Giselle never lost "her voice."

And so was she.

Because if she had forgotten the only thing that made her who she was, Giselle would've lost every reason to live. The world had already taken too much from her, and she wasn't about to let it take away her voice. She'd rather walk through hell before she'd lose her ability to sing.

But she barely had time to catch her breath before the door creaked open. Tommy materialized from the shadows, grinning like a coyote who’d found a wounded rabbit.

"Damn, sister. Now that was a performance," Tommy said, flashing a practiced smile. "Name’s Tommy Torini. I work over at The Tops. You got a real gift, sweetheart. Ever think about singing somewhere a little classier than this dump?"

Giselle’s heart skipped. The Tops. Benny’s casino.

She forced a laugh, playing coy. "That’s sweet of you to say, but I doubt Mr. House is lookin’ for lounge singers."

Tommy waved a hand. "House don’t run The Tops. Benny does. And Benny’s always lookin’ for fresh talent." 

Benny. The name sent a cold ripple through her.

She remembered the Mojave moon beating down as she stared down the barrel of his gun, Benny’s smug voice as he pulled the trigger. "Truth is… the game was rigged from the start."

The name sent a cold rush through her veins. The man who shot her in the head. Left her for dead in a shallow grave. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, she was being invited right into his den.

Giselle tilted her head, letting her lips curl into a slow smile. "Well, Mr. Torini… when do I start?"

Tommy grinned. "How about tomorrow night?"

She forced a smile, playing the part of the flattered singer. "That’s… mighty kind of you, Mr. Torini. But I’d need to talk it over with my friends first."

Tommy waved a hand. "Sure, sure. Take your time. But trust me, doll. This is the big leagues. You wanna be singin’ for caps, or you wanna be singin’ for legends?"

He handed her a card before sauntering off, leaving Giselle staring at the embossed letters: The Tops Casino. Home of the Chairmen.

Her fingers trembled.

Giselle’s fingers tightened around the edges of the card as she watched Tommy disappear into the crowd. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the Wrangler’s jukebox. The Tops. Benny’s casino. The man who shot her in the head was going to pay her to sing in his own damn establishment. The irony was almost poetic.

The second he was gone, Giselle bolted to the bar where Arcade and Cass were waiting.

"You’re not gonna believe this," she whispered, but looked around first, "This way."

Cass and Arcade followed her to a dimly lit corner booth, far from prying ears. Giselle slid into the seat, her hands trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the opportunity. She presented her companions with the card to The Tops, their ticket to get into New Vegas.

Cass nearly spat out her drink when Giselle told them. "The Tops?! As in, Benny’s Tops?!"

But Arcade frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Giselle, I know that look. Whatever you’re thinking—"

"But this is my chance, Arcade," Giselle beamed with a devilish grin, but she held her head again, still exasperated from singing tonight.

"Here, Giselle. Take this," Arcade said, pulling out a box of stimpacks and handing one to Giselle. "Your singing is beautiful, Giselle, but you need to remember not to exert yourself too much while performing."

"And I keep telling you, Arcade," Giselle took the stimpack, "The day I stop singing is the day I'm dead."

"Or pass out," Cass added, "Like a couple of nights ago. I had to catch 'ya before you fell off the stage."

"Just... Don't push yourself too much, okay?" Arcade asked with concern, placing a hand on Giselle's forehead.

Giselle chuckled, patting Arcade's cheek, "I'll be fine. I have 'The Miraculous Dr. Gannon' here to take care of me, right?"

Arcade sighed, but it was lighthearted, "Unfortunately. You and Cass do not make my life easier, though."

"We love you too, Doc," Cass sarcastically replied with a cheeky grin.

Giselle nodded. But that was another thing Giselle didn't like after being shot by Benny. She could still sing, but now she'd get lightheaded whenever she sang a song that required a lot of effort, maybe even pass out after holding a note for a while. If she were a professional singer, this would be a career-ending moment.

And yet, she persisted. Both her voice and her life were too stubborn to die so soon.

Then Cass placed her hands on the table, leaning in. "So, what's the plan? You gonna kill him onstage or wait ‘til after the encore?"

Giselle exhaled, her fingers tracing the scar on her temple. "Oh, I’ll make sure he sees me first."

"This is a bad idea." Arcade adjusted his glasses, frowning. "Giselle... this is dangerous. You walk into that casino, and Benny will recognize you."

"I’m thinking this is our in," she interjected, eyes burning with quiet intensity. "Benny doesn’t know I’m alive. He sure as hell won’t expect me to walk into his casino as the entertainment."

Cass let out a low whistle, slamming back the rest of her whiskey. "Damn. You’re gonna stroll right into his vipers’ nest and let him pay you for the privilege?" Her grin was feral. "I love it. Let's take the bastard for everything he's got."

Arcade, however, wasn’t convinced. His fingers tapped anxiously against the table. "This is reckless. Even for us. You’re talking about walking into a den of Chairmen with nothing but your voice and a grudge. What’s the play here? Stab him mid-song?"

"Not if I play it right," she countered. "He thinks I’m dead. And even if he does recognize me, I’ll be inside. Close enough to finally settle things."

Cass leaned forward. "Then we go in prepared. I’ll be at the bar, armed. Arcade can lurk somewhere with that plasma pistol he pretends he doesn’t love."

Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is a terrible plan."

"It’s our plan," Giselle said softly. "He shot me in the head and left me for dead, Arcade. I’m doing it with or without you."

Arcade sighed, almost pleading. "Giselle… revenge won’t bring you peace."

She met his gaze, her voice soft but firm. "Maybe not. But I’ll sleep better knowing he’s dead."

Silence stretched between them. Arcade could see it in Giselle's eyes. There was a fire in her eyes, one of revenge. She wasn't about to walk away from this, no matter how much he protested. And once Giselle had her mind set on something, she was going stick to it to the very end, consequences be damned. Finally, Arcade relented. "...Fine. But if this goes south, I reserve the right to say I told you so before we all get shot."

Giselle smirked. "Deal."

Cass clapped her on the back. "Hell yeah. Let’s ruin that smooth-talking bastard’s night."

Tomorrow night, she mused to herself, she’d step onto Benny’s stage. And this time, she would be the one singing the last note. Tommy was still at the bar, chatting up one of the Wrangler’s dealers, when Giselle approached. She schooled her expression into something eager, almost naive.

"Well, Mr. Torini," she said, smoothing her dress, "I talked it over with my friends… and I’d be honored to sing at The Tops."

Tommy’s grin widened. "Atta girl! You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, sweetheart." 

If only he knew.

"Meet me here tomorrow morning," he continued, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We’ll head over together, get you set up."

Giselle feigned a sweet smile, "Wouldn’t miss it for the world."

As Tommy sauntered off, Cass clapped her on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, Benny’s gonna learn what happens when you cross the wrong woman."

Giselle exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. "Damn right."

The morning sun blazed over Freeside, casting long shadows as Giselle dressed in her best—a sleek red dress she’d scavenged from a pre-war boutique, her hair pinned up, lips painted dark, but her .357 Magnum hidden in her boot— Cass, and Arcade approached The Atomic Wrangler. Tommy Torini stood outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He straightened up when he saw them, flashing a grin.

"Right on time, doll. I like a dame who’s punctual. You ready to see how the other half lives?"

Giselle forced a smile, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Honey, I was born ready."

Giselle exchanged a glance with Cass, who smirked, while Arcade adjusted his glasses, his expression tight with unease.

Tommy chuckled, stubbing out his cigarette. "Oh, he’s gonna love you."

Doubt it.

As they walked toward the Strip, Giselle’s heart pounded. Somewhere in that glittering tower of greed and sin was Benny Gecko. The neon lights, the music, the smell of it—all of it screamed Benny.

And soon, Benny would see her. Not as the woman he’d betrayed. But as the one who got away. And this time, she wouldn’t be singing love songs. This time, she’d be singing his requiem.

Tommy led the trio toward the towering gates of the New Vegas Strip. As they walked, the noise of Freeside faded behind them, replaced by the distant hum of neon and the clinking of slot machines. The walk to the Strip was uneventful at first—just the usual sights of Freeside’s struggling masses, the occasional Kings patrol, and the distant hum of Securitrons. Tommy, however, seemed determined to make small talk.

"So," Tommy said, glancing at Giselle, "where’d a voice like yours come from? You don’t just wake up singing like Billie Holiday."

Giselle kept her expression smooth, careful not to reveal too much. "My daddy was a musician. Used to play old records. Nat King Cole, Chuck Berry. Taught me to sing before I could talk." She smiled faintly, the memory bittersweet. A flicker of warmth touched her voice. Real, despite the lies wrapped around it. "After he passed, I just… kept singing. It was all I had left."

Tommy nodded sympathetically. "Hell of a world we live in, huh? Bombs drop, and suddenly, dreams gotta take a backseat to survival." But then Tommy nodded appreciatively. "But the classics? Cole? Berry? Benny’s got a soft spot for that kinda sound, too. He's more of a Sinatra and Martin kinda guy, though. Real old-school charm, ya know?"

Oh, I know exactly what Benny likes, Giselle thought bitterly.

Giselle hummed in agreement, her gaze drifting over the broken streets of Freeside. "But music don’t die easy."

Cass, walking beside her, nudged her elbow. "Giselle here’s got a voice that could make a deathclaw cry. Ain’t that right, Arcade?"

"Yes, though I’d prefer if it didn’t come to that," Arcade sighed. 

Tommy chuckled. "You got a real interesting crew, sweetheart."

"They keep things from getting boring." Giselle shrugged, "Cass and Arcade are good people. And fun."

Cass made a curt nod, while Arcade's eyes darted elsewhere.

The tension eased, but Tommy’s curiosity wasn’t satisfied. "So, why the Mojave? Most singers with your chops would’ve headed to the NCR, tried their luck in a proper city.  A voice like yours, hell, you coulda been a star before the war."

Giselle’s jaw tightened. The question was innocent, but the answer wasn’t simple.

"World didn’t make it easy," she said carefully. "After the bombs, survival came first. Singing was just… something to keep me sane."

She didn’t mention the rest: the sneers from white wastelanders who didn’t like a black woman walking into their bars, the slurs hissed under breath, the hands that reached too far when she passed by. She didn’t have to. Arcade’s grip on his satchel tightened, and Cass’s fingers twitched toward her shotgun.

Giselle’s fingers twitched, but her voice stayed light. "Guess I like the challenge. Besides, Vegas still has style, even if it’s buried under a mountain of sin."

"Ain’t that the truth?" Tommy laughed, "Well, luck’s finally turnin’ your way. Benny’s got an eye for talent. You play your cards right, you might just end up with a real gig."

Giselle forced a smile. "Looking forward to it."

As they neared the Strip’s gates, Giselle’s chest tightened. The Lucky 38 loomed in the distance, a silent overseer. And just beyond it, The Tops. Benny’s domain.

The Securitrons at the gate scanned them, their mechanical voices droning, "Please present your passport."

Tommy waved a hand. "They’re with me. New talent for The Tops."

The robots processed this, then stepped aside. "Welcome to the New Vegas Strip. Enjoy your stay."

As they stepped onto the pristine pavement, the neon glow of the casinos ahead, Giselle felt her pulse quicken. Somewhere in that glittering den of vice was Benny. The man who’d put a bullet in her skull.

Cass nudged her. "You good?"

Giselle exhaled. "Just thinking about setlists."

Arcade adjusted his glasses again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Remember: we’re here to scout, not start a war."

Tommy, oblivious, gestured grandly passed the Securitron guards. "Welcome to the big leagues, sweetheart."

