Chapter Text
Run ins with ferals always leave her shaken up. Despite her youth and inexperience with the outside world, the Wanderer has learned to keep her composure through certain turmoil. A clear head while fighting for her life is safer than a panicked reaction. But the ghouls are different. Maybe it’s a deep-seated fear that one day she may become one. Or Charon will. Or maybe they’re just terrifying creatures, stripped down to their basic animal instincts.
She doesn’t debate it with Charon. She just leans her rifle against the wall when they return to Megaton and heads straight for her fridge. It is a routine that both are accustomed to now. After a nasty encounter in the wastes, they will return to her home. The Wanderer will immediately find herself a drink and Charon will allow himself a moment of respite.
Sometimes they sit in silence together. Tonight, she speaks up. “I’ve never seen you actually relax when we come home. The fridge is full, the radio is hooked up. You have free reign here.” She tells him this as she uncorks a bottle of wine and takes a long swig.
Home, she says. Like it’s theirs. In the months since the Wanderer took up Charon’s contract, he has noticed the care she gives to other people. He speaks nothing of it. Yet it still surprises him when she extends that hospitality to him. He tried to explain to her in the early days that she did not need to show him humility. She’d only given him a sad look and told him that’s not how she saw things.
He never brought it up again. He could not change her mind. He didn’t want to. But he could see that the contract between them meant something different to her. He swallows then shrugs. “I’m at my best just standing guard.” The look on her face could make him smirk. He lets his lip twitch as she sighs.
“I’m not Ahzrukhal. I’d rather have a friend than a guard dog.” It’s not meant to sound mean, but she still flinches at her own statement.
Charon doesn’t show any indication of her words. “Whatever you say goes.”
“Indulge me,” She sighs again, exasperated and throwing back more of her drink. She thinks he may just stand there all night but after a few moments he heads to the fridge to pull out a purified water. She smiles, it’s a start.
The Wanderer wonders if he will go as far as sit on the couch beside her, but it seems he is content to stand across from her and sip at his water. Baby steps. She watches him silently and he watches her, and the silence goes on for as long as she can take it. “I wanted to ask you about your past.” She pries, twiddling her fingers against the bottle in her hands.
He waits for a question, watching the color rise into her cheeks. “It’s just, well, you already know why I’m out here. What I’m searching for. I felt bad that I kept talking about myself and never asked about your life.”
It isn’t true. She’d asked before but he only muttered a one-word response or changed the subject. The girl is curious by nature, Charon discovered that seconds after meeting her. In the beginning he wondered why she never commanded him to speak but it became clearer the more he watched her interactions with others. She didn’t want to threaten people to find out their secrets. She wanted others to be comfortable coming to her for help. She wanted the same thing with Charon, but he didn’t know how to talk about himself.
“What do you want to know?” He found himself asking slowly.
“The people who raised you,” She paused for a brief moment, expecting him to flinch at terrible memories, but he remained standing there, all poised and controlled. “Do you remember who they were? If they took you from your home?”
He’d blocked most of the memories away by now. Their faces were blurred in his mind. All he remembered were muffled voices, iron stinging his flesh, and commands. Contracts. Loyalty. He shakes his head in answer. “It was a long time ago.” He tells her. “If you’re asking about before then, I don’t remember. Just them and the others who held my contract.”
The Wanderer does not bother to hide the horror on her face. She’d seen enough of the wasteland to understand that stories like his were fairly common. Still, he can feel the pity in her eyes piercing his rotten flesh. He does not know how to react to it. But he does know that she is genuine. Maybe that knowledge is what makes him silent.
“So, you’ve never had a family?” Her voice breaks and to his relief he sees no tears. He would not know how to make them go away. “You’ve never loved anyone?”
She asks these things as if she knows what it is like to be in love. She knows her father loved her. She knows Amata was like a sister. She remembers Butch throwing his jacket around her shoulders and wishing her good luck. An act of kindness after years of abuse was enough to make her question her feelings.
But that was all in the past. She stopped wearing the Tunnel Snakes jacket months ago. Her family was gone. Her life uprooted. It’d been less than a year since she left the vault. Since she’d been alone. Charon had been alone for years. He shakes his head again; words aren’t needed for this answer.
