Benny was not a shy man. He was a smooth, swinging cat who dazzled the ladies and men alike, dancing through life with a silver spoon in his mouth. And yet here he was, standing on the steps of the Lucky 38 in the pouring rain, all of his own accord.

Really, he wasn't remotely surprised. It was no secret the universe hated him, after all. Fail to shoot an unimportant courier in the head. Have the same courier show up at his casino, and seduce him. Get kidnapped by the Legion. Get rescued by the courier. Leave Vegas. Get dragged back to Vegas.

Now did any of that sound fair? No, it didn't. And now that pretty little courier was sitting high atop the world, cackling down at him. He was supossed to be in charge. He was the one with the power. So much for that.

The worst part was that no one had forced him to go out today. He could have stayed in bed, watched the rare rainfall and slept. Or visited Gomorrah, picking a girl or five of his choice and had a wild night. It was all her fault. If she hadn't stepped into his life, if she had been courier number four, or one, he would have been fine.

Instead, he had fallen in love with Courier Six.

It hurt to admit, to even imagine the concept. Love? Love was for sissies, those same idiots that dropped the bombs in the first place. Love had no place in Vegas, and no place in a power struggle. But those damned eyes, that smile, the awful, infectious laugh?

Ain't that a kick in the head? Dean Martin had it right all along.

He was going to turn around, go back to the Tops and forget this whole stupid thing when she answered the door, looking at him in bewilderment.

"Benny? What the hell are you doing in the rain? Are...are those flowers?"

"Just shut up and let me in," He muttered, storming into the casino and shutting the door, thrusting the sopping wet bouquet and card into her hands.

"What...why...?"

"Just open it." He was busy wringing out his jacket, brushing water out of his eyes. It never stormed in the Mojave, unless Benny wanted to go somewhere.

"Okay." Bewildered, she opened the card, a small plain thing with a teddy bear on the front. He had taken note of her giant collection spread out across her bedroom floor the first time she brought him to the Lucky 38, though he never said anything about it to her. The fact that he remembered was unexpected, to say the least.

"'I'm sorry that I shot you in the head, Pussycat. '" She read out loud, brow furrowing. He knew how to write better romance than that; she had seen it on his small note he left her after they first slept together. Turning her attention to the flowers, she couldn't help but smile. They more than made up for the hastily written card, the light purple petals drooping with water but still beautiful.

"They're called asters apparently. Couldn't find any roses."

"How long were you standing there in the rain? And why?" At that he turned to her, shrugging and trying to look apathetic.

"Few minutes. And it's Valentine's Day. Sure, it was a bigger deal before the war, but-"

"...Are you asking me to be your valentine?"

She just had to make this difficult, didn't she? "If that means we can head up to your room and knock boots? Sure."

She was smiling, but not the inviting smile he was hoping for. It was sweet, heartfelt. That didn't make anything else easier. "You loooove me."

"You're a pain, you know that?"

"You love it." Leaning in to kiss him, she placed her hand on his cheek-an intimate gesture. "Thank you."

"Happy Valentine's Day. Don't tell anyone about this."

"Wouldn't dream of it."