The Strip loomed before them, a glittering mirage of sin and excess. The Tops stood proud, its neon sign casting a sultry glow over the plaza.

Giselle squared her shoulders.

Somewhere inside, Benny Gecko was sitting pretty like a king, thinking himself untouchable with that insufferable smirk of his.

Thinking she was dead.

But the Mojave had a funny way of bringing ghosts back to life.

Benny’s about to learn what happens when you gamble with the wrong woman. Benny was right: the game had been rigged from the start. But this time? She was the dealer.

Chapter Text

The grand doors of The Tops swung open, the neon glow of The Tops bathed the casino floor in a golden haze, the air thick with the clinking of chips, the murmur of gamblers, and the occasional cheer of a lucky winner. It smelled of high-end liquor and cigarette smoke. Giselle’s boots clicked against the polished tiles as she followed Tommy through the bustling crowd, Cass and Arcade flanking her like shadows.

Then, a sharp-dressed man in a crisp suit stepped into their path: Swank, Benny’s right-hand man. He crossed his arms, his sharp eyes flicked with skepticism over Giselle and her companions, lingering a beat too long on Arcade’s lab coat and Cass’s well-worn duster.

"Tommy," Swank said, voice smooth but edged with caution. His hand hovered near the pistol at his hip. "Who’s this?"

Tommy grinned, clapping Giselle on the shoulder. "New talent, Swank! Voice like honey and a stage presence to match. These are her… associates."

Swank’s brow arched. "Associates."

Giselle could practically see the gears turning in his head: Who are these people? Why do they look like they’ve been dragged through the Mojave backwards?

Swank’s gaze flicked between Giselle, Arcade, and Cass, lingering on the weapons at their hips. "We don’t just let strangers waltz into The Tops, Tommy. Especially not ones who look like they’re packin’ more than just a pretty voice."

Time to turn on the charm.

Giselle stepped forward with her hips swaying, flashing Swank a disarming smile. "Oh, sugar, I ain’t a stranger to the stage," she said, voice warm, "and I promise, I’m worth the trouble."

Swank folded his arms. "That so?"

Giselle held his gaze, then, without breaking eye contact, she began to sing, soft, smooth, and low.

"Them that’s got shall get… Them that’s not shall lose…"

A few notes of "God Bless the Child"—Billie Holiday’s lament about hard luck and harder lessons. Her voice wrapped around the words like smoke, rich and knowing.

Swank’s stern expression faltered, his grip on his pistol loosening just a fraction. Then, to everyone’s surprise—especially Arcade’s—the corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"Huh... Well, I’ll be damned," Swank muttered. He shook his head, chuckling. "Alright, doll. You got pipes, I'll give you that." He gestured toward the elevators. "Benny’s upstairs. Let’s see if you can charm the boss the same way."

Cass let out a quiet snort. "Oh, he’s definitely gonna be charmed."

Arcade shot her a warning look, but Giselle just smoothed her dress and followed Swank, her pulse steady.

Time to meet the man who put a bullet in my head.

The elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing their fate. Giselle couldn't believe it. This was it. She'll finally return the goddamn favor.

The elevator ride up to Benny’s suite was tense. Swank kept shooting Giselle suspicious glances, his hand never far from his sidearm. Cass whistled a low tune, feigning nonchalance, while Arcade adjusted his glasses for the hundredth time (a nervous habit). Giselle, however, kept her expression smooth, her fingers subtly gripping the gun tucked in a garter under her dress.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and they were met with the plush decadence of The Tops’ upper floors—rich red carpets, gold trim, the faint scent of cigars and expensive whiskey. Swank led them down the hall, stopping at the grand double doors of Benny’s Presidential Suite.

"Wait here," Swank muttered before slipping inside.

A few tense seconds passed. Then, the doors swung open, revealing the opulent expanse of Benny’s Presidential Suite, a lavish den of velvet and vice. The suite was everything Giselle expected: opulent, gaudy, and dripping with the kind of luxury only a man like Benny could flaunt. Plush carpets, dark wood, the faint scent of expensive whiskey and cigar smoke lingering in the air.

And there he was.

Benny Gecko, lounging in a high-backed chair near the window, a glass of bourbon in hand, his sharp eyes lazily tracing the neon glow of the Strip below like he owned it (and his mind, he did). He didn’t even turn around as they entered. He just raised a dismissive hand.

"Yeah, yeah, come on in," Benny drawled, not bothering to turn around.

Swank cleared his throat. "Boss. Tommy’s got a new act for you."

"Tommy, you better not be wastin' my time with some two-bit singer." Benny still didn’t turn around. "What’s the dame look like?"

Tommy, ever the eager salesman, stepped forward. "Benny, you’re gonna wanna see this. Found a real gem out in the Freeside. Good-lookin’ doll with a voice like silk, I'm tellin' ya."

Benny chuckled. "That dive? Must be desperate."

Giselle took a slow step forward.

Then another.

Benny smirked, finally turning—

—and froze—

—and his drink slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.

His face drained of color. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Giselle tilted her head, her voice as sweet as poison. "Miss me, baby~?"

"Jesus Christ—!" Benny stumbled back, quickly pulling out his pistol, Maria, and nearly knocking over his chair as if he'd seen a ghost."Tommy, you goddamn idiot! That ain't no singer, that’s the fucking Courier!"

Tommy blinked. "The—what?!"

Swank’s pistol was out in an instant, aimed for Giselle's head, "Son of a—!"

But Giselle was faster. Her .357 was already drawn, leveled right at Benny’s chest. Cass had her sawed-off shotgun drawn, leveled at Swank's head, and Arcade’s plasma pistol hummed to life, casting an eerie green glow across his glasses. Their barrels were ready to unload lead.

The room crackled with tension, steel glinting in the dim light, seconds away from erupting into bloodshed. But—

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" Tommy threw his hands up, stepping between them, looking frantically from Benny to Giselle. "Everybody just cool it for a goddamn second!"

"Tommy, you brought a goddamn death warrant into my casino!" Benny’s voice was a snarl. 

Giselle kept her gun leveled at Benny. "Only thing I’m interested in is him answering for what he did."

Benny scoffed, though his hands were shaking. "Baby, you walked into my house! You really think you’re walking out of here if you pull that trigger?"

Swank’s grip tightened on his pistol. Cass was ready to pull the trigger. Arcade fingers trembled, but he was ready to shoot if necessary.

Tommy, sweating bullets, looked between them. Then, in a desperate bid to keep his own skin intact, he blurted:

"Okay, okay—how about this? No bullets, no blood, nobody dies tonight." He gestured wildly at Giselle. "You—you wanted to sing at The Tops, right? Well, here’s your shot! Benny, you owe her after what you did. So, how ‘bout we call it square? She sings, she gets paid, and nobody has to explain a pile of corpses to Mr. House!"

Silence.

Giselle arched a brow.

Benny’s jaw worked, his eyes darting between Giselle’s gun and Tommy’s pleading expression.

Tommy spread his hands. "Benny’s a businessman. You’re a performer. You got a problem with him? Fine. But why waste a golden opportunity? Sing for us. Right now. If Benny likes what he hears… maybe we all walk away happier."

Benny’s eyes darted between them, calculating, then they glared back at Tommy. "What the hell are you—"

"The Boss hates messes," Swank, still tense, muttered as his eyes darted to Benny.

The silence was as awkward as it was unbearable.

Benny looked like he was going to be sick, but he let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"Un-fucking-believable." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. Then he locked eyes with Giselle. "Alright, baby. You wanna sing? Fine. You get one night. Knock ‘em dead." His smirk returned, but it was brittle now. "Literally or otherwise."

Giselle didn’t lower her gun. Not yet.

"And after?"

Benny spread his hands. "Then we settle business, baby. Properly."

The air was thick with unspoken threats.

But Giselle… considered it.

She could shoot Benny right now. Right between the eye ducts, and be done with it. She really should because this was her opportunity.

But where was the fun in that?

Tommy was just as scummy as Benny, but he did give her a chance to sing on a real stage. Singing in New Vegas was a privilege that very few get the chance to have. Might as well take the chance while she still had it.

And then, and only then, she'll get even.

Slowly, Giselle holstered her weapon. Cass and Arcade followed suit, though neither looked happy about it.

"Deal," Giselle said.

Tommy was surprised, but his grin didn’t reach his eyes. "Atta girl."

Benny exhaled in annoyance. Swank holstered his pistol, still eyeing them warily. Cass scoffed, cursing under her breath.

Then, Arcade sighed, "…I suppose this is marginally better than outright murder."

Giselle holstered her gun, smoothing out her dress. "So. When do I go on?"

Tommy grinned, taking full advantage of the opportunity. "How about tonight?"

"Tonight?!" Benny gasped.

But Giselle smirked, "Sure," her gaze pierced into Benny's soul, "Alright, Benny. Let’s see if you’ve got an ear for real talent."

Giselle turned toward the door with Cass and Arcade in tow, then paused, glancing over her shoulder.

"By the way, Benny?"

"...Yeah, baby?"

She smiled, but there was extreme contempt in her voice. "You’re gonna love my next song."

And with that, she strode out, her companions at her back, leaving Benny standing amid the shattered glass—his bravado cracked just as surely as the bourbon at his feet.

Swank hesitated, then slowly lowered his pistol, glancing at Benny. "Boss…?"

Benny’s jaw worked silently before he finally slumped back into his chair, running a hand down his face.

"Goddammit all to hell."

Chapter Text

Once Giselle and her companions left his suite, Benny paced like a caged animal. He had gone through his third shot of whiskey, his usual smirk replaced with a scowl.

"You two morons really let the Courier just waltz in here?" he snapped at Tommy and Swank. "The same broad I buried in a goddamn grave?"

Tommy swallowed hard. "Boss, I swear, I had no idea—"

"That’s the problem," Benny snarled, slamming his hands on the table, "You never got an idea in your life!"

There was silence for a brief moment before Benny sighed, turning his attention to the neon lights of The Strip outside his window.

"Goddamn it all," Benny murmured in his glass, "Now she's here in my casino, about to be singin' like a little birdie?"

But Swank, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. "She’s got talent, Boss. And talent makes caps. Maybe this is better than a bullet." A pause, then, "And if she wanted you dead, she’d have shot you already."

Benny’s jaw twitched.

"Yeah. Yeah, she would’ve."

But he couldn’t deny the truth: Giselle was a wild card, and he hated wild cards. Her being alive throws everything he planned into a spiral. It was already bad enough that Mr. House was onto Benny's scheme, but now he has to deal with a vengeful mailwoman who came back from the grave to put him six feet under instead. He took another swig of his drink, gulping it down in one go.

"Fine. Let’s see what the hell that crazy broad's up to."

Regardless of how they all felt, the three Chairmen had to get down to The Aces Theater. The performance was about to begin.

Backstage was a hodgepodge of tension, doubt, and a tinge of excitement. Giselle dusted off her dress and coiled her hair to the best of her ability. She didn't have much makeup on other than a light foundation and ruby red lipstick to match her dress.

Arcade fidgeted beside the curtain, his fingers twitching near his plasma defender. "This is a really bad idea," he muttered. "For all we know, this could be a trap. Benny’s not just gonna let you waltz in here and—"

Cass clapped a hand on Giselle’s shoulder, grinning. "Ignore him. It’s just like the Atomic Wrangler, except the drunks here wear suits and think they own the world."

Giselle exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "I’ve faced down Deathclaws. A room full of rich assholes shouldn’t scare me."

Cass smirked. "Atta girl."