“I don’t think I could stand it.” She says softly, nursing more and more alcohol into her. “Being alone.” She corrects.
“There’s always been work. You’re never really alone when you’ve got an employer.” The words sound hollow when they leave his mouth. He knows they won’t be any comfort to her. But they are honest, at least.
“It’s not the same. There’s a job but then there’s the things that make you happy. Playing blackjack, eating mutfruit, even just a simple kiss. We’re meant for more than just work.” Her blue eyes are shining and bright, thinking of a life far from here. He knows she saw his eyes drop to her lips when she said ‘kiss’.
For a brief moment he let himself think like a regular man. It was enough to garner her attention. He should have known, given the drinks and personal talk. She was a young, lonely girl thrown into a cruel world. She just wanted a friend. Charon stayed where he was, ignoring the pit in his stomach when she looked at him with those eyes. Like he was her friend and not her hired gun.
“Kiss me.” It’s meant to be a request, but her voice sputters out like a question under hushed breath. She doesn’t know how to do this. All drunken bravado minutes before has evaporated. The vault dweller sits there, looking up at her sworn companion, there is a small quiver on her bottom lip. She’s doubting this now. The contract burns into her mind, and she feels a sickening turmoil in her belly.
Charon stands tall and rigid. He is looking down at her with an expression she cannot read. He was beaten to act this way. Tortured into submission. She felt no better than the ones who had traumatized him. She stands hurriedly, her palms out facing towards him. “I’m sorry, that’s not a command. I don’t want to force you to do that.”
“I follow the contract without question. It’s an agreement.”
“But you feel obligated to follow orders even if I don’t mean it as one.”
He nods. In the contract that binds their work together, it is all filled with orders. He is her weapon to use however she wishes. It’s not that he doesn’t feel that he has a choice. It’s that the choices come from her. He awaits commands like a programmed bot. She does not fully understand how it all works.
Hopeful, the Wanderer looks up at him again, torn between remaining timid or surging through this brief confidence that takes hold. There is a question on her lips she is afraid to ask but she wants to know. She needs to know.
“If there wasn’t a contract between us, would you kiss me?”
“There is no ‘us’ without the contract.”
He leaves before a reply can be made. Not that she had anything to say to that. The words bite her, locking down on all her insecurities and fears. She is surprised that the tears do not come. She’d shed enough of them already during her times in the wastes. There is no evidence of agony left that she can physically express.
The front door does not close. He would not leave her without a proper dismissal, but she does not feel like speaking. It is enough for her to know now that he is in another room, leaving her alone with words that should not hurt as much as they do. She sits back down on the low couch then lays her head onto the seat, curling into a ball. She faces the back cushions, hugging her knees to her chest and lets the couch swallow her whole.
-
He presses his forehead against the cold metal walls. There is silence in the other room that lingers throughout the small house. Part of him is glad she did not follow. Part of him wished she did. But what could he give her if she had? He is not a man driven by desire. He has no relations, only written words. Rules and orders and tasks. He is property.
Despite all that he knows of himself, he cannot ignore this newfound feeling inside him. He’d wanted to follow through with her request. No. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingers, he wanted to hear her gasp when he claimed her mouth. He wanted it all.
Charon clenches his fist, the muscles of his wrist straining in tensed frustration. Never before had he wanted something for himself. Something outside of the contract. He lets these feelings pass through him. He admits a stumble in his willpower. Then he promises to forget.
He is not really a man. He is a weapon.
-
The aftermath of her tipsy request is not as messy as she thought it would be. By the time they reach the ruins of D.C. there are more important issues on her mind. Like trying to sneak past super mutants and not step on a land mind. Charon said nothing to her in the morning. It was as if it didn’t happen.
It will gnaw at her mind again when they are somewhere safe, and she does not have to be in survival mode. For now, she is grateful for the silence. She is focused on the task at hand. Find a picture of the Lincoln Memorial for Caleb and clear out any super mutants for Hannibal. It sounded easy enough.
Charon and the Wanderer killed eight mutants before they reached the memorial. They both were gearing up for another fight when they saw the people guarding the steps. But no one shot at them, and relief flooded through the vault dweller. She narrowly escaped a mine as one of them shouted for her to be careful and come closer.
