Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charon's good at making quick decisions. The kid is clearly underaged. Too much hair gel swept up into his hair that it looks crunchy, too much cologne assaulting his deadened sense of smell. Already intoxicated. Eyes going to every other person in the line.

Even if he wasn’t standing in front of him, Charon would have known. The ID is a fake, like nearly every other person's in the line. It's his face in the picture, for sure, but there's no chance this baby face outlined in the popped up leather collar standing before him is 23. It's too clean for being anything other than an ID taken out at bars and liquor stores, for one. And the colors themselves are all wrong. Too bright and just a shade off.

"Butch DeLoria?"

"December 27th, 1993." The kid rattles off automatically, even in his state of intoxication. He grins like he's really pulling the wool over his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Charon frowns. He’s clearly prideful over knowing the fake date on his fake New Hampshire driver's license.

Charon exhales slow through the ruined remains of his nose, his breath condensing in the chill. He could deny him, of course. He's sure, in some other bar, that would be the actual point of his job, to help the bartenders and owners obey the law. But he fits the type that Ahzrukhal wanted in the Ninth Circle; young, and drunk, and stupid enough to buy too many overpriced drinks to clumsily spill on a sticky dance floor packed like underdressed sardines. The ID is more of a flexible prerequisite. They have to have an ID, some form that says they may be the legal drinking age, even if it was written in crayon. Plausible deniability.

Butch lowers his arms, suddenly stuffing his hands sheepishly into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders hunching. There are few perks to his job, but Charon gets his dull amusements where he can. He stares long and hard at the card, watching Butch's face fall and grow anxious in his peripheral as he tilts it up and side-to-side to catch the lighting of the building’s bare bulb shining above them. Slowly sliding his gaze back up, he stares Butch down. The panic on his face isn't subtle. Butch, for all of his previous bravado, looks moments from scrambling away, leaving his eighty-dollar booze investment in Charon's ghoulified hands. There's a couple behind him, holding hands, peering at them with bated breath.

He can't keep Charon's gaze. Charon snorts, and hands the card back. Butch has a look of pure terror on his face. "Go in."

His eyes widen. Butch almost drops the card when he takes it from Charon’s hand and bolts by him like his ass is on fire; Charon almost misses the can of beer hanging out of his back pocket. Charon has fast enough reflexes that he manages to pull it out before Butch's gone; it throws off his step almost immediately as he twists and halts himself just centimeters from running face first into the door.

"H-hey! That's my beer."

"Not in my bar," Charon barks, depositing the can in the pocket of his jacket. "Get in before I change my mind."

Butch stands there for a moment, wide-eyed, before he pushes in through the front door. The girl next in line sighs heavily.

The boy next to her peers over her shoulder with a frown. They're around the same height, but he almost looks like he's hiding behind her, and it’s making him look smaller. "He— he was supposed to wait in the doorway." He stage whispers into the girls ear. He's clinging to her like an anxious dog, one hand now on her bicep, the other brushing loose curls from his face.

"It's fine. It's winter, anyway. He just wanted to get inside. We all do." She replies soothingly over her shoulder to her friend, though there's an undercurrent of irritation bleeding through, whether from having to pacify him or the aforementioned winter cold. Butch was fully clothed, with jeans and a leather jacket thrown over the depressingly uniform going-out men's wardrobe of a button down in plaid. Her dress has long sleeves but only went so far down as her upper thigh, reaching around mid-thigh when she tugs it down out of reflex.

She already has her ID out in hand. When she turns her focus on Charon, she smiles and hands it over. Their fingers brush together as he takes it, and she minutely flinches back. "How are you tonight?"

It's not flirtatious, but simply courteous. Charon would possibly appreciate it if it wasn't one in the morning. "Fine." Charon manages to grunt back. He doesn't bother asking how she is. Amata Almadovar. 5'3, brown eyes, organ donor, and an address he's sure doesn't actually exist. She has a New Hampshire license, too, and it's just as fake. She's a no-brainer admittance, though. She barely has time to fidget with the hem of her dress before Charon hands the license back. Her face lights up.

