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Johnny Silverhand blinked against the dark, his senses slow to catch up. Something tugged at him, no, someone. A voice, familiar and unrelenting, cut through the haze of sleep.
“Johnny. Hey. Wake up.”
He grunted, rolling onto his back. V’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He squinted at her silhouette, backlit by the soft neon glow leaking through the blinds. Her face was inches from his, eyes wide and restless.
“The fuck…” he mumbled, voice gravelly. “What is it?”
“I’m starving,” she said, like it was an emergency. Like the megabuilding was on fire.
Johnny groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You know what time it is?”
There was a pause. A sheepish shrug. “...Two.”
“Two,” he echoed, more to himself than to her. He sighed and dropped back against the mattress. “Fuckin’ hell.”
She was already sitting up, arms wrapped around the swell of her belly. He reached out, tried to coax her back under the covers.
“C’mere. Get some sleep, V.”
“I can’t.” She wriggled free, stubborn as always. “I need to eat. Like now.”
He sat up again with a groan. “Alright, alright. What is it this time?” He ticked the guess off with a tired smirk. “Fried pickles dipped in peanut butter?”
She shook her head. “Pie.”
He blinked. “Pie?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why. I've just been thinking about it for a couple of days. There was a 24-hour pie place I used to visit in Heywood when I was a teenager. Had the best damn pie I’ve ever had.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Synthetic garbage passing for pie, huh? Shit, I pity you.”
She shot him a look.
“No, really. Imagine never tasting real food. Who the hell knows what that shit’s doing to our kid?” He reached out, silver hand splayed across her stomach. “Hope she’s got a better stomach than I ever did.”
She patted The Hand away with a mild glare. “So is that a yes, or…?”
He gave her a long, pained look. Then smirked. “Yes, princess. It’s a yes.”
The grin she gave him then, that genuine, sleepy, a little mischievous grin, was worth every damn mile to Heywood. She was already halfway out of bed, slipping on her boots with the grace of someone trying to be fast but failing miserably with a third-trimester bump.
Johnny exhaled heavily, swung his legs off the bed, and pulled on the black tank top crumpled on the floor. “The things I fuckin’ do for you,” he muttered, mostly for show. “Middle of the night, hauling ass through half the city for some nostalgia pie.”
V looked over her shoulder and gave him one of those tiny, knowing smiles, the kind that made his chest feel too small.
He tied up half his hair into a loose bun and crossed the room to where she was crouched, struggling to reach her shoelaces. Without a word, he knelt and tied them for her, fingers moving quickly and efficiently.
She smirked down at him. “What would I do without you?”
He rolled his eyes as he stood. “Let’s not find out, yeah?”
They reached for the door. Johnny paused, glancing over to the laundry bin next to the bed. Nibbles, curled up in a ball, hadn’t moved an inch.
“Hold down the fort,” he murmured.
Behind him, V grinned. “You’re such a gonk.”
“Yeah, well. I’m your gonk.” He turned to meet her gaze and grinned, "But you love me anyway."
V simply stared at him, then turned and pushed the door open. She stepped out into the hallway, the hum of Night City bleeding in. Johnny followed after her, the door clicking shut behind him.
The doors to the elevator hissed open as V and Johnny stepped inside. Another couple stepped inside, older, maybe mid-sixties, dressed like they were coming back from a night out. Or heading out for one. Johnny didn’t know and sure as hell didn’t care to ask. What he did know was that he recognized them.
They’d been friendly when he first moved in, well, when he took over V’s unit. Back when this body was still fresh and the name on the documents read “Johnathan Linder.” That alias had kept things quiet, avoiding the press, the corps, and the wrong kind of attention.
Johnny leaned against the side with his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. Beside him, V swayed slightly, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. He nodded at them in polite acknowledgement. They nodded back.
Then silence.
Until V looked up at him, lips pursed like she was about to pick a fight, and said in the most casual voice possible, as though continuing a conversation from earlier, “So… when are you gonna tell your wife about me?”
Johnny’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
The older couple turned to look at them sharply. V, standing there in a tank top two sizes too small, her round belly impossible to ignore, just rubbed it for dramatic effect. The man narrowed his eyes. The woman raised a brow.