They took their leave back into the audience, leaving Giselle alone. She sighed and raised her head. Somewhere in the audience, Benny was lurking, watching. He still must have been scared shitless to see her again, but at the same time he must be thinking that she's not all that special, just another mediocre showgirl trying to make a name for herself. His infuriating smirk flashed in Giselle's head for a quick moment before she calmed herself.

She needed to perform. She'll deal with Benny after the show.

The velvet curtains parted, and the spotlight hit Giselle like a sunrise.

For the first time in decades, she stood on a real stage—not some makeshift platform in a Freeside dive, not a corner of The Atomic Wrangler sticky with spilled beer—but The Tops, in all its gilded, neon glory in the heart of New Vegas. The air hummed with the murmur of wealthy gamblers, the clink of glasses, and the occasional raucous laugh from some drunk high-roller. The crowd was a sea of suits and sequins, rich gamblers and bored socialites who barely glanced up as Giselle stepped onto the stage. They were larger, richer, and far more dangerous.

This was real.

And, to be honest, she was terrified.

In this moment, she wasn't Courier Six. She was herself: a singer performing for a crowd of wealthy and influential figures.

Arcade lingered near the back, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of betrayal. This is too easy. Benny doesn’t just let threats walk away.

Cass, leaning against the bar with a whiskey in hand, caught Giselle’s eye and winked. "Same shit, fancier toilets," she whispered, "You got this. Just pretend they're all naked."

Arcade shot a look at her. "That’s your solution to everything."

Cass winked. "And it works."

Giselle took a slow breath, then stepped forward.

The spotlight burned hot on Giselle’s skin as she stood center stage, the microphone cool under her fingertips. The band struck the first sultry notes of "The Way You Look Tonight," an Ella Fitzgerald song, and for a moment, she forgot the Mojave. Forgot the bullet scar on her temple. Forgot Benny.

It was just her and the music again.

"Some day, when I'm awfully low…"

Her voice, warm and honeyed, wrapped around the room like a spell. The chatter died down. Heads turned. Even the dealers paused mid-shuffle. Some watched in awe. Others in disdain.

"When the world is cold… I will feel a glow just thinking of you…"

But Benny, now lurking in the shadows of the VIP balcony, swirling his whiskey, stiffened. He watched her with an unreadable expression.

Swank leaned in. "You sure about this, boss?"

Benny didn’t answer.

He hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t wanted her here, alive, singing in his goddamn casino like she hadn’t crawled out of her own grave. But now—

He felt something twist in his gut.

Because, despite himself, he was listening.

And damn if she wasn’t good.

Her voice wrapped around the lyrics like smoke, warm and intoxicating. The spotlight caught the gold in her dark eyes, the way her dress shimmered as she moved, effortlessly, like the song was breathing through her.

He almost forgot who she was for a moment. Almost.

Damn. She's good. Real good.

But he caught himself and took a sharp drag of his cigarette, scowling. No. No, this doesn’t change anything.

She's still Courier Six. The woman who crawled out of the grave to put him six feet under instead. He couldn't forget that. Not when his life edged between life and death at this very moment.

Then, the spell broke.

"Keep singing, darkie! Maybe we’ll throw you some caps if you shake it a little!"

Laughter. A few jeers. Giselle’s fingers tightened around the mic. She saw this coming, but she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She had sung in worse places than this.

And yet...

An older man in a pinstriped suit sneered. "Ain’t no place for a colored gal on stage," he muttered, just loud enough to carry.

"Hey, sweetheart, how ‘bout you sing somethin’ fun?" a drunk patron slurred.

"Yeah, take it off while you’re at it!" another laughed.

More laughter. A chorus of jeers. But Giselle didn’t falter.

"And the way you look tonight…"

And Benny, leaning forward against the railing with a cigarette dangling from his lips, watched her with a mix of irritation and, even though he didn't want to admit it, admiration. Irritation, because the swanky high-rollers of his casino were proving just how little class they really had. The Tops have had their fair share of riff-raff, but tonight was different, almost hostile. But admiration, because damn if she wasn’t the most talented and toughest broad he’d ever met. Even he had to admit, Giselle had a voice that commanded a room, for better and worse. And she powered through, despite the taunting from the audience.

But that doesn't mean that it wasn't getting to her.

Benny noticed how her hand trembled on the microphone as she tried to keep her composure.

But the insults just kept coming.

"Who let a black dame on stage?"

"Yeah, sing us somethin’ spicy, toots!"

"Bet she’s even better on her back!"

Then Cass pushed herself off the bar.

"Shut your trap and let the lady sing!" Cass shouted, looking ready to fight the nearest patron, but Arcade tugged at her arm, silently gesturing to the Chairmen crawling around the place. Yet even Arcade was feeling a sense of quiet rage, peering his eyes around the room as the patrons continued to laugh.

But the jeers only got louder.

Another voice, slurred with liquor. "How ‘bout you come down here and sing for me personally, sugar?"

But Giselle didn’t falter. Her fingers tightened around the mic, but her voice never wavered.

"…with each word your tenderness grows…"

"Damn mutie whore—"

"Shit, that’s a hell of a voice for a—"

"—think she’d do private shows?"

Benny’s jaw clenched. Fuckin’ idiots.

Giselle’s jaw tightened, but she kept singing, her fingers curling around the microphone like she was holding on for dear life. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her vision was blurring, but she kept going. She had faced down Deathclaws and Legion assassins, so she wouldn’t let a few drunk bigots ruin this.

Still, there was a part of her soul that felt crushed by the insults, the jeers. Here she was pouring her soul into every note, and all she got in return were slurs and catcalling. They didn't care for her talent. They just wanted to hurl verbal abuses for cheap laughs. They were all the same. Freeside, The Tops, it didn't matter. Prejudice seemed to be the norm wherever she went.

Then, the worst ones:

"C’mon, honey, don’t they teach your kind how to really entertain?"

"Get your black ass outta here, we want real entertainment!"

The room went still.

Giselle's smile didn’t drop, but her eyes did. Her eyes turned to ice.

Benny saw it. The moment before the storm.

"That’s enough."

His voice cut through the crowd before he even realized he’d spoken. Every head swiveled toward him. Even Giselle stopped singing abruptly to look at him. Benny, leaning over the railing, cigarette dangling from his lips, glared at the offending gamblers.

"You’re in my house," he said, quiet, deadly. "And in my house, we show the talent some goddamn respect."

Silence.

Then, a nervous chuckle. "C’mon, Benny, we was just—"

"Out." Benny flicked his cigarette toward them. "Now."

The Chairmen moved in, escorting the hecklers out with extreme prejudice. Giselle watched, quietly stunned. Then her gaze lifted to Benny’s again. He held it for a beat, then turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, the spotlight still burning bright.

The band, hesitating, picked up the tune again.

Giselle took a breath, and then she sang like hell itself was listening. The music played on, yet the air in The Tops still turned thick with tension. Giselle kept singing, her voice unwavering even as the slurs grew, quiet but uglier.

"Black bitch thinks she’s Billie Holiday..."

"Should be on her knees, not a stage..."

"... Or from a tree."

Cass’s fingers twitched near her sawed-off. Even Arcade’s grip tightened on his plasma pistol. Even Swank and Tommy exchanged uneasy glances. This wasn’t just rowdy patrons anymore. This was a powder keg waiting to explode.

Then a glass sailed through the air, whiskey sloshing.

"Take that, you—!"

Giselle’s fingers clenched around the microphone, her pulse roaring in her ears. Giselle braced for it, like she usually did. Once that drink hit, she had half a mind to leap off the stage and crack the drunk's skull herself with the microphone. She was about to end a man's life tonight, Chairmen be damned, along with Arcade and Cass trailing from behind...

SPLAT.

The glass of whiskey sailed through the air, aimed right at her face.

But it never hit.

Because Benny was faster.

He stepped in front of her just in time, the liquor splashing across his pristine checkered suit instead. The room went dead silent.

Giselle’s breath caught.

And for a heartbeat, no one breathed. Nobody moved.

Benny didn’t even flinch. He just wiped the bourbon from his cheek, and he just turned, slow and deliberate, toward the drunk bastard who’d thrown it. His entire demeanor shifted: smooth as silk, but sharp as a switchblade. He stepped forward, adjusting his cuffs with a lazy smirk, but his eyes were dark and dangerous. His smile was colder than a Deathclaw’s stare.

"Now that was a damn shame. That was a thirty-year-old whiskey and this was a two-hundred-cap suit," he drawled, voice dangerously calm, "And that's no way to treat a lady. Especially my lady."

"My lady."

His lady.

Giselle didn't know why, but her heart skipped a beat.

The man who threw the drink—some heavyset NCR blowhard with too much caps and too little sense with the face like a radroach—sneered. "The hell you protectin’ her for, Gecko? She’s just some ni—"

CRACK!

Benny’s fist snapped out, breaking the man’s nose with a sickening crunch.

The man dropped like a sack of Brahmin feed, howling, blood gushing between his fingers. The room gasped, even Giselle.

Benny shook out his hand, unfazed, then turned to the crowd with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His voice, still dripping with that Vegas charm, carried a razor’s edge.

"Anyone else got a problem with my singer?"

Not a soul spoke.

Not a whisper. Not a cough. Even the roulette wheel seemed to pause mid-spin.

Benny nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, somebody get this fink a rag before he stains my carpets."

Two Securitrons and two Chairmen lumbered forward to drag the man away, his whimpers fading into the background noise of the casino. Only then did Benny turn back to Giselle, his expression unreadable. Giselle stared at him, her chest rising and falling fast. She wanted to be furious—wanted to scream at him that she didn’t need his protection, that she could handle herself.

But the way he’d stepped in front of that glass—like it was nothing, like it was instinct—

Giselle stood frozen, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. Anger, yes, but also a strange, aching warmth. Benny had just broken a man’s nose for her. And yet, he’d done it with the same effortless cool as ordering a drink.

She hated him.

She wanted to hate him.

But the ache in her chest wasn’t just anger.

And that scared her more than any bullet ever had.

Benny turned back to her, "You alright, baby?"

She lifted her chin, clenching her fists. "I could’ve handled it myself."

"Oh, baby, I know," he said, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no game. Just honesty. "But you’re my employee tonight. And I take care of what's mine, baby," A pause before his smug smirk returned, "Besides, where's the fun in lettin' you have all the glory?"

The words should’ve pissed her off. Instead, something hot and unfamiliar coiled in her chest.

Employee. Not property. Not entertainment.

"Your employee?" she snapped. "That’s why you did that?"

Benny tilted his head, studying her. "Why else?"

She wanted to say Because you shot me and left me to die. Wanted to say Because you don’t get to play the hero now. But the way he was looking at her—like she was something worth ruining a suit over—made the words die in her throat.

Benny clapped his hands, all business again. "Alright, folks! Show’s back on. And let’s keep it civil, yeah?"

Then, quieter, just for her: "You good to keep goin’, doll?"

Giselle took a breath, met Benny’s eyes—really met them—and saw something there she hadn’t expected.

Respect.

For the first time since Goodsprings, Giselle didn’t know what to say.

"Forget it," she finally muttered, turning away.

The room stayed deathly quiet.

Then, from the back: "Sing the damn song already!"

A nervous chuckle rippled through the crowd. The band, sweating, picked up the melody again, soft and tentative.

Giselle straightened, met Benny’s gaze, and went right back to singing.

Because no matter what else happened tonight?

She always finished her set.

And when she sang this time, the room listened.

Giselle knew Benny wasn’t a good man.

