Delilah had the time for a cig. A centuries old cancer stick. She found this one from a pack lodged in an equally as old toilet. It smelled like shit, and looked like it had previously been covered in shit. But beggars can't be choosers.
See, Delilah had long lost her sense of dignity. She lit it, letting the toxic smoke relax her destroyed nerves.
It tasted like shit.
She didn't care.
'Dunno how you can stand that.' Butch frowned.
Butch had been wrangled into her mess. They were not friends. They were allies surviving the harsh wastes together, merely tolerating each other.
'I dunno either.' She mumbled. She sucked, and turned to exhale in his face. Butch coughed, and got up from his seat. He counted the caps on the table and collected them all for some booze. She waved her hand daintily, sarcastically, as he aimed his middle finger at her.
As he stalked off, Delilah found herself staring at the back of his head, as if he would suddenly vanish. It had been too long since she was last friends with anyone. It had been too soon since someone died for her. Clover had her pretty pink dress stained violently red with her own juices. Charon's indigestible sinew was stuck in the teeth of a mutant. Dad was rotting in the embrace of Jefferson's gaze. Clover was dead, Charon was dead, and Dad was dead. She morosely wondered how long it would take Butch to die.
'Why are you touching my jacket?'
Her vision jerked to him, holding lukewarm whiskey. Delilah did not realise she was massaging the snake embroidery. It was not her fault he left it lazing on his seat. 'Oh, sorry, forgot I have cooties.' She sighed, drawing her finger along its slender belly.
'You're getting shitty cig ashes in the seams. It's going to smell like you.' He chided, handing her a bottle. She thanked him, immediately cracking the cap and drinking.
'Aw.' She hacked. Her throat protesting against her vices. 'Is that a bad thing? It'll be like a piece of me. I'll never go away.'
Butch groaned, dismissively suggesting she go fuck herself. Delilah chuckled, before growing sullen again. That voice reminded that he was an ally, nothing more. It did not matter if her allies died.
She hated that voice. It told her what to do. It was contradictory, accusatory and venomous. She regularly did stupid shit because of it. She smoked shit now because it thought one day that it would relieve her. That voice told her that whiskey would never shut it up, and she drank the whole bottle in spite. She still could not escape its scathing words, she never could.
They sat on the balcony overlooking the Wastes well into the middle of the night. Whiskey slurred their words and numbed their bodies. Delilah stumbled around, falling into Butch when she tried to get up. He griped over her weight, struggling to carry her inside the suite. He patted his triceps, posing cockily after wrangling her onto the bed. She tried to suppress her giggles, but they came as a torrent, drowning out Butch's own cacophony. He landed near her, snorting as he calmed down.
'You really can't handle your drink' Butch gasped, trying to breathe.
She smiled, he returned it.
That voice carved into her mind. It tried to strangle whatever pleasure and happiness she had found. She groaned, fighting it.
She rolled to her side to position herself above him. Delilah languidly reached for his face, brushing his cheek, leaning to sloppily kiss him. It was hot and messy, her hair stuck to his sweaty features and his hands roaming her body.
He tasted like whiskey and leather.
She didn't care.