Johnny gaped, mouth working but no sound coming out. V stared up at him, stone-faced. Goddamn deadpan. Playing it to perfection.
He wanted to die. Just blink out and disappear.
The elevator creaked along, slow as ever. Longest. Fucking. Ride.
When the doors finally parted with a ding, Johnny bolted out first, muttering something that might’ve passed for “have a good night” as V followed, barely holding in her laughter.
He unlocked the Porsche in silence, not even glancing back. They slipped inside, doors shutting with a muted thud. V let out a full-blown cackle the second her seatbelt clicked.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Johnny shot her a sideways glare as he started the car. “Tryna screw me over like that?”
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Didn’t know Johnny Silverhand could get embarrassed. Your face was bright red. ”
“You almost gave that old couple a goddamn stroke.”
“Well, technically,” V smirked, “they’re younger than you.”
“Cunt.”
“Dick.”
He shook his head, revving the engine. “Careful, princess. I might just call this whole pie quest off.”
“No! No, c’mon– please,” she pleaded, putting her hands together in mock prayer. “I’ll be good. Swear.”
“You better be.”
Johnny shifted into drive, guiding the Porsche out of the H10 garage and into the still-buzzing streets of Night City. The billboards cast brightly colored light across the windshield as they sped along, slicing through the sleepless sprawl toward Heywood.
V fiddled with the radio, flicking through the stations until she landed on Morro Rock. Just in time for the opening riff of Black Dog.
Johnny raised a brow.
“Did you know,” he said dryly, “I wrote this one?”
V blinked, faux shocked. “No way.”
“Way,” he grinned, leaning into the boast. “That’s me on lead vocals, even.”
“No. Way.” V placed both hands dramatically on her chest. “Are you telling me… I’m dating the Johnny Silverhand? Of Samurai? ”
“You know it.” He slid on his aviators with a grin, tilting his head just enough for the full rockerboy effect.
V burst into laughter, full-bodied and genuine. “Gonk.”
Johnny smirked and kept his hands steady on the wheel. They were in Heywood now. V had one hand resting on the swell of her belly, the other tapping on the door in rhythm to the music.
“All right,” Johnny said, squinting ahead. “So where’s this legendary pie joint of yours?”
V perked up and straightened in her seat. “Okay, go right at the next– no, wait– left. Then another left. Or was it–” she frowned, chewing her bottom lip. “Shit, maybe it was a right back there.”
Johnny let out a low groan, making the next turn anyway. “You sure you didn’t dream this place up, princess?”
“I’m telling you, it’s real. I used to go there when I was a teen with my brother. Place was always open.”
“Yeah, well,” Johnny muttered, shifting gears, “don’t get your hopes up too high. Could’ve been shuttered for years. Not every dusty teenage hangout survives Night City.”
V shook her head. “No way. That place runs on hormone-crazed teens and starving pregnant women. Business model like that? Bulletproof.”
“Exactly,” Johnny snorted. “There’s a shortage of pregnant women, in case you haven’t noticed. For all I know, you’re the only one left in the city.”
She smacked him in the arm.
“Hey!”
“That’s not true at all,” she said, half laughing. “There are plenty of pregnant women in Night City.”
“Might be the only one crazy enough to want a kid in this corpo hellscape.”
“Shut up and pull over!” V pointed wildly to the right. “That’s it, we just passed it!”
Johnny craned his neck, spotted a flickering neon sign ahead. PIE-O-MATIC 24/7 . Retro-styled chrome and red paint. Diner design straight out of a long-dead America. He grumbled under his breath, spun the car around, and pulled into the cracked parking lot.
Sure enough, the place was open. Light spilling from its windows, casting a pinkish glow across the lot. Johnny killed the engine and looked over at V, who was already opening her door with a triumphant grin.
“Told you it was real,” she said.
“You win this one, princess.”
He slid out of the Porsche, tugged off his aviators before he forgot, the last thing he needed was some Night City adolescents recognizing him under diner flourescents. They stepped inside, and Johnny blinked against the sudden brightness. Chrome counters, plastic booths, and behind glass, an altar of pies. Every kind imaginable. Berry, apple, key lime, lemon meringue, something artificially red that was probably labeled Perfectly Perseved Pie.