But as she caught his eye mid-song, his usual smirk replaced with something unreadable: Benny stayed right there at the edge of the stage, blood on his knuckles, watching her like she was the only damn thing in the Mojave worth looking at, she let him.

She realized the game had changed, and neither of them knew the rules anymore.

And somewhere in the crowd, Cass grinned.

"Well, shit," she muttered. "Didn’t see that coming."

Arcade simply sighed.

"We’re definitely all going to die."

Chapter Text

The crowd was still tense as Giselle's voice wrapped around the next verse, smooth and unshaken despite the violence that had just erupted. Benny wiped the blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief, his sharp eyes scanning the room, daring anyone else to make a move.

Then he did something unexpected.

He climbed onto the stage beside her.

Giselle arched a brow but didn’t stop singing. Benny smirked, then turned to the audience, his voice dripping with that silver-tongued charm.

"Ladies and gents, let’s show some appreciation for the one and only Giselle Darnell. The finest voice this side of the damn Colorado. And just so we’re clear?" His smile turned dangerous. "Anybody disrespects her again, they’re banned from The Tops. Permanently."

A few nervous chuckles. Then, slowly…applause.

Giselle shot him a look. "You’re ruining my song."

"Nah, baby. I’m making sure you get the encore."

And damn him, he was right.

Back in Benny’s suite, the air was thick with tension, and the sharp scent of whiskey still clung to Benny’s ruined suit. Cass immediately rounded on Benny, her finger jabbing toward his chest, vibrating with rage.

"You slimy, two-faced, suit-wearing snake—!"

Arcade barely managed to grab her by the arm before she lunged at Benny. "Cass, let’s not start a shootout in the middle of his casino—"

"You’ve got some nerve, Gecko! First, you put a bullet in her head, now you’re playing white knight? What’s your damn angle?!"

"Cass, please—"

"Please nothing! This snake’s got more twists than a Brahmin trail! Which one of you smooth-talking snakes wants to get punched first?!" She jabbed a finger at Swank. "You, for pointing a gun at her?" Then, at Tommy. "Or you, for dragging her into this viper’s nest?!"

Tommy, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, stepped forward with his hands raised. "I swear, doll—er, Miss Darnell—we don’t usually let that kinda riff-raff in here! The Tops is a classy joint!"

Giselle arched a brow. "Could’ve fooled me."

Tommy was sweating bullets, pulling at his collar, "And I had no idea about… y’know. If I’d known you were—"

"The woman Benny shot in the head?" Giselle finished sweetly.

Tommy paled.

Swank, meanwhile, was examining Benny’s whiskey-stained suit with a frown. "Boss, you alright?"

Benny scowled, peeling off his stained jacket. "Yeah, Swank, just peachy. Just lost my favorite suit. This was a goddamn Canali. You know how hard it is to find a suit like this?" He tossed the ruined fabric onto a chair, then shot Giselle a look. "And you—I’m dockin’ your pay for dry cleanin’."

Giselle crossed her arms. "My pay? I didn’t throw the drink."

"No, but you’re the reason it got thrown," Benny shot back, but there was no real venom in it. He reached into his pocket and tossed her a heavy pouch of caps. "Here. Buy yourself somethin’ nice. Maybe the Ultra-Luxe if you wanna pretend you’re classy for a night. Silk, sequins, hell, even pre-war perfume if you're feeling extra fancy. Then scram."

Giselle caught the pouch, weighing it in her palm. It was a lot. Too much for just one performance. The coins inside clinked together, the sound unmistakable. This wasn’t just a regular wastelander's wage. This was buy-yourself-a-new-life money.

Her eyes narrowed. "...What’s the catch?"

Benny pressed a hand to his chest, the same hand that had pulled the trigger on her months ago, "No catch, baby. Just a business expense."

"Right. And Caesar’s Legion are just misunderstood poets," Giselle weighed the pouch in her palm, studying Benny. "No strings?"

"None."

"No backstabbing?"

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

"Bullshit," Cass muttered.

Benny threw up his hands. "Christ, can’t a guy do somethin’ nice without gettin’ the third degree?"

Arcade pushed up his glasses. "Not when it’s you."

But Giselle studied Benny, really studied him. His too-casual posture, the way his jaw tensed just slightly under her scrutiny. She wasn’t buying it. Not after everything. Still… caps were caps. Then, a slow smirk curled her lips.

She tossed the caps pouch in the air and caught it again. "Alright, Benny. I’ll take it… on one condition."

Benny narrowed his eyes. "What?"

She tossed the pouch back at him. "You’re coming with me to spend them."

Silence.

Swank blinked. Tommy choked on air. Arcade nearly lost his grip on Cass. Even Cass blinked.

Benny froze mid-drag, looking like she'd just suggested they go jump into Lake Mead, "The hell I am."

"Oh, you are," Giselle purred, stepping closer. "See, if you’re gonna be the next Frank Sinatra of the Mojave, you can’t just talk the talk. You gotta look the part. And right now?" She plucked at his stained lapel. "You look like you lost a fight with a bottle. A snakeskin jacket away from looking like a used-car salesman."

Benny’s mouth dropped open. "The hell I do—"

"Prove me wrong, then." She turned on her heel, heading for the door. "Unless you’re scared a little shopping’ll ruin your tough-guy image."

Tommy choked back a laugh. Swank’s eyebrows shot up. Cass looked like she was about to combust from sheer disbelief.

Benny stared at her, mouth slightly open. "You—you’re kid—"

"Are you?" Giselle asked, grinning.

Swank coughed into his fist, whether to hide a laugh or a gasp, no one could tell.

Tommy nervously chuckled, "Uh. Boss. Maybe… maybe this ain’t—"

Benny held up a hand, silencing him. For a second, Benny just stared after her. Then, to everyone’s shock, he smirked.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Benny’s eyes flashed. "Alright, baby. You got guts. You wanna play stylist? Fine. You're about to learn I clean up real nice. But if I hate your taste, I'm keepin' the caps. And if anyone sees us, you're just my new singer, got it?"

Giselle smirked, looping her arm around Benny's. "Deal. Let's go shopping, boss. Oh, and you're buying me dinner later."

Benny grumbled, but there was no real animosity under it, and for the first time since she’d walked into The Tops, Benny didn’t look like he wanted to kill her.

He just looked interested. And that was dangerous.

And Giselle just smiled, because revenge was one thing.

But making Benny squirm?

That was priceless.

And just like that, the man who’d once tried to kill her was walking beside her out of his suite like it was the most natural thing in the world. Cass’s jaw dropped, and Arcade adjusted his glasses like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

As they headed for the door, Cass grabbed Arcade’s arm. "Doc, are we really letting her go alone with him?!"

Arcade sighed, adjusting his glasses. "At this point, I think Benny’s the one who needs backup."

Outside, the neon glow of the Strip bathed them in garish light as Benny fell into step beside her.

"So," he said, glancing sideways, "you actually think I could be Sinatra?"

Giselle grinned.

"Keep dreamin’, boss."

And for the first time in a long time, Benny Gecko laughed.

The Mojave was full of weird miracles.

This might’ve been the strangest one yet.

Chapter Text

The Ultra-Luxe loomed over them, its opulent facade gleaming under the neon glow of the Strip. The chrome-and-marble lobby gleamed under crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and brahmin filet. Everything here probably costs more than a month's worth of caravan jobs. The Ultra-Luxe was everything Giselle hated about the Mojave’s elite: gleaming and dripping with the kind of excess that made her teeth ache. Giselle wrinkled her nose as they stepped inside. Too much gold, too much velvet, too much everything. 

"Gaudy," she muttered under her breath.

But damn if they didn’t have nice things.

"Bit much, isn't it?" she muttered, running a finger along a sequined gown.

"Sweetheart, subtlety ain’t exactly the Strip’s strong suit," Benny smirked, adjusting his cuffs, "Now keep walkin’. They got more of those in the back."

Further inside, the boutique was a sea of shimmering fabrics. Silks, satins, pre-war designs preserved like relics. Giselle, used to the grit of the Mojave, felt oddly out of place until she caught sight of Benny adjusting his tie in the reflection of a display case.

"Nervous?" she teased.

"Me? Nah," he lied, eyeing a white-gloved attendant like they might bite. "Just ain’t my scene."

"What, the King of the Tops can’t handle a little high society?"

Benny shot her a look. "I run a casino, baby, not a damn tea party."

Giselle laughed—a real, unfiltered sound—and hooked her arm through his. "Relax, Benny. Just pretend you own the place."

"…I could do that," Benny chuckled—actually chuckled—before gesturing toward the dresses. "Well, baby? Pick somethin’ before I change my mind about this little field trip. I ain’t got all night."

Giselle rolled her eyes and disappeared into the women’s section. She emerged moments later holding two dresses. One an elegant and understated sleek black, the other a striking pristine white.

"Which one?" she asked, holding them up.

Benny actually took the time to think about it. He was imagining Giselle in both dresses: a sultry but sophisticated bombshell in the black one and an elegant and sparkling dame in the white one. Both were, dare he say it, tempting. But he kept trying to remind himself not to get too confortable though, because Giselle was still the goddamn Courier that he shot in the head. She was probably still angry with him, still plotting to kill him later.

But for now, she was the woman he just happened to go shopping with, his potential talent at The Tops. The thought of it still didn't sound right with him.

Benny opened his mouth—

—then stopped.

Because there, hanging just behind her, was a red silk dress. The color of sunset, of blood, of something alive. It was sleek and understated, with a slit up the side just high enough to be dangerous.

Giselle followed his gaze. Her breath caught.

"Oh."

She reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. It was soft. Dangerously soft.

Benny sighed, glancing at the price tag. "Of course it’s the most expensive one in the place."

Giselle grinned. "You’re paying, right?"

"The hell I am—"

But Giselle didn’t miss the way his voice dropped half an octave. Without another word, she snatched it off the rack and vanished into the fitting room.

She ran her fingers over a bolt of deep red silk, the fabric whispering against her skin. "This one," she said.

When she stepped out, Benny’s cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth. The dress clung to her like a second skin, the silk shimmering under the lights. It was bold. Unapologetic.

Giselle turned in front of the mirror, lips quirking. "Well?"

Benny cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh. It’s... it’s somethin’."

"Eloquent," she deadpanned.

"Yeah, that," Then he recovered with a smirk. "Looks like I’m gettin’ my caps’ worth, baby." He flicked ash off his sleeve. "Now, about my suit—"

The tailor, a prim older ghoul who had been watching them like a particularly entertaining car wreck, sensing an opportunity, swooped in. "Sir, perhaps something more… refined?"

Benny eyed the man’s suggestion: a tailored navy suit, sharp enough to cut glass.

"Ain’t really my—"

Too late. Before he could finish, Giselle grabbed his arm and shoved him toward a men's fitting room. "Oh no, Mr. Chairman. You don’t get to walk around looking like a discount crooner forever."

Benny sputtered. "The hell—?!"

Giselle flagged down a prim, elderly ghoul attendant with a tape measure draped around her neck, "Ma’am. Fix him, please."

The ghoul’s milky eyes gleamed. "With pleasure."

Benny looked genuinely alarmed.

His protests were drowned out as the ghoul descended upon him with the fervor of a seamstress possessed.

Thirty minutes, two very tight-fitting suits, and one extremely offended Benny swearing like a sailor later, Giselle stepped back to admire her handiwork. When he emerged grumbling, he was in a crisp suit with a silk tie that wasn't crooked for once, and his hair was ruthlessly tamed. Giselle’s breath caught. Benny was undeniably sharper now. He actually looked like a respectable Vegas kingpin.

