"Man, you need to lighten up."

The smell of booze and cigarettes wafted throughout the casino. The ashtray in front of the two of them lay idle; Manny didn't like the taste and Boone had not stocked up at the shop before they went out for the evening. It makes you taste gross. To women. You know?

The casino had been Manny's idea, of course. He had this idea that getting Boone laid would be the key to him snapping out of "whatever funk you're going through" and dragged him off to Gomorrah the second they'd been placed on leave. Their entire unit had a few weeks after the news of Bitter Springs had spread throughout the NCR. Manny insisted they do something with their leave, dragging Boone out of his cot against his will.

Of course they'd gone to Gomorrah, too. They had played a few rounds of roulette, Boone just sitting on the stool next to Vargas until the dealer kicked them out, saying Boone was taking a spot from paying customers. He hadn't even gotten any chips until Manny basically begged him, and he'd pointedly exchanged 5 NCR dollars for two chips and proceeded to lose all of them on slots.

Manny had changed his approach after that. They got dinner and returned to go to the strip club. The entire time Manny had been drinking, offering his drinks to Boone every time he bought a new one. And Boone had turned him down every single time, bringing him to his current predicament: the strip club.

At present, Boone sat, trying to imagine boring a hole through the table in front of them, ignoring the black leather-clad stripper dancing.

"Oh, and a bottle of whiskey is gonna help me do that?"

"It can't hurt," Manny snorted, taking a sip of the bottle he'd just offered to his friend. "You gotta realize: I bought your booze, I bought your dinner, and we're sharing the hotel room and you haven't paid your piece yet. The least you can do is drink with your old friend."

"I don't drink," Boone insisted.

"That's not what you said last time we came to Vegas," Manny responded, shaking his head. "Remember how I dared you to strip and dance in the fountain? You used to be a lot more fun back then."

Truly, Boone did not remember very much from last time, mostly because he had been very, very drunk by that part of the night. Had it not been for Vargas, he probably would have passed out in the fountain and drowned.

Maybe that would have been for the better.

"That was before," Boone said simply. He took a sip of the water on the table before him, pointedly ignoring the alcohol.

"Before you shot people? I hate to break it to you, but we're in a war. That's kind of what happens. During war. Since you're a soldier. Like you signed up for."

"You weren't there," Boone growled. He didn't get it.

"Yeah, because I didn't want to have to slaughter my old friends and family," Manny sniped back. "Ever think of that, Craig?" He took a deep swallow of whiskey dismissively, setting his jaw and gazing up at the stripper dancing before them.

Shooting his friend a pained look, Boone just shook his head. "Don't call me that."

"Craig, I just have to ask you a question. Where's my friend Boone? The guy who knew how to talk to me, how to take a fucking joke? The guy who didn't have a stick up his ass. Remember him?"

Before Boone could say something nasty back at him, someone joined them at their table

"Hey," Pete Valentine, another First Recon member who had tagged along with Vargas and Boone, said. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into their ashtray, dirtying it. "That group of girls over there is looking at you two. Just figured I'd point it out in case you didn't want to pay for sex tonight."

"Man, you couldn't pay this one to have sex tonight. All he wants to do is stare at the table and drink water."

"Well, maybe when he sees these girls he'll change his mind. Drop-dead gorgeous."

Boone heard them pause. He figured they were ogling the women across the club.

"Well, I'll be damned. I call dibs," Manny laughed. "The brunette. She's mine."

Finally, Boone looked up.

And he saw.

Sure enough, across the bar a table with three women stared at them. A pretty brunette sat on the left, almost definitely the one Manny was talking about, as she was just his type. On the right a redhead, her hair short, wearing an expensive-looking blue dress and a massive hat. But Boone barely registered the two of them. He only saw the woman in the middle. She had long, blonde hair, down to her elbows, sectioned off into two neat braids hanging down her chest. She had this relaxed demeanor about her, a small private smile on her lips, like she knew something no one else did.

And time stopped as she looked directly back into Boone. Into him, not at him, as if she could see inside of him.

And then she stood up.

"Oh, they're coming - yep, heading this way," Pete said, sitting back in the chair. He took a drag of his cigarette. "Goddamn they are hot."

"Fuck me," Manny agreed, grinning. "Last chance, Boone. Do you want a drink?"