They were the only customers.
A long-haired guy behind the counter glanced up, mid-seventies, grey stubble, old-school band shirt. Gave Johnny a small nod. Johnny returned it, instinctively respectful to anyone who’d made it this far in this city and was still slinging pies.
V was already posted up against the glass, eyes scanning the selection with the kind of focus Johnny usually only sees in combat.
“You know what you want?” he asked.
“Yep,” she said without hesitation. “Chocolate cream.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Not even gonna pretend to think about it?”
“Didn’t need to,” she said. “That one’s been living in my head rent-free for days.”
They approached the counter.
“What can I get you kids?” the old man asked.
Johnny flinched slightly at kids, but kept his cool. V didn’t seem to notice, either too hungry or used to it.
“One chocolate cream pie,” Johnny said.
“Slice or the whole thing?”
V didn’t even pause. “Whole pie.”
Johnny blinked. “The hell are we supposed to do with a whole pie?”
V gave him a sideways look. “Leftovers. Duh.”
He sighed. “Fine. One whole pie.”
The guy chuckled. “Alright then.”
As the man disappeared behind the counter, V stood there, hair messy, combat boots scuffed, a whole child growing under her ribcage, and yet somehow she looked victorious. Too pleased with herself by half.
Johnny chuckled and pulled her under his arm, pressing a kiss to her head.
“I spoil you,” he murmured against her hair.
“Damn right you do,” she replied, smiling up at him.
The man behind the counter returned with the pie packed into a plastic container. He slid it across the top, and Johnny stepped forward to pay. A few eddies lighter, Johnny turned, expecting to follow V to a booth when she snagged a plastic fork from a grimy little cup by the register. She was already eying the corner seat like it was holy ground.
But just as Johnny turned to follow her, the guy behind the counter called out.
“Hey,” the man said, tone shifting from casual to something more curious. “Don’t I know you…?”
Johnny froze, spine tightening just a notch.
“Do you now?” he asked, keeping his voice flat. Detached.
The guy leaned slightly over the counter, squinting at him through tired eyes. “Yeah. I grew up on Silverhand’s stuff. Samurai. Hell, I had the bootleg tapes. Think I’d recognize that face anywhere.”
Johnny forced a smirk, easy, practiced. “Getting that a lot lately. Sorry to disappoint, just a guy takin’ his pregnant wife out for pie.”
V, already halfway to the booth, turned around. That stupid grin broke over her face like sunrise.
Johnny caught it and felt his stomach twist. Shit. What now?
The man behind the counter didn’t smile. Didn’t scoff. His gaze drifted down, then landed on The Hand.
“Most impersonators don’t go that far,” he said, voice low now. “That’s real, yeah? I know it is.”
Johnny’s blood chilled. He hadn’t covered the damn thing. Just rolled out of bed, threw on a tank, and forgot about the unmistakable silver limb attached to his shoulder. Too early for this shit.
The man kept going. “Saw your stunt at Corpo Plaza, broadcast across every goddamn screen. Knew it then. You’re back.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow breath, not quite ready to torch the diner.
“Got no idea what you’re talking about, choom.”
The guy raised both hands, palms out. “Hey, relax. I an’t gonna tell anyone. Fuck Araska and Militech, right?” He chuckled under his breath. “Just glad you made it out. Keep up the good fight.”
Johnny stared him down a second longer, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah… alright.”
“Have a good night, you two.”
V was already sitting in the booth, the whole pie open in front of her like treasure. Johnny hesitated for half a breath; every muscle in him wanted to walk out and ghost into the night. Recognition was always a risk, and he hated it. Still didn’t know if it’d catch up with him.
But she was looking at him now. Still smiling that weird smile.
So he sat.
Johnny dropped into the seat across from her, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Maybe we should delta,” he muttered. “Didn’t like the way that guy clocked me.”
“He’s a fan,” V said, slicing into the pie. “I’m more relieved he didn’t recognize me.”
Johnny narrowed his eyes at her. “You really that excited to eat a whole pie, or is it something else?”
V shook her head slowly, still smiling like she had a secret. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
She looked up at him with that look that always made his heart ache in the best and worst ways.