"Well, baby?" Benny struck a pose, but there was something uncertain in his eyes. "Do I pass inspection?"

Giselle circled him, lips pursed. "Hmm."

Benny scowled. "What, not good enough for 'ya?"

"You look…" She tilted her head. "Slightly less like a two-bit hustler."

"Oh, fuck you—"

The ghoul attendant coughed. "Language, sir."

Benny groaned, but he stepped closer, adjusting his cuffs with a sly smile. "Alright, your turn, doll."

Giselle blinked, "What?"

Then, to her surprise, Benny turned to the racks, fingers skimming over the fabrics before pulling out a dress to inspect: sleek sapphire blue, backless, with a neckline that promised trouble.

She hesitated, gesturing to her red dress. "Benny, I already have a dress."

"Nah, that’s your pick, baby," He stepped closer, that infuriating smirk back in full force. "I’m choosin’ the one I wanna see you in."

Giselle’s pulse jumped. Damn him.

"You picked my suit. I pick your dress." His smirk softened. "Fair’s fair."

Giselle hesitated. Letting Benny pick her clothes felt dangerous, but the look in his eyes wasn’t the smug arrogance of Benny the Backstabbing Rat. It was something quieter. Something almost real. And she dragged him here. Fair was fair.

"Fine," she muttered. "But if it’s leopard print, I’m shooting you. No sequins or feathers either."

Benny’s smirk was pure sin. "Oh, trust me, baby. You’ll look better."

He vanished into the woman's section, muttering to himself. When he returned, he held up a deep emerald gown, sleek and shimmering, with a slit up the side.

"This."

Giselle blinked, "…Huh."

"Tasteful. Like you said." Benny shrugged, "Green’s your color."

She took it, fingers tracing the fabric. "How’d you know?"

He smirked. "Lucky guess."

She took it, fingers tracing the fabric. "Not bad, Gecko."

He smirked. "I do have layers, sweetheart."

"Yeah, like an onion."

Their eyes met—just for a second—before Giselle cleared her throat.

"Alright, Gecko. Let’s see if you’ve got any taste at all."

As she headed to the fitting room, she paused. "And don’t peek."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Benny put a hand to his chest, mock-offended, but he did call after her: "If you hate it, I’m keepin’ the caps!"

Giselle laughed, "In your dreams."

As she disappeared into the fitting room, Benny lit a cigarette, ignoring the ghoul’s disapproving stare. He exhaled smoke, watching the curtain. Maybe this wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon.

Later, when she emerged, even he had to admit it: she looked damn good.

"Alright," Giselle said, adjusting the hem. "Now we’re both presentable."

Benny sighed, reaching for his wallet. "My pockets are gonna hate me tomorrow."

She laughed. "Worth it."

And surprisingly, Benny laughed, bright and unexpected, and for the first time since Goodsprings, Giselle wondered if maybe—maybe—they weren’t just a bullet and a grudge between them.

But that was a dangerous thought, and the Mojave didn’t forgive dangerous thoughts.

When they stepped out together—Benny in his new suit, Giselle in her gown—even the Ultra-Luxe’s snootiest patrons turned their heads.

"Damn," Benny muttered, catching their reflections in a mirror. "We clean up good."

Giselle adjusted his tie, her fingers lingering. "Almost makes me forget you’re a backstabbing rat."

"Almost?" He grinned.

She smirked. "Don’t push your luck."

As the two explored the rest of the boutiques at The Ultra-Luxe, there was a salon that was a relic of the Old World. Inside were plush chairs, gilded mirrors, and a chandelier that cast soft, shimmering light over everything.

"There," Giselle pointed, "I could get my hair done. Properly, this time. The stylist back in Freeside nearly cut my head off."

Benny chuckled a bit, "Damn, sister. What'd you do to tick them off this time?"

"Nothing... They wanted me to pay a week's worth of caps for a simple cut," Giselle pouted. "Had to learn how to do it myself, but kinda hard to do that when you don't have the tools to do so."

Benny rolled his eyes, but it was a playful gesture, "Alright, baby. Let's get you a new 'do so you'll be lookin' like a true starlet."

Giselle's eyes lit up for just a moment before she and Benny entered the salon. The stylists were all primped and polished. Some were ghouls who'd clearly been doing this before the war, and a few younger wastelanders who'd learned the trade from old magazines. Giselle sat in front of the vanity, flipping through a faded Pre-War hair catalog, its yellowed pages brittle with age but still filled with glamorous styles of a bygone era.

"Might as well go all in," she muttered, flipping through a faded catalog of pre-war hairstyles.

Finger tracing over finger waves, victory rolls, and sleek updos, she hesitated until Benny leaned over her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear as he pointed at a bombshell blonde with victory rolls and a sly smirk. It was a sleek, cascading wave labeled "Hollywood Pin-Up."

"That one," he said, voice low and amused. "You’d look platinum in it, pussycat."

Giselle rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Oh, you’re really leaning into this whole 'Rat Pack male fantasy,' huh?"

"Hey, if the pompadour fits." He winked, he said, flicking a cap onto the counter for the stylist, "If you're gonna shine, shine bright. Trust me."

She scoffed, but when the stylist—a sharp-eyed ghoul woman with decades of experience and a beehive hairdo that defied gravity—asked what she wanted, Giselle tapped the page. "This one."

Damn him.

Benny’s smirk deepened.

As the stylist worked, Giselle watched in the mirror, her dark curls transformed into smooth, gleaming waves that framed her face like something out of a vintage poster. The final touch was a soft, platinum rinse, making her skin glow under the lights.

Benny lingered nearby, pretending to browse through magazines, but stealing glances in the mirror. Giselle caught his eye once, and he quickly looked away, suddenly very interested in a catalog of Old World house appliances.

An hour later, the transformation was complete.

When it was done, the stylist stepped back, satisfied. "Voilà, darling. Pre-War glamour, darling. You look like you stepped right off the silver screen."

Giselle barely recognized herself.

Benny, who had been lounging in a chair flipping through a Tales of Chivalrie comic, looked up and froze. Giselle turned in her seat, just in time to see Benny freeze mid-drag of his cigarette. For once, the smooth-talking King of the Strip was utterly silent.

Giselle’s natural curls had been smoothed into luxurious, cascading waves, framing her face like something out of a vintage film poster. The stylist had even dusted her cheekbones with a hint of rouge, making her dark eyes gleam like polished onyx. The style was bold, glamorous, and unapologetic.

She arched a brow, suddenly self-conscious. "Well?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Benny?"

For once, Benny was speechless. His cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers, ash drifting to the floor as his eyes traced the curve of her cheekbone, the way the style accentuated the bold line of her lips. Benny set the comic down slowly and flicked his cigarette (several stylists panicked to put it out). Then, in a voice far quieter than his usual bravado, he said, "Goddamn, sister."

Giselle blinked. “...That good, huh?”

"No," Benny said, stepping closer. "You look like you walked right off a pre-war screen. Like you were born for this. Lights, camera, adoration."

There was no smirk, no teasing lilt. Just... raw, unfiltered honesty. Giselle’s chest tightened. She didn’t know what to do with an earnest Benny. It was very strange. It was very unsettling. And yet, it was oddly refreshing to see.

There was silence for a brief moment as they stared at one another

Then Giselle did smirk, flipping a curl over her shoulder. "That a compliment, Benny?"

Then, like a switch flipped, he was back to his usual self, grinning as he circled her like a showman presenting his star act. "Look at you. Marilyn’s got nothin’ on you, baby."

Giselle scoffed, but she couldn’t fight the warmth creeping up her neck. "You’re laying it on thick."

She rolled her eyes again, but she couldn’t fight the warmth in her chest.

"Nah, baby. Just tellin’ it like it is." He offered her his arm, a gentleman's gesture, absurdly out of place in the Mojave, but as dramatic as ever, "Now come on. Let’s go make the whole Strip wish they were us."

Giselle stared at it, then stared back at Benny, unconvinced. "Really?"

"What?" Benny said, feigning innocence. "A dame like you deserves an escort."

She snorted, but took his arm anyway. "You’re ridiculous."

Giselle smiled despite herself. Maybe this wasn’t just business. Maybe it was something far more dangerous.

But they heard impatient tapping of a foot behind them. The stylist (who now put out Benny's cigarette) cleared her throat, shooting mental daggers at Benny, "Shall I ring you up, or would you two like to keep flirting in my salon all night?"

Giselle flushed. Benny coughed into his fist.

They paid in a hurry.

Giselle laughed afterwards, actually laughed, which shouldn't be the case, but as they stepped back onto the Strip, neon lights painting them in gold and crimson, she couldn’t help but wonder…

What the hell kind of game are we playing now?

And why did part of her not want it to end?

For the first time since she’d woken up in Doc Mitchell’s house with a bullet wound and a grudge, Giselle Darnell felt like more than just a courier.

She felt like a star.

The Strip’s neon lights painted them in blues and reds as they walked, Benny carrying her bags like some kind of lovesick bodyguard.

"Why’d you really agree to do this?" Giselle asked suddenly.

Benny actually hesitated. "Maybe I like seein’ you smile."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, fine," he admitted. "Maybe I’m tryin’ to buy forgiveness."

She stopped walking and let go of his arm. "Caps won’t fix what you did."

"I know," he said softly. "But it’s a start, ain’t it, baby?"

Giselle studied him—the way the new suit fit his shoulders, the uncharacteristic honesty in his eyes—and for the first time, she wondered if Benny was gambling on something bigger than chips and bullets.

"Keep trying," she finally said, resuming her stride. "I’ll let you know if it’s working."

Benny watched her go, then hurried to catch up.

"So… dinner at The Tops tonight?"

"Keep dreaming, Benny."

"Worth a shot."

Chapter Text

Giselle smoothed a hand over the emerald silk of her dress, still unused to the weight of it. The way the fabric moved with her, the way the low light caught the rich color, as if it felt like armor.

And Benny?

She stole a glance at him. The sharp lines of his new suit, the way he carried himself like he owned every inch of the room.

Damn.

The moment Giselle and Benny stepped back into The Tops, all conversation at the bar screeched to a halt, and heads turned. Arcade, mid-sip of his drink, nearly choked. Cass squinted, then did a double-take so hard her neck cracked, but then barked a laugh.

"Giselle?!" Arcade sputtered. "You... You look like you’re about to marry an NCR senator!"

Giselle smirked, running a hand through her freshly styled waves. "What, not a fan?"

Arcade adjusted his glasses, looking her up and down as if she were a mirage. "I mean, you look... stunning. Which is terrifying, considering the company you’re keeping." He shot Benny a pointed glare.

Benny, for his part, just leaned against the bar, looking far too pleased with himself.

Cass whistled. "Damn, girl. You clean up nice."

Tommy and Swank, however, were far more focused on Benny. They were staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Well, well," Tommy drawled, grinning. "Look who finally decided to dress like he owns the place."

Swank smirked. "Almost didn’t recognize you without the whiskey stains, boss. Almost don't look like a two-bit hustler anymore."

Benny shot them a look. "Don’t get comfortable, boys. You’re still on thin ice. We're still gonna have a chat about letting the goddamn courier waltz into my casino."

Swank paled, and Tommy gulped.

Giselle slid onto the barstool and flagged down the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat."

Benny took the seat beside her, close enough that their arms brushed. "Make that two."

Arcade and Cass exchanged a look.

"So," Cass said, leaning in. "You two shopping buddies now, or what?"

Giselle sipped her drink, refusing to rise to the bait. "Just business."