She stuffs it quickly into her clutch. "I'll meet you inside, Adam, alright?" She says, turning around briefly. "You're fine, you'll get in."

"Wait—" Adam can only croak. He almost looks like he's about to dart in after her as it closes; Charon easily shifts his bulk fully in front of the door with a half-step. Ahzrukhal doesn't give him a stool to sit outside like some of the bars. Says it cuts his height and takes away from the intimidation factor.

"ID?"

Adam's eyes go upward to meet his. "Oh—" He seems startled. He pulls a wallet from his back pocket, fumbling it open and over, letting the flap hang open. "H-here—"

"I need to see it out of the sleeve." Charon doesn't bother to reach for it, let alone look down. Adam pulls back like he's been burnt.

"O-oh! Oh, I'm sorry. Uhm, okay, I’m sorry—" Getting the card out from the windowed slot seems nearly impossible; his fingers aren't gripping it from the cold and nerves, and every extra second he takes seems to make him flounder even more. "I, uh. Sorry. Yeah, here—" He pulls it out, nearly dropping it once, before shoving it too hard into Charon's hand. Charon snatches it away.

He glances over the edge of the card towards the kid, then back at the card. The picture matches; same mousy brown hair in frizzy, overgrown chin-length curls, and brown eyes, though he somehow looks more sallow and sleep deprived in the yellow lighting the 9th Circle neon sign casts over the entryway. 

It’s a New York card; Charon knows how they're supposed to look. And while this is passing in some ways, he's seen too many in D.C. to be fooled for more than a moment. When he rubs a thumb over the pink date of birth numbers, none of them are raised; the texture of the entire card is slippery smooth.

"Address?"

312 West Street. "312 West Street." His voice wavers. Charon's eyes go back to him. He wonders if this one is younger, since his ID seems even newer than the others.

"What year did you graduate highschool?"

"2013." He rushes out, eyes darting. Most flounder and can’t come up with the number. Charon takes the moment to do the math in his head— and he's right, if he's supposed to be 21 now, according to the card. Charon moves his thumb to the middle of the card, and he can't remember if this is the one that's supposed to feel powdery on the front or not— or, no, those were the older ones. Adam waits, wrapping his arms around his own torso. His sleeves cover his hands when he does that, the shirt too big. It's just a flannel, but he looks supremely uncomfortable in it, like it's not exactly his own.

Charon bends the card, and though it doesn't have the give like a real one, it's good enough. His friends are in there already, and for a Friday night it's comparatively slow; he won't leave him out in the cold, footing a twenty dollar cab ride back to where the colleges are by himself.

"Alright, go on in, Adam O—"

The door creaks open behind him. Charon moves just enough out of the way to let whomever is exiting pass, but instead they wedge themselves bodily against him, invading his personal space.

It's not a drunken accident. "Charon! Ah, how is everything going?" Ahzrukhal hisses between wheezing breaths and the cigarette in his mouth; the menthol smell of it is unbearable.

Charon steps aside for his boss, presses his back against the edge of the door frame. The length of it pushes hard against his spine; the digging pain keeps him focused. Ahzrukhal steps out of the entryway, entirely disregarding Adam standing there, who stumbles back and closer to Charon to get out of the way; Ahzrukhal wasn’t a small ghoul by any means, and the college kid is practically wedged into the corner to avoid a pin-striped elbow to the jaw. 

"Fine." Charon replies.

Ahzrukhal’s smile is too long. When he exhales, the smoke is directed at his face.

"That's good." All of his teeth flash too white when he grins, raking a hand through the limp remnants of hair still clinging to his head. Ahzrukhal glances over at Adam, then back to Charon; he doesn't seem to either notice or care about the anxious frown on the young man's face. "I was heading through on my way to meet a client, and I thought I should stop by and see how everyone is doing."

Ahzrukhal has other bars, and other "business ventures", all of them varying amounts of seedy; anything this late at night, and Charon knows it's a drug deal. Gob works over at Moriarity's on Dupont now, and he's told his roommate Willow he's seen Ahzrukhal bringing packages in before, almost always at night when the bar's too busy to do anything but try and serve drink after drink to the college crowd. Crowded enough for everyone else to be too busy to snoop.