How amazing would it be to combine Hannibal’s refuge with this one? These strangers had fortified Hannibal’s New Haven. She had high hopes, and happily followed the scout to go speak with his boss. Something about them didn’t sit right with Charon, but his opinion wasn’t asked so he gave none.
The leader, Leroy Walker, had different ideas than salvation. The Wanderer did not bother to hide the fall of her face when he mentioned that they were slavers. Of course, it was Hannibal’s former master. Of course, the slavers wanted to destroy any image of freedom. Of course, they wanted to hire her to bring their runaway slaves back.
The Wanderer shifted her feet as the discussion ended. She neither accepted nor denied Walker’s offer. She just stood there as he walked away, and his lackey came up to talk to her.
“I can’t wait to see those runaways back in chains. You’ll be greatly rewarded for it.”
She locks eyes with Charon for a second, but it is enough. He can see the moment she breaks. She’s pulled her rifle out and shot the scout in the head. Charon’s gun is already firing at Walker before the other body falls to the ground. He sees the bullet bounce off the slaver’s armor and prepares for another shot when the Wanderer steps up, she is close enough to hit the barrel of her gun against Leroy’s forehead. And she does.
By the time she is done hitting his corpse, her suit is covered in blood. The man’s face isn’t recognizable. Charon has never seen her like this before. It isn’t his place to tell her to stop, but she wishes he would have. There is still more to do. The rest of the slavers are outside waiting for them.
“I’m sorry.” She tells Charon and deep down he knows she isn’t talking about Leroy.
He only nods once and helps her ransack the place for mines and grenades. They end up using the nades for the ones smart enough to stay behind cover. It isn’t enough. Eventually Charon and the Wanderer kill them all. She has wiped most of the blood from her face. It still stains her brow. He keeps his hand at his side, too ashamed to wipe it away.
She decides that they can go back to Hannibal the next day. They are closer to Rivet City and she wants to stay in a nice bed for a change. He does not object. She’s the boss. Wherever she goes, he goes. So, they limp to the giant hulking ship, climb down the flights of stairs, and slip into the Muddy Rudder for a drink.
“My hero!” The voice is almost sarcastic, but it makes her smile. A greaser wearing the same jacket Charon had seen the Wanderer in before is walking up to her and throwing his arms around her. Butch picks her up and swings her around, setting her back on her feet with notable ease.
Charon watches the exchange silently. A ghost from her past come up to see her. He notices how her shoulders relax, the flush of her cheeks. He sees how the greaser looks at her. Something between a leer and a gaze. There’s history between them. She mentioned her past to Charon, but he does not remember this man.
It is not his place to wonder why but his mind is a treacherous thing. There is joy in her eyes when she looks at Butch. Charon is reminded of their conversation the night before. She’d been lonely. She couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe this man could.
He’d ignore the thought that crossed his mind. The one that wondered if, given time, he could have his own desires outside of his contract. But the Wanderer didn’t have time.
She introduced them but the world was long passed using a handshake as a greeting. Charon nodded to Butch, who in turn waved two fingers from his forehead and moved to the bar. “I need a drink for my friends here!” He was rambunctious and loud and pushed a beer into the Wanderer and Charon’s hands.
He thought that she might want time to catch up with her old friend alone, but she never made any move to dismiss him. Instead, she looked back to see if he was following as Butch led them to an empty table in the corner of the room. He sat with them, despite wanting to stand and sipped at his beer every couple of minutes as Butch went on a rant about forming a wasteland gang.
It felt oddly normal. It also felt uncomfortable. Every now and then Charon would cast a glance to the Wanderer. He was no doctor; he’d seen people break before. It’d been hours since they killed the slavers. The blood was still on her forehead. A few small specks by her temple.
Charon watched silently later in the night as Butch held her face gently and wiped those spots away with his sleeve. He ignored the lurch in his chest. His fingers tightened around the bottle. This is who she needed. A memory. A friend. A human. Someone who would touch her so freely. Someone unbound by a contract.
He pushes down. He wills himself to forget. She holds his contract. He is her weapon. So, Charon sits with her and her old friend, he listens as they talk about the vault. He tries not to think about her request the night before, and he lets a small part of himself hope that she forgets too.