Benny smirked. "Yeah, baby. Business."

The bartender—smart enough not to ask questions—immediately set two glasses of whiskey in front of them.

Benny raised his glass. "To not gettin’ drinks thrown at us tonight."

Giselle clinked hers against his. "I’ll drink to that."

The alcohol burned smoothly down her throat. Later, when the others had dispersed (Cass to the blackjack tables, Arcade to not gamble, and Tommy and Swank to "supervise"), Benny turned to Giselle, swirling his drink.

"So," he said, "heard some interesting things about you, doll."

Giselle side-eyed him. "Oh?"

"Tommy dug up some old flyers, baby. Giselle Darnell, the Mojave’s Nightingale." Benny swirled his drink, watching her. "You were headlining shows at some dingy dive bars. Then… poof. Gone."

Giselle's fingers tightened around her glass. "That a problem?"

"Nah," Benny leaned back. "Seems like a waste."

"Of what?"

"Talent."

Giselle scoffed. "Funny, coming from the guy who put a bullet in my head."

The air between them went sharp. She still wasn't over what he did to her. He may have let her sing on a legitimate stage, bought her expensive clothes, and even paid to get her hair done, but that didn't change the fact that he shot her and left her for dead. The bitterness was still there, and it wasn't going away anytime soon.

"Yeah. I did. And you’re still here." Benny exhaled sharply but didn’t deny it. His smirk faded, just a little. He took a slow sip. Then, to her surprise, he leaned in, voice low, "Look, I ain’t gonna pretend I’m sorry for what I did. But I am sorry you got dragged into this mess."

Giselle blinked. That was new. It was the same thing he said back when he shot her on that day, but there was an underlying tone to his voice this time around.

Before she could respond, Benny continued. "Point is, you got talent, baby. Real talent. And The Tops could use a voice like yours." He shrugged. "So... Job’s yours if you want it."

There was silence between the two of them, with Giselle looking at Benny as if he had grown another appendage.

Giselle nearly laughed, "You’re offering me a job?"

"I’m a businessman, baby," Benny smirked, "Good talent’s hard to find nowadays. Sing here. Full-time. Get paid. Not Atomic Wrangler scraps. Real money. An audience that ain't just drunks and degenerates. Maybe stab me in my sleep if it makes you feel better."

"Benny," she said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "you shot me in the head."

"And yet here you are," he countered, "lookin’ like a million caps and singin’ like an angel."

Again, there was silence. This was the man, the rat bastard, who put a bullet to her skull, and she was the vengeful mailwoman who came into his casino packing heat, ready to end him, and now he was offering her a job at The Tops as a lounge singer. She stared at him, searching for the catch. But for once, Benny’s usual smarm was gone. He was... sincere?

She expected a smirk. A taunt. But his expression was unsettlingly serious.

Giselle stared at him, "Work for you? After what you did?"

"Yeah. After what I did." Benny met her glare, unflinching.

A brief silence between them, with Giselle's eyes peering into Benny's.

Then she chuckled, but it was sharp and humorless. "You’re unbelievable."

"So I’ve been told," Benny tipped his glass toward her, "So? Whaddya say, baby? Wanna be The Tops’ new star?"

Damn him.

She should’ve walked away.

She wanted to throw the drink in his face, walk out, and never look back.

But Giselle hesitated.

The stage called to her. The music. The chance to be Giselle Darnell again, not just Courier Six. She took another drink, considering. The money would be good. And singing here—really singing, on a stage like this—was a dream she’d buried long ago.

Giselle took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn steady her.

"...Fine," she muttered. "But I set my own hours. And if I hear one slur from the crowd again—"

Benny held up his hands. "They’ll be out on their ass before you finish the note."

She exhaled sharply, then nodded. "Deal. This better be worth the caps, Benny."

"Oh, it is," Benny raised his glass again. "Welcome to The Tops, doll."

As they clinked glasses, Giselle couldn't help but notice the irony.

Of all the people on the Strip—the gamblers, the politicians, the rich bastards who pretended to be civilized—Benny Gecko, the man who’d left her for dead, was the only one on the Strip who treated her like a person. Not a courier, not a killer, not a legend.

Just Giselle.

And damn if that didn’t piss her off just as much as it intrigued her.

Cass, watching from across the room, leaned toward Arcade. "You seeing this, Doc?"

Arcade sighed. "Unfortunately."

"Think she’s gonna shoot him?"

"At this point?" Arcade took a long sip of his drink. "I think I’d be more surprised if she didn’t."

Later, as she stood on the stage for a soundcheck, Giselle caught Benny watching from the shadows, his expression was his typical smugness and, oddly, genuine curiosity.

It was strange. The man who’d tried to kill her was now the only one on the Strip who treated her like a person, not a legend, not a threat, not a commodity. Just her. For the first time since Goodsprings, she didn't feel like the courier.

She felt like herself.

Ironic, she thought, as the band struck up a slow, sultry tune.

And when she began to sing, Benny didn’t look away once.

Maybe revenge could wait. For now, she had a stage to own.

Benny Gecko was still a dead man walking, but at least he’d look good in his coffin.

Giselle smiled.

Hell of a thing, revenge.

Turns out, it sounded better with a soundtrack.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slid open with a hushed ping, revealing a penthouse that looked like it had been ripped straight from the pages of a pre-war luxury magazine. 

"Welcome home, doll."

Giselle stood frozen in the doorway of the penthouse, her fingers tightening around the key Benny had just pressed into her palm.

"Benny," she said slowly, "what in the fresh hell is this?"

"Your new digs, baby. Only the best for my star." He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, lighting a cigarette, smirking like a man who’d just pulled off the heist of the century, "Consider it a signing bonus."

Giselle stood in the center of her new penthouse, arms crossed, staring at the sheer excess surrounding her, revealing a world that seemed ripped straight from a pre-war fantasy.

The air smelled of pre-war perfume and fresh linen, a far cry from the dust and sweat of the Mojave. Plush white carpets so thick that it felt like walking on clouds. Floor-to-ceiling windows framing the neon glow of the Strip, casting shimmering reflections across guilded mirrors and polished mahogany.

"This is… too much," she muttered, turning in a slow circle.

"Nah, This is just the start, baby," he said, strolling past her to flop onto the couch like he owned the place. (Which, technically, he did.) "Too much would’ve been gold-platin’ the toilet. This is just classy."

The bedroom was a fantasy—A king-sized bed draped in silk sheets the color of champagne that shimmered under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers that dominated the bedroom, flanked by nightstands holding crystal decanters of aged bourbon. A vanity lined with pre-war perfumes—real ones, not the cheap Nuka-Cola-scented knockoffs. A fully stocked bar, bottles glinting under soft golden lighting. A walk-in closet overflowed with dresses in every shade imaginable, from slinky cocktail numbers to sweeping evening gowns that cost far more than most wastelanders made in a year. Some were from Ultra-Luxe, others custom-made.

And that was just the bedroom.

Then there was the bathroom.

Oh, God.

"Is that a pink bathtub?"

Giselle stared at the jazz baby pink bathtub that sat in the center of a marble oasis like some kind of retro-futuristic altar to indulgence, massive and claw-footed, sunken and suspiciously big enough for two people.

It was obscene.

"Benny," she growled, clenching her fists, but her cheeks turned pink.

"What?" The man in question leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. "A gal's gotta relax after a long night of singing."

She turned to Benny, and she shot him a look. "It’s big enough for two."

"I have no idea what you’re implying," Benny said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"You’re insane," she muttered.

Benny grinned, unrepentant. "Insanely generous, you mean."

Giselle ran her hand down her face. “I cannot believe you got me a pink bathtub.”

“Wait’ll you see the bubble bath I imported.” Benny winked.

Giselle groaned and rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. "And the bed? The perfumes? The... No way... A recording studio?"

The pièce de résistance was the mini-recording studio tucked into a soundproof corner—complete with a vintage microphone and a piano that looked like it had been lifted straight from a pre-war jazz club.

Benny shrugged. "Figured you might wanna cut a record someday. Make some real caps off your voice. You know, if singing for me ain’t enough."

If looks could kill, Benny would be dead as Giselle looked at him with the utmost disbelief. It was too much. Too extravagant, too thoughtful, too everything.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t need all this.”

“Sure ya do,” Benny said, grinning. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Giselle still stared him down, now tapping her foot impatiently, “You’re really trying to bribe me, huh?”

Benny sighed dramatically. "Can’t a guy spoil his star singer without gettin’ accused of ulterior motives?"

"Not when the guy is a rat like you."

He chuckled, stepping closer. "Look, sweetheart. You’re the face of The Tops now. You gotta look the part." His grin turned wicked. "And if I get to enjoy the view? Well. That’s just a perk."

Giselle opened her mouth—then closed it.

She wanted to be angry. Wanted to remind him that none of this erased what he’d done. That silk sheets and champagne couldn’t buy forgiveness.

But damn if it wasn’t tempting.

"Still, this is way too much," she said finally. "I’m a singer, not a damn heiress."

"Nah," Benny said, strolling toward her. "You’re my star now, doll. Stars get the best." He gestured grandly at the suite. "Private balcony. Mini recording studio. Oh, and the bar’s stocked with the good shit. None of that rotgut you were drinkin’ before."

Giselle narrowed her eyes. "You’re up to something."

"Me?" He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I’m just a generous employer."

She didn’t buy that for a second.

"I'm serious," Giselle placed her hands on her hips, torn between suspicion and awe. "What’s the catch?"

Benny smirked, adjusting his cufflinks, "No catch. Just good business. Besides, even a crazy broad like you deserves nice things, baby. Even if you do still wanna kill me." 

She scoffed. "Bullshit."

Benny grinned, unrepentant. "Like I said—you’re my employee now. And Benny Gecko takes care of his own."

For a moment, the weight of everything hung between them—the grave, the bullet, the Mojave’s cruel twists of fate. But right now, he seemed serious about this.

She narrowed her eyes. "Tone down the extravagance. Next time? Flowers. Normal flowers. Not... whatever gold-leaf nonsense this is," She gestured to the gilded roses on the table.

Benny gasped, clutching his chest. “Normal? Doll, you’re in Vegas. We don’t do normal.”

"I said tone it down..."

"Nope."

"Benny—"

"Nuh-uh." He winked. "You’re stuck with it, sweetheart."

Before she could retort, the penthouse doors swung open.

"What in the actual hell—" Cass breathed, spinning in place as she took in the opulence, her boots tracking dust onto the pristine carpet.

Arcade followed, his glasses slipping down his nose as he took in the lavish suite. "This is… a suite?"

"Damn right it is!" Cass laughed, already making a beeline for the bar and immediately pouring herself a drink from a bottle that probably cost more than the average wastelander's monthly wages. "Benny, you better not be chargin’ her rent!"

Benny smirked. "Complimentary. Part of the benefits package."

"Uh-huh," Cass said, downing the whiskey in one go. "And I’m the Queen of the NCR."

"I... have so many questions," Arcade adjusted his glasses, eyeing the bathtub with suspicion. "On second thought, I don’t even want to know why that’s so… spacious."

Giselle groaned in her hands as Benny feigned an innocent smile.

Cass plopped onto the bed, sinking into the silk sheets with a groan. "I’m never leaving."

Arcade, still shell-shocked, wandered over to the bar. "Is this... real whiskey?"

Benny clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the good life, doc. It’s all complimentary."

Giselle buried her face in her hands, then groaned. "I don’t need all this."

"Sorry, baby," Benny said, popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. "But it's all yours now."

Giselle crossed her arms. "I don’t want all of this."