But Boone barely heard him. His ears had stopped working. His muscles, too, because the entirety of his attention was focused on her.

And then she was there. They stood over the three of them

"Hey, boys," the blonde said. She scanned the two of them, her two friends close behind them. "Are you NCR?"

"Born and bred, baby," Manny grinned. Boone bit back the urge to correct him, to remind his friends that he was not, in fact, born NCR. Halfway because it would be a dick move to grind his friend's Khan heritage into him, and halfway because he was distracted.

The blonde shared a conspiratory smile with her brunette companion. "Told you."

"Told her what?" Pete asked, taking a drink.

"We made bets on if you were NCR or ranchers," the brunette said.

Pete snickered. "Oh? And what'd you come up with?"

The entire time, Boone just stared at the blonde. He tried to convince himself to snap out of it. His mother's voice echoed in his head: staring is rude, Craig! Be polite.

His mother had never seen someone so beautiful, Boone decided. It warranted the staring.

"The quiet one's NCR through and through," the blonde said. "The other two we were less sure about."

Manny laughed, a little too loudly, and took another swig of whiskey. "Insulting! We're First Recon."

"What's that mean?" the redhead asked, scrunching up his nose.

"It means we're really good shots," Pete agreed.

"We?" Manny muttered. "I could outshoot you with my underwear wrapped around my eyes."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The entire time, the blonde kept looking at him across the table.

"Buy me a drink, shy guy," the woman said. She was addressing… Boone. Someone so pretty, so mysterious, wanted Boone to buy her a drink?

"Oh, Boone doesn't drink," Manny insisted. "He's clean. A new man. Allow me."

Finally, his motor facilities came back online. He jabbed his elbow deep into the ribs of his best friend. Manny let out a satisfying oof with the impact.

"Manny has no idea what he's talking about," Boone said, standing up. "I'll get you a drink."

"I'll come with you," the blonde said. "Gotta make sure you get my order right."

The two left the strip club and headed to the bar. Boone wanted to go to the one in the main lobby so his two friends wouldn't gawk at him or talk more.

"Are you gonna introduce yourself?" she said, leaning against the bar and looking at him.

Frank Sinatra played at the bar, his rich, soulful voice again secondary to the woman in front of him. This close, Boone noticed two things. The first, she was impossibly smooth. Most people in the wastes had scars, pockmarks, roughness on their faces. Life in the wastes was hard, and it showed. The second, though, was her smell. She wore this distinct, rose perfume that had already moved into Boone's brain for good. Even if she turned around and left this second, Boone just knew he'd remember it until he breathed his last breath.

Maybe that was dramatic. But Boone was 22, after all. It was a dramatic age.

I've lost my heart again, just how, I don't recall

"Boone," he said. "Craig Boone." He could not stop looking at her. He hoped his eye contact came off as genuine or interesting and not creepy.

You found my heart and then, it wasn't mine at all

"Carla," she said, extending a hand. Boone took it, impossibly small and soft and smooth. He held on longer than he should have. Her tiny little mysterious smile didn't budge. "You're handsome for an NCR boy, Craig."

I'm sure that all my life was just a prologue leading up to you

"What's that mean?"

The bartender came over to the two of them and Boone slapped down the caps for two bottles of whiskey.

The moment that we met, I knew

"Means you're just about the sexiest man I've seen walk in here in a long time."

Boone, sexy? No way. Muscular, sure. Intense, yes. A skilled shooter. Tall - six foot, four inches. Quiet. Never good-looking, or handsome, or sexy.

When she looked at him, though, he thought she might be right.

"Why'd you come here, Craig Boone?" Carla asked. "To The Strip."

God, where could he start? He hadn't wanted to. He would have liked to spend his leave fighting, doing something, since his only other option was to lie in bed, unable to sleep, fighting off the constant flashbacks.

"Vargas, my friend back there, he thought I needed to lighten up," Boone decided to disclose.

The bartender returned with two drinks, waiting for Boone to relinquish his caps as a tip. He obliged.

"I don't know if that's true. You look lost, though," Carla said. "Maybe I was what you were looking for?"

So how can I lose my heart again when it belongs to you?

"Maybe you are," he said simply. He took a drink from his whiskey bottle.

The two did not return to their friends until the next day.