Despite it being a he-said she-said chain of telephone for information, Charon can believe it— he couldn’t ask Gob, even if he wanted or cared to clarify. Gob still doesn't talk to him directly, not after what Ahzrukhal had him do when he supposedly caught the til being low. Gob was an honest, if clumsy, barback. Charon knew the til was perfectly fine. But Carol's Place was a legitimate bar and Gob’s home a block down; Greta had called the cops on them on a Saturday night, got the bar busted and shuttered for the night at an offensively early hour, not to mention the fines for all the kids who didn’t make it out the back before the cops had cut off all the exits. Ahzrukhal didn't appreciate the dip in business his mothers had caused.

Charon’s shoulders stiffen. He can feel Ahzrukhal peering over his shoulder at Adam's ID, and then Adam himself. Charon starts to hand it back, but halts his movement as Ahzrukhal reaches out. He takes the license from him, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth.

"Charon, Charon...” He tsks, “What have I said to you about your training?"

Charon keeps his face neutral. "Would you like me to get the book from under the bar?"

"Don’t get smart with me, boy,” Ahzrukhal replies, louder then intended. It quiets the line of chattering drunks, lulls them into nervous whispers. He lowers his voice, and somehow, this always sounds more dangerous, when Ahzrukhal talks low enough that the customers can’t hear. “You're not allowed to leave your post." Adam’s entire body is shivering next to him, hard, vibrating in the cold. Ahzrukhal smiles, again, but it's not sincere. It drops off entirely as his yellow eyes go over him once, twice.

Ahzrukhal holds his stare as he starts to bend the ID. It's too cold; whatever material it is made out of, it's obviously not the same as a legitimate one. It bends, only momentarily, and then cracks sharply in two.

Despite the background din of pedestrians and cars out for the weekend, the sound carries; the resultant noise that escapes Adam's throat makes Charon worry for a moment that he's going to have to cart a body to the dumpsters around back. All the flushed color has left his face as Ahzrukhal pushes the opposite sides of the card until they are touching. The jagged plastic underneath is separating from the printed layer, broken beyond repair.

There’s nervous giggles from the line forming behind them, the sound of people removing their own cards and trying to heat them between furiously rubbing palms. "Well, then," Ahzrukhal smiles, handing the mangled piece of plastic back. Adam cradles it, staring down at its corpse with abject despondence. "I'm sure Charon will show you on your way." He pats his bouncer on the shoulder in a way that could be mistaken as friendly, though Charon can feel just the edges of his overgrown fingernails biting through the thickness of his coat, into his shoulder. He pushes by and walks off down the sidewalk without further fanfare.

Adam stands there. Behind him in line there are two girls, already expectantly looking from the back of Adam’s head to Charon, starting to ease their way around. Charon sighs, clearing his throat. The scent of menthol is still sticking in the back of his throat. "You're going to have to move out of the way, kid."

"What? Oh." He looks lost. He glances around, a momentary panic on his face before he shuffles aside, finding himself in the small area between Charon and the door's alcove. He's standing too close to him and too close to the door, unnecessarily awkward, but Charon ignores him in favor of checking the IDs of people growing restless waiting behind him. They're easy acceptances. He's seen their faces around before, but he never remembers specifics; just vague faces blending in together, one after the other.

A hand gently taps his bicep.

"No." Charon preemptively answers, handing back the last woman's ID. Frowning, he turns towards Adam as she heads inside, putting himself squarely in front of the door. He's bulky and tall enough he nearly takes up the entire doorway, save for Adam's small corner he's pressed into. It’s a clausterphobic space, though; he’s a hairs breadth away from touching Adam from any angle, boxing him in against the wall.

Adam tries, anyway: "Can... can you get my friends?" He asks quietly.