“You said I was your wife.”
Johnny blinked.
Shit.
He had.
He’d just tossed it out there, instinctively, in a throwaway comment meant to dodge questions. Didn’t even think about it.
Now it was hanging between them like smoke in the air.
So Johnny did what he always did when things got too real: he put on armor.
He leaned back in the booth, kicked one boot up onto the edge of the table like he owned the place, and slid his aviators back on. A shield, a statement. He looked away from her and said, cool as chrome, “Don’t make it weird. Didn’t mean anything by it. Slip of the tongue.”
V’s smile fell.
Johnny noticed she still hadn’t touched the damn pie. Not even a nibble. She looked down at it, then up at him through the tint of his shades, her voice flat.
“Bullshit.”
His jaw clenched behind the smirk. Goddammit.
“You really wanna talk about it now?” he snapped. “Fine. Let’s fuckin’ talk.”
He adjusted his shades. “Marriage is a scam,” he said. “Outdated bullshit that doesn’t belong in this fucked-up apocalypse. It’s a contract. A legal gamble where you hope to have enough eddies stashed away for a divorce attorney when it all goes to shit.”
V didn’t say a word.
“The whole wedding industry’s just another corpo con. Spend a small fortune to impress people you don’t even like. Want your old man to walk you down some aisle and hand you off to me like cattle? No thanks.”
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, voice a low growl.
“Most people get divorced. Just ask Kerry how his marriage ended, spoiler alert: badly. And the ones who don’t? They stick together ‘cause they’re broke or got kids or too scared to leave. And then there’s the housewife gig,” he added, his gaze flicking to her. “Think you’d be happy barefoot and pregnant, cooking meals and wiping snotty noses while I got out and bring home the big bucks? Hell no.”
He snorted and leaned back again.
“Marriage is capitalism in a white dress. No fucking thank you.”
V’s frown deepened. She crossed her arms, eyes cold.
“So clearly,” she said slowly, “marriage isn’t an option for us.”
“Fuck no,” he answered immediately.
But in his head, something twisted. The words tasted like ash.
Because the truth?
He’d marry her in a second.
If she ever said she loved him. Just once.
But she hadn’t. Not once. Not even a whisper. To her, this was probably just… temporary. A fling. One more phase before she moved on. Before he fucked it up, like he did with everyone else.
Johnny looked down at the pie. Then pulled off his shades and set them on the table like a mic drop.
“Eat your damn pie,” he muttered. “Only reason we came out here.”
V stared at him. Her eyes had cooled into something flat. Something distant.
“Shut up,” she said.
Johnny kicked his boot further onto the table, crossing the other at the ankle.
“Sure,” he said. “I can shut up. But you’re stuck with me now, princess. Not just some voice in your head you can drown out with an immunoblocker. I’m here. Not mute button.”
He wiggled his boot casually, sliding his aviators back on like the conversation hadn’t just ripped his insides open. Stared out the window at the parking lot.
“I’m also your ride,” he added, voice neutral.
V shot back, “I can take the metro.”
He smirked without looking at her. “Good luck with that.”
“I can handle myself.”
Johnny glanced over, taking her in. His gaze drifted to her stomach.
“Not in your condition, you can’t.”
V placed a hand over her belly, eyes burning.
“Fuck you.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t scoff.
Just kept looking out the window, like the reflection staring back wasn’t his.
“Eat your damn pie,” he said again, quieter this time.
And that was that.
Or so he thought.
V finally picked up her fork, plastic tines scraping the edge of the pie container. Took a small bite. Chewed like it was cardboard. She didn’t look at him. Not once. Just stared down at the chocolate cream.
Johnny leaned back in the booth, fingers drumming on the table, pretending to study the streets from the window.
“You gonna sulk the whole night,” he asked, “or just until the whipped cream melts?”
V didn’t rise to the bait. She took another bite.
He sighed.
“Look, I’m not good at this… feelings shit.”
She looked up then, finally, mouth still full, eyes unimpressed. “No shit.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. I did. But not like… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She set her fork down and crossed her arms. “You really think I want to be a housewife? Think I’m asking you to marry me?”
Johnny hesitated. “Aren’t you?”