"Too bad."

She exhaled sharply, but there was no real anger in it. Just… bewilderment. Suspicion. And, begrudgingly, a flicker of something dangerously close to gratitude.

Cass, now sprawled across an armchair like a contented cat, raised her glass. "To Giselle’s new life of ridiculous luxury—courtesy of the man who shot her in the head!"

Arcade groaned. "That’s not a toast."

Benny, laughing, clinked his glass against Cass’s. "I’ll drink to that, baby."

Giselle just shook her head, fighting the traitorous smile tugging at her lips.

God help her.

She was in deep.

Giselle shot Benny a look. "You’re never living this down."

Benny just smirked, clinking his glass against hers.

"Worth it."

Later, when Arcade and Cass had retreated to their own high-roller suite (courtesy of Swank and Tommy’s guilt), Benny lingered by the door.

"You need anything else, baby?"

Giselle crossed her arms. "Yeah. An explanation."

Benny’s smirk faltered, just for a second. Then he shrugged. "Told you. You’re my singer now. And Benny Gecko takes care of what’s his."

"I’m not yours," she said sharply.

He held her gaze. "Ain’t you?"

The air between them crackled. Charged and dangerous.

Then Benny made a lazy salute. "Sweet dreams, doll. First opening night's tomorrow and I ain't lettin' you show up lookin' like you just crawled out of a raider camp. Don't be late."

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving her standing in a gilded cage of his making, a penthouse that felt like a dream. Or a very well-decorated trap. Giselle sighed, shaking her head as she looked around the extravagant suite. Maybe it was too much. But as the sunset painted the Strip in gold and pink through those floor-to-ceiling windows, she couldn’t deny one thing:

Benny Gecko knew how to make an entrance.

Damn him.

And damn her for liking it.

But maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this.

(That bathtub was awfully big.)

Chapter Text

Giselle had been performing at the top for weeks now, and in that time, she learned one thing: Benny's casino was full of characters, each with their opinions about her. They were a motley crew of gentlemen in sharp suits with sharper tongues who’d seen better days, found themselves revitalized by the new songbird in their midst.

She had never expected to find respect in Benny’s inner circle, let alone camaraderie. And it wasn't because she was the infamous Courier Six (okay, maybe a little). But somehow, against all odds and to her surprise, she was becoming something like family to The Chairmen.

Swank, ever the loyal right-hand man, had been the first to truly warm up to her. At first, he'd been wary. Courier Six under their roof? That was a disaster waiting to happen. It started as just professional courtesy—she was Benny’s new star, after all. He's seen talent come and go with varying degrees of impact, but Giselle was different.

Not just because of her voice—though, goddamn, could she sing—but because of the way Benny acted around her. Cheats, liars, fools, and kings. Benny had been all of them at one point or another. But ever since Giselle had strutted onto the stage, something had shifted. Swank tracked Benny’s behavior around her. Less reckless. Less cruel. More like the sharp, ambitious kid Swank had once believed in, before the Platinum Chip and the betrayals turned him into something colder. The way Benny’s usual smirking bravado softened into something more… human.

The boss was still a smooth-talking, self-serving bastard, sure. But lately?

Now he actually thought before he did something stupid. Mostly.

Benny still had that sharp tongue, that snake’s grin, but now… now there were moments. Moments where Swank caught him watching her from the shadows, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, like he couldn’t believe she was real. Moments where Benny actually listened when she told him to stop being an ass.

And that? That was a miracle.

"She calls him out on his bullshit," Swank continued, shaking his head. "And the crazy part? He listens."

And Giselle didn’t simper, didn’t grovel, hell, she mocked Benny to his face and lived to tell the tale. But what really caught Swank’s attention was the way Benny listened when she spoke. The sharp-tongued, quick-tempered Head Chairman actually paused before snapping, considered her words, and even compromised. From there, Benny started listening to Swank's opinions rather than simply talking at him.

Swank had seen Benny go through more moods than a cazador on Psycho, but something about Giselle brought out a side of the boss he rarely saw—the better one.

And that? That was unheard of.

"You know," Swank mused one night, watching Benny actually laugh at something Giselle said earlier, "I ain’t seen him this… human in years."

Cass, leaning against the bar next to him, smirked. "Yeah, well, don’t let it get around. Might ruin his reputation."

Swank chuckled, but his expression darkened when a drunk Brahmin baron started hurling slurs at Giselle mid-performance. Without hesitation, he and Cass moved in tandem, Cass with her shotgun leveled at the man’s crotch.

"Let's take this outside, pal," Swank said smoothly, though his grip on the man’s collar was anything but gentle.

And there was another interesting development: he and Cass became an unstoppable duo: Swank with his cold, professional threats, Cass with her "I’ll break your kneecaps" charm.

Afterwards, Cass clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn, Swank. Didn’t know you had it in you."

Swank just shrugged. "Talent’s talent. And that guy was bad for business."

He didn’t mention that watching Benny actually care about someone was the closest thing to hope he’d felt in years.

Later that night, Swank leaned against the bar, swirling his drink as he watched Giselle command the stage at The Tops. Her voice wrapped around the room like smoke, smooth and effortless, and for once, the usual undercurrent of murmurs and slurs from the crowd was silent. Even the most bigoted gamblers knew better than to start shit when she was singing, not after what Benny did to the last guy who tried.

After Giselle finished a sultry rendition of "Fever," Swank sidled up to her at the bar, nursing a whiskey.

"You’re good for him," Swank said suddenly, nodding toward the VIP lounge where Benny was holding court with a group of NCR suck-ups.

Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Who, Benny? The man who shot me in the head?"

"That’s the one." Swank didn’t smile, but his voice carried something like approval. "Before you showed up, he was all angles, no heart. Now? Guy’s almost human. Still a bastard, sure, but less of a stupid bastard."

She snorted. "Wow. Almost human and less of a bastard. What a glowing review."

"For Benny?" Swank set the glass down. "That’s a damn miracle."

Giselle glanced at Swank for a moment. And could see the edges of a smile curling across his lips.

"Keep him in line, will ya?" he’d muttered once, sliding her a free chip. "Boss is less of a headache when you’re around."

Giselle had smirked. "I’ll add ‘babysitter’ to my resume."

Swank had actually chuckled. A miracle.

Giselle was about to say something snarky, but Swank got up and approached a pair of drunk patrons who hurled a slur at her as they walked by. Swank didn’t hesitate, he and Cass descended on the man like a pair of vengeful angels.

"You handle the left, I’ll take the right?" Cass would say, cracking her knuckles.

Swank would smirk. "Deal."

And then they’d "politely" escort the offenders out.

"Ohhh, Giselle! Your rendition of 'Blue Moon' was just spectacular!" Yes Man gushed, his screen flickering with excitement.

Arcade, who was currently tweaking Yes Man’s wiring after a minor malfunction, smiled. "She does have a way of making old songs sound new again."

"Exactly! And you’re so nice to me! Not like Mr. House… well, not that I’m complaining! I’m programmed not to complain!"

Arcade snorted. "That’s a low bar."

"But true!"

Giselle patted Yes Man’s metal shoulder. "Just don’t tell Benny I’m stealing his staff’s loyalty."

"Oh, absolutely! My lips are sealed!" Yes Man beamed. "…Unless you want me to tell him? I can do that too!"

"No, Yes Man. It's fine. Now hold still, please," Arcade, elbow-deep in Yes Man’s wiring, smirked. 

"Sure thing!" Yes Man beamed. "Say, would you like to hear a joke? Why did the Securitron cross the Mojave?"

Giselle groaned. Arcade sighed.

"To get to the other massacre!" Yes Man’s screen flickered with laughter.

Giselle shook her head, grinning. "That’s terrible."

"I know! Isn’t it great?"

It was no secret that Yes Man absolutely adored both Giselle and, surprisingly, Arcade. Then again, the chipper Securitron adored everyone (Well, except the hecklers, but they didn't count.), but Giselle and Arcade were the only ones who treated him like a person instead of a malfunctioning appliance.

They were genuinely nice to him.

If robots could cry, Yes Man would’ve.

Unlike most people on the Strip—who either ignored him or treated him like a walking toaster—Giselle and Arcade actually talked to him. Asked how he was doing. Nobody did that.

Arcade, being the soft-hearted genius he was, often tuned up Yes Man’s wiring when he glitched. He may be a doctor by trade, but he learned a bit about basic engineering from his time with The Followers of The Apocalypse. Once, when his voice modulator glitched mid-conversation, Arcade fixed him up on the spot, muttering about "shoddy pre-war programming" and "fixing people and things."

Another time was when Yes Man let slip that a certain "someone" kicked him over and threatened to scrap him for parts, and Giselle was quick to ask who kicked him (she already knew who it was, though. A certain checkered-suited asshole learned a lesson that day). She’d even given him a little bowtie to wear during her performances ("For flair," she’d said).

In turn, Yes Man saved Giselle the best seat in the lounge and "accidentally" overfilled Benny’s drinks when he was being particularly snippy.

Giselle had even requested Yes Man’s opinion on her setlist.

"Do you think the crowd would like 'Crazy He Calls Me' or 'Black Coffee' better?" she’d asked.

Yes Man’s screen flickered with joy. "Oh! 'Black Coffee' has a 73% higher chance of audience engagement based on prior metrics! But your rendition of 'Crazy He Calls Me' has a 100% chance of making Benny stare at you like a lovesick brahmin!"

Giselle choked on her drink.

But, to Yes Man's surprise, Giselle considered his calculations going for both (for audience engagement and to see Benny gawk). He preened in the audience, earning glares from patrons and employees alike. But he didn't care. Just the idea that someone considered his opinion was more than enough.

"Giselle! Your performance was stellar!" Yes Man chirped, his screen flickering with excitement as Giselle stepped offstage.

Giselle grinned, patting his metal shoulder. "Thanks, Yes Man. You’re my best audience."

"Awwww! That’s so sweet!" He beeped happily. "And Arcade fixed my loose wiring earlier, so now I can clap even louder!"

Arcade, wiping grease off his hands, sighed. "You’re welcome, even though I still don’t understand why Benny programmed you to be this… enthusiastic."

Yes Man tilted his head. "Benny says enthusiasm is key to customer service!"

Giselle snorted. "Sure he does."

Among The Chairmen’s performers, Giselle was an unexpected but welcome addition. The Tops wasn’t just Benny’s kingdom, it was a stage where every performer had their own spotlight, their own opinions, and their own way of sizing up the infamous Courier-turned-chanteuse.

Tommy Torini was her biggest supporter, twirling across the floor whenever she sang like a man possessed. "You're bringing life back to The Aces, doll!" he gushed one night, dabbing his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. "The Singer would've loved you… hell, he's probably smiling down from that big casino in the sky! Shame he's, y'know. Dead."

Giselle smirked, her sentiments sincere. "Would’ve liked to meet him."

Tommy sighed dramatically. "Oh, darlin', you both would’ve brought the house down."

But Tommy was still beside himself. He was both thrilled and terrified that he accidentally scouted the Mojave's most dangerous mailwoman as a singer. Still, he couldn't deny her talent.

The Lonesome Drifter rarely spoke, but when he did, it was to ask if she wanted to duet. Their voices blended like smoke and honey: him with his mournful guitar, her with her velvet croon. Whether it was a haunting rendition of "Big Iron" or a slow ballad of "Feeling Good," they left the audience in stunned silence. He would always tip his hat when she passed. "Ain't often the Wasteland give us real music," He said one night. "You got soul, Courier."

She grinned. "Takes one to know one."