Charon sighs. "I can't leave my spot, and you can't go in." He watches as Adam takes his broken ID in hand, gingerly rubbing his fingers over it to smooth it back out. His eyes have a tinge of wetness to them that's reflecting back in the glowing sign of the bar above them.

"I understand, it's just, uh..." He trails off. "Is there any way I can reach them?"

"You don't have a phone?" He crosses his arms over his chest. "You should just call a cab."

"They're not answering.." Adam mumbles, adding even more quietly, "I... I don't have any cash on me."

Charon presses his lips together in a thin line. "Who goes out without any money?"

"Amata was supposed to buy my drinks." He looks up at Charon, teeth digging into his bottom lip, "This is-- was.. My first night... u-uh." He stutters, shrinking in place.

The conversation trails off into silence. Charon's sigh sinks heavy in the night. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes until last call, and then probably thirty more until everyone was herded out. The bar was some ramshackle thing built in what was once a residential brownstone; multiple, narrow floors and steep staircases. On the bottom, there was the front door and the employee back exit-only people could leave through. He could tell him to wait here, but there was a chance that his friends would slip out the back door and never see him, anyway.

Adam probably doesn't know that. His soft voice calls him out of his thoughts: "What's your name?"

Charon frowns, stuffing his fists in the pockets of his jacket. He shifts his gaze back. Adam’s brushing his curls from his face, trying to tuck them fruitlessly behind a ear, even as they fall back. There’s something strangely entrancing about it, watching the bounce of his hair, the motion of his fingers. "Charon. Is Adam really yours?"

"Yeah..." He concentrates on his feet scuffing against the sidewalk.

Charon rubs his fingers over the plastic covering the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He's waiting until his shift ends, even though he's sure Ahzrukhal isn't coming back tonight. But if he does, it's his head if he's caught smoking within however many feet of the bar, whatever the rule is that he arbitrarily applies to his employees and not his customers. "Are those good friends that left you out here?"

Adam winces. "I'm not... I'm not friends with Butch." He frowns. "And Amata is... she's nice. I think, when she's with other people, like her Dad, and Butch, maybe.. she just does different things." His voice is small in the cold, “Uhm. She acts different.”

What does he know; Charon doesn't have any friends himself. Willow, as his roommate, doesn't count. But he's still sure Adam's friends aren't good friends, either.

Charon sighs. "Look, last call is in..." He pauses to pull back the sleeve of his jacket and check his watch. It says 1:10, which means it's actually 1:23. Last call should be happening soon. "Five minutes. Let's hope they don't exit out of the back—"

"There's a back?" Adam sounds hopeless.

"Near the bathrooms." Charon gestures vaguely in their direction with a tilt of his head. He shoves his hands back into the pockets of his jacket. Adam makes a quiet, distraught noise, turning to look towards the road. But he doesn’t make a move to leave the doorway. Charon turns, too. His hips bump against Adam’s, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care. He has nowhere else to go, anyway.

Mostly, the people who are coming up to the door are so far gone, they’re barely coherent enough to protest when Charon turns them away. It’s the people leaving, to catch cabs and smoke outside, that are more inconvenient. Every time he has to move aside, bumping into Adam. He feels overly conscious of the way their bodies are touching.

”Why don’t you wait near the back exit?” Charon finally offers. Adam nods mutely. It doesn’t really count as helping when he mostly just wants the kid out of his personal space. “I’ll stop them if they leave out the front.” 

Last call comes crawling as Charon openly stares at his watch, watching the seconds tick by. Patrons start to pour out in singles and pairs and groups, stumbling and chatty, shouting and rowdy. He has to move people along, growl at them to leave the doorway and the immediate vicinity of the sidewalk. Gob had always had trouble getting the last of the patrons out, but the new bartender Leo has no such qualms shouting at people to leave as he wiped the bar down. People didn't come to the Ninth Circle for its friendly service. He doesn't see Butch, or Amata, though the faces of smoothskins pouring out start to blur together in his head.

Someone bumps into him, knuckles gently rapping against his back. He turns. It's Adam, again. He is looking up at him, standing just a hair too close to be comfortable.

Charon takes the half-