“No, jackass,” she snapped. “I just wanted to know what you think. About us. About the future. Our future.”
He looked away again, jaw clenched.
“That is what I think,” he said finally. “The future’s a ticking time bomb. And you– you’re standing right on top of it.”
V’s voice cut in, sharper than before. “So what, if we ignore it, it won’t go off?”
He stared out the window, watching the reflection of neon crawl across the chrome of his arm.
“You don’t get it,” he said, quiet now. “I’ve never had something last, V. Not music. Not friends. Not love. Every time I’ve had something worth a damn, it slipped through my fingers or blew up in my face.”
He hesitated. “And now you’re…” His gaze flicked to her stomach. “You’re both right there, and I’m already losing you.”
That stopped her cold.
He watched her breath hitch, watched her eyes change, something soft, something scared, blooming just behind her stare.
“You think I don’t want forever with you?” He added, almost bitterly. Ran a hand through his hair. “I’d fucking kill for it. But let’s not pretend. You’re dying. And now a kid is coming into all this. It’s a cruel joke.”
V said nothing for a long time. Her eyes were wet, but she didn’t let anything fall.
“Is that what you think?” she whispered. “That I’m just going to die…”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
She leaned forward across the table, her voice low and steady.
“I’m not going anywhere, Johnny. I didn’t stay alive this long, didn’t fight like hell through the worst year of my life, just to give up now. I’m not gone yet. And neither is this kid. We’re still here, Johnny. Even if it’s not forever.”
Johnny studied her. The way she softened again, how her shoulders relaxed. How the corners of her mouth curled even while she chewed.
The fear in his chest didn’t go away.
But something else layered over it. Warmer. Steadier.
“You gonna eat that whole thing?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said around another forkful. “Got a problem with that?”
“Nope,” Johnny said, leaning back. “Just trying to figure out how to steal a bite without losing another hand.”
She pushed the container toward him with her pinky.
He stole a bite.
It wasn’t bad. A little too sweet. But worth it.
They didn’t talk much after that.
Didn’t need to.
V let him steal two more bites of pie, and Johnny didn’t push his luck beyond that. She packed up the rest in the little plastic container, snapped the lid shut, and carried it like it was some kind of victory trophy.
He held the door open for her on the way out. Not because he was trying to be chivalrous, hell no, but because she was carrying the pie and walking around with a miniature human inside her. The least he could do.
The streets of Heywood were quieter now. Fewer cars. Only a couple of drunk corpos stumbling out of a bar across the road. The Porsche waited for them like a faithful mutt.
They climbed in. Johnny slid into the driver’s seat, the leather squaeking under his weight. He flicked on the engine, let it hum to life.
Neither of them said anything for a minute.
Then V leaned back in the seat, hands on her stomach with a sigh, and said, “You know… the pie was worth it.”
Johnny smirked. “I told you it was gonna be closed.”
“And I told you pregnant women kept it in business,” she replied, eyes closed now, lips curling up faintly. “Guess I was right.”
He glanced over at her.
She looked… calm.
And for a moment, something ached deep in his chest. Something he didn’t quite know what to do with.
“V.”
She opened one eye. “Yeah?”
He hesitated.
“I meant what I said. About losing things. That’s not a warning. It’s a pattern.”
She sat up straighter, rubbing slow circles on her stomach.
“I know,” she said. “But I’m not some fan or ghost from your past. I’m not here to worship you or fix you. I’m here. That’s all.”
Johnny stared straight ahead.
That ache again,
God, he didn’t deserve her.
He shifted the car into gear and pulled them out of the lot, heading back toward Watson, letting the lights of Night City blur past.
About ten minutes in, V dozed off.
Head leaned gently against the passenger window, one hand resting lightly over her stomach. That container of pie tucked between her hip and the door like she was guarding it from thieves.
Johnny kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against the shifter in rhythm with whatever synthwave beat was rolling through the radio.
And for once–
–for the first time in a long goddamn time–
He felt steady.
Maybe not happy.
Maybe not safe.
But steady.
He glanced over at her again as they stopped at the red light.
Then reached over, turned the radio off, and let the city speak for them.
In a language only ghosts understand.