A/N: I own nothing.
This could be considered a longer and/or alternate version of Like No Other.
Titled after the song of the same name by Timber Timbre (which was played on repeat while I was writing this).
Please leave a review on your way out the door, and enjoy!
Ringo didn't come up from the valley, but he may as well have. Appearing out of that shimmering air in front of the sun, half-dead with dehydration with Powder Gangers on his trail, he looked like a mirage. Hell, if Cheyenne hadn't barked at him so bad, Sunny would've mistaken him for one. When he fell to the ground in a sweaty, tired heap, Cheyenne snapped at him and tugged on his jacket, causing him to stir. Sunny then took it upon herself, under the eyes of other Goodsprings settlers, to haul him to his feet. She swung his arm over his shoulder, and he was damn heavy, like bricks, but she accepted the weight and helped him toward Doc Mitchell's house.
Doc cleaned him up real nice, got some fluids in him and made sure he could walk band and forth across the foyer before saying he'd let him go out of his car. Sunny stood there the whole time, shoulder against the doorframe, hands crossed over her chest. Cheyenne sat by her feet, barking every time Ringo so much as wandered his eyes over to Sunny, and it was funny to see him made so jumpy by a dog that he looked away each time the old girl did it.
Not that Sunny blamed him. Cheyenne could be mean when she wanted to be. She wouldn't bite unless Sunny told her to, but Cheyenne could still give a man hell, even without getting her teeth in him.
When Doc Mitchell left the room for a moment, Sunny found herself saying, "you know folk don't take kindly to you bringing trouble."
Ruefully, he smiled, scratching the back of his head. "I know," he said, and his voice was heavy with knowing. He must've been in scrapes before, she figured, but maybe not like this time. And he told her about his troubles and she just listened while Cheyenne laid down at her feet and listened, too.
"All I'm asking for is some place to lay low till the clear out," he said, "or something that will help me get back on the road."
Sunny shook her head. "You'll be back here again in Doc Mitchell's house before you know it if you go out on the road still weak," and she talked right over him when he began to protest that, "there's a gas station, that way." She jerked her head in its direction. "It's as good a place as any."
Then, when he stashed himself in the gas station, Cobb came out of the blue with his gun and his men and Sunny just about leapt at the chance to help that fella out. She got her gun, Cheyenne her killing teeth, and the two of them went out and colored the dirt a muddy, brownish red with the Powder Gangers' blood. It wasn't easy work, not with half the town with wholes in 'em, but with the help of the stranger, they took care of 'em all the same.
The stranger left just before sunset, but Ringo left first, and if Sunny were the kind of woman to up and leave a place she'd put roots down in, she might have had some different thoughts when she set eyes on him after the firefight was over and the stink of death died down to something typical.
"You should come see me in New Vegas," he said, all smile and charm as a dealer now that his troubles were done with. "I'll show you how to play Caravan, if you want. Can even get you in some places free, if my luck holds."
Sunny Smiles shook her head, her hands on her hip. She smiled back at him, but it held no warmth. If he didn't know any better (and, really, he did not know better) he would have mistaken it for something sorrowful. "Afraid we won't be seeing much of each other after this," she told him, "I don't intend on leaving Goodsprings any time soon."
"You sure about that?"
Sunny's eyes skirted from Cheyenne, to the saloon, then back to Ringo.
"Sure am."
"Well then," he said, clasping her arm in his; his grip was strong, reassuring in a time when the only one Sunny could really count on was a canine and a stranger who'd probably be on their way soon. "I suppose I just might have to come back."
"You gonna bring more convicts with you?"
He let go of her, but seemed like he didn't want to. Sunny could understand that; out here, there weren't many you could trust to take your hand when most of 'em would cut it off for caps. He'd found that in her, she could see it in his face: he thought that she wouldn't cut him if he gave her his hand.
And he was right. She wouldn't.
At this rate, Cheyenne didn't even want to bite him anymore."
"I'll try not to," he said, just shy of the too-quiet side of conversation.
"Good," Sunny said, letting her arms rest at her sides, "well, if you come back, bring your gun and we'll do some shooting."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I can handle myself."
She tilted her head, squinting at him in the bright light of day. "You seem a 'lil rusty, Ringo. You could use some work."
"So you're saying I'm a bad shot?"
"I'm just here to help," she said, putting her hands up in mock surrender.
"I'll bring cards next time," he promised, and she shook her head. Was he a one-track record when it came to that game?
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the bodies she'd dropped not an hour before. "Never been fond of cards."
"Never been fond of hunting geckos, either, but I bet I could learn."
Ringo was grinning at her, so big and wide she thought he was a sign from a different time.
Men came through Goodsprings, sure enough, most of them being the same. A few of them had been like Ringo, skittish with big-mouths and itchy trigger fingers, meaning they'd better be close to what they were shooting at or else it'd be a damn shameful miss.
Sunny watched him go. She knew that look in his face, the one she glimpsed right before he turned to start heading off towards Vegas. It said, you're one helluva girl. It said, I wouldn't mind you for company. It said, hope to see you soon. It was a look she'd seen before, and one she expected she'd see again before death came to claim her soul and pry it out the hell out of her. He was disappearing into the sun, and, as if in goodbye, Cheyenne barked after him, once, her tail wagging, and he turned around, just once, still walking but looking back long enough to wave goodbye.
A lot of folks who went through Goodsprings and promised to come back through never did. It wasn't anything special or out of the ordinary, it was just how things went. That stranger would never come back, and Sunny wasn't about to start holding her breath for Ringo. Cheyenne was damn happy about his departure - she'd probably smelled that look in his eye on him, had probably seen and smelled it before Sunny, as experienced as she was, caught on to the familiar signs - and Sunny wasn't heartbroke to see him go. No, her place was in Goodsprings with Pete, Trudy, Chet, Doc Mitchell, and the rest, but hell, she remembered coming through for the first time and deciding to put her roots down deep into the scorched earth. She remembered setting up shop, carving a name (and spot) out for herself at the saloon, just as she remembered finding Cheyenne half-dead as a pup with blood in her mouth. She'd said she would stay, and she had, and she did not intend to go back on her word.
So maybe Ringo would come back with some cards in his pack. So maybe she could teach him how to shoot right with Sarsaparilla bottles. So maybe he'd come out of the sun, shimmering like a mirage until he was right back in front of her, clear as day, in front of the way to Doc Mitchell's house. And so what?
Either way, Sunny knew she would be right where he left her, under the burning sun with Cheyenne at her side.