"And a voice like yours pairs well with a six-string... makes the wasteland feel a little less lonely," He replied with a slow, approving nod, his usual melancholy eased. "It's a privilege to play alongside you, ma'am. Reckon I'd follow that voice to hell and back."

Giselle nodded back with a smile. "Right back at you, cowboy."

Billy Knight, the resident jokester, never missed a chance to tease her (or Benny). Giselle's "will-they-or-won't-they" tension with Benny was prime material. "Hey Giselle," he’d say with a waggle of his brows, grinning as Benny lingered near the stage, "you ever notice how the boss always finds a reason to be around when you’re singing? C'mon, toots. You two got more tension than a NCR tax code!" Giselle always rolled her eyes, but it was playful. 

I give it... Six months before he's tryin' to put a ring on it," Billy predicted.

"Six days," Swank called from the register.

Benny, however, flipped both of them off without looking, but his ears turned pink.

Bruce Isaac, the smooth-talking crooner, was her favorite collaborator. They harmonized like they'd been singing together for years. Their harmonies on ballads like "Embraciable You" left audiences breathless. Rumor had it Benny would stop mid-scheme just to listen from the shadows, jaw clenched. "Damn, girl," he’d say after. "Harmonizin' with you? Pure magic. We sound good."

Giselle preened. "Damn right we do."

Even Hadrian, the resident insult comic (and usually a sarcastic bastard), had a soft spot for her (Mostly). "What? I’m ain't that stupid," he scoffed when someone asked why he never roasted her. "She's got a gun and a voice that could kill a man. You seen what she did to the Fiends? I like my limbs attached, thanks."

The audience gasped. Hadrian passing up a cheap shot? That was unprecedented.

Giselle raised her glass to him, laughing. "High praise, coming from you."

But sometimes, he couldn't resist a light jab, "But Courier Six? More like Siren Six, am I right?"

And then there was Benny.

The man who had shot her in the head.

The man who now watched her performances from the shadows, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression unreadable.

The man who had given her a penthouse, a stage, a life, and still acted like he didn’t know why.

Benny, of course, pretended not to notice how his entire crew had adopted her.

He’d never admit it, but he lingered near the stage every night she performed. He’d never admit that he had the penthouse designed with her in mind. And he’d certainly never admit that when she sang, for just a moment, he forgot about the Platinum Chip, the Legion, all of it.

But Giselle caught him watching sometimes, leaning slightly forward in the shadows of the VIP lounge as Giselle took her encore bow. Like he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or proud. And when she caught him staring, he’d just smirk, raise his glass, and disappear into the crowd.

"What? Can’t a guy admire his investment?" He would say when she asked.

Giselle would roll her eyes in response. "Keep telling yourself that, boss."

But late one night, after the crowd had dwindled and the stage lights dimmed, Giselle found him sitting at the bar, a half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him.

"You plannin’ on brooding all night, or you gonna buy a girl a drink?" she asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.

Benny smirked, pushing his glass toward her. "Help yourself, doll."

She took a sip, the bourbon smooth and smoky. "Swank thinks you’re goin’ soft."

Benny scoffed. "Swank talks too much."

Giselle studied him, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the bar. "You’re scheming again, Gecko?" she asked, leaning beside him.

"Nah," Benny smirked. "Just wonderin’ how the hell I got stuck with a dame like you."

"Stuck with me?" She laughed. "Benny, you hired me."

"Yeah," he murmured, eyes tracing the curve of her smile. "Worst damn decision I ever made."

He didn’t mean it. And she knew that.

And that… more than the penthouse, more than the applause, more than the way The Chairmen had welcomed her, was what terrified her.

Because Benny Gecko didn’t do sincerity.

And yet…

Here they were.

The next night, as Giselle stepped onto the stage for her final set, she caught sight of her unlikely allies: Swank by the bar, Cass lurking near a particularly rowdy table, Yes Man glowing cheerfully by the door, and Arcade in the back, rolling his eyes but smiling. The performers backstage cheering her on.

And Benny, watching from the shadows, cigarette dangling from his lips, his usual smirk softer than she’d ever seen it.

As the weeks passed, Giselle realized something strange. She wasn’t just tolerated here. She was wanted. And for the first time since the Mojave tried to kill her, she felt like she belonged. And that was worth more than all the caps in Vegas.

And when she stepped onto the stage now, it wasn’t just Benny watching from the shadows.

It was family.

The band struck up a tune. The crowd hushed.

Giselle closed her eyes, lifted the mic, and sang like she’d finally come home. Loud, bright, and alive. 

Chapter Text

"You ever think about ice cream?"

The question slipped out of Giselle’s mouth one evening as she and Benny lounged in the VIP booth of The Tops, the hum of the casino a distant murmur around them.

Benny paused mid-sip of his whiskey, brow quirking. "Ice cream?"

"Yeah, you know—cold, sweet, melts if you stare at it too long?" She twirled a finger in the air. "Used to have whole shops just for it before the war."

Benny smirked, leaning back. "Doll, we’re in Sin City. You really still dreamin’ about sweets?"

Giselle rolled her eyes and turned away. "Forget I asked."

But Benny didn’t forget.

It was just a passing thought she had.

But he did it.

The bastard actually did it.

Three weeks later, a gleaming soda fountain—the first since the bombs fell—opened its doors on the Strip.

The chrome-and-pink neon sign flickered to life with a buzzing hum, casting a rosy glow over the freshly polished counter of "Benny’s Scoops"— a name Giselle rolled her eyes at, but found it charming in its ridiculousness. It was the first proper ice cream parlor on the Strip since the bombs fell. The neon glow of the parlor's exterior buzzed softly against the Vegas night, its chrome-and-pastel interior a jarring contrast to the usual seedy glitz of The Strip.

Giselle stood frozen in the doorway, staring.

"You did not," she breathed.

Benny, leaning against the counter with that infuriating smirk, shrugged. "What? Business is business. And the Strip could use a little… wholesome charm."

"Wholesome," Giselle repeated flatly.

"Sure." Benny’s grin widened. "Now get in here and order somethin’ before I change my mind."

Inside, the chrome-and-vinyl aesthetic was a deliberate throwback to pre-war Americana, complete with a jukebox playing scratchy tunes, checkered floors, and red-striped stools that spun with a satisfying whirr.

Giselle stared at the pastel pink booths and the gleaming soda fountain, her arms crossed.

"I can’t believe you actually did this," she deadpanned, but a smile did curl across her lips.

Benny leaned against the soda fountain, smug as a cat in cream. "What, like it’s hard? Sugar’s easy to come by if you know the right caravan routes. Plus, classy as hell, right?"

"I thought you were drunk when you said you’d open one." Giselle’s fingers brushed the marble counter.

Benny shrugged. "What can I say? When a dame asks for ice cream, Benny delivers."

Giselle shot him a look, her eyes narrowed.

"Okay, okay—recently," he amended, raising his hands.

"You built an entire parlor because I mentioned it," Giselle deadpanned.

"Eh." He flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. "Also good for business. The Strip’s gotta diversify, baby."

"Still, I can't believe you opened an ice cream parlor," Giselle ran a hand over the polished counter, marveling at it.

The bell above the door jingled as Yes Man—now sporting a paper hat, a frilly apron tied around his chassis, and an aggressively cheerful grin—bounced over, his permanently cheerful voice at odds with the absurdity of a Securitron playing soda jerk. "Welcome to Benny’s Scoops! May I take your order? Please say yes!"

Giselle blinked. "...Why is he our server?"

"Needed a server who wouldn’t skim the till," Benny shrugged. "Also, seemed funny."

"I am very good at scooping!" Yes Man chirped, already holding an ice cream spade like a weapon.

Meanwhile, Arcade, fiddling with Yes Man’s settings nearby, sighed. "I can’t believe I got roped into this."

Giselle sighed, shaking her head, before sliding into a booth. "Just vanilla. One scoop, please."

Benny groaned. "C’mon, doll. Live a little. We’re in the classiest joint this side of the apocalypse, and you’re orderin’ plain?" He slid the menu towards her, "We got Molten Sunset Swirl, Brahmin Butter Brickle, even Nuka-Grape Floaters—"

"I like vanilla," Giselle defended. "It’s a classic," 

"It’s boring," Benny countered.

"But statistics show that 78% of first-time customers prefer to try our signature flavors!" Yes Man’s screen blinked rapidly. "Please, Giselle! You have to try something special! We were able to find a caravan that sold pre-war food packets imported all the way from Utah! We’ve got Nuka-Cola Float Fusion! Sunset Sarsaparilla Swirl! Black Sweet Cherry Quantum—it glows!"

Giselle hesitated, then relented. "Fine. The Cherry Quantum, then."

Benny grinned. "Now we’re talkin’. Gimme The Atomic Mint Chocolate chip—and Large Victory Banana Split Sundae—extra whipped cream. Two Nuka-Colas on the side. The works."

Arcade's head snapped up (while enjoying a popsicle stick) in horror. "That’s literally a diabetic coma on a plate."

"And a heart attack," Yes Man added cheerfully. "Statistically, consuming that much sugar in one sitting increases your risk of—"

"Yeah, yeah," Benny waved him off. "Just bring the damn ice cream."

When the towering sundae arrived—drizzled in caramel, piled high with radioactive-red cherries, and flanked by two straws—Giselle couldn’t help but giggle, covering her mouth as a laugh escaped her.

Benny paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing Just—" she said, wiping her eyes. "I read in some old magazine that ordering a banana split was the classic move for a guy on a date."

The spoon clattered out of Benny’s hand.

The room went dead silent.

Arcade buried his face in his hands.

And Yes Man gasped. "Oh! Is this a date? Should I play romantic music? I have statistics on ideal courting melodies!"

Benny's ears turned pink. "It’s what now?"

"Yep." Giselle smirked. "Big ol’ sundae, two spoons… real wholesome stuff."

Benny, for once, was speechless.

Benny recovered fast, lighting his cigarette with a flourish. "Well, ain’t that somethin’. Guess this means you owe me a kiss for dessert."

"In your dreams, smooth talker," Giselle said innocently, watching as Yes Man gleefully drowned the sundae in whipped cream.

Yes Man slid their orders across the counter with a clink. "Enjoy! And remember—sharing is caring!"

Arcade sighed in the background with a scoop of rocky road in front of him. "I’m surrounded by children."

Benny flicked a cherry at him, and Giselle just laughed.

The jukebox played. The neon buzzed outside. And for the first time in a long time, the Mojave didn’t feel so harsh. Not when there was ice cream.

Benny pushed the banana split toward her, one eyebrow raised. "Well?"

Giselle rolled her eyes—but picked up a spoon.

The cherry ice cream was richer than she expected, dark and sweet with a hint of something like almond. Giselle closed her eyes for a second and she couldn't fight the warmth in her chest. She felt like a child again, enjoying her first sweet treat.

When she opened them, Benny was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite place.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothin’," he said, suddenly very interested in his mint chip. "Just… good, right?"

She licked the spoon slowly. "Real good."

Benny swallowed hard.

Arcade quietly drank his Nuka-Cola, rolling his eyes.

Yes Man’s screen flickered. "Fun fact! Sharing desserts doubles the romantic success rate!"

"Nobody asked you, toaster," Benny hissed.

Giselle, still grinning, stole a cherry off his sundae. "Relax, smoothie. I won’t tell anyone the big bad Benny’s got a sweet tooth and a soft spot."

As she laughed, Benny’s chest did something stupid.

Maybe the Mojave wasn’t all blood and bullets.

Maybe—just maybe—there was still room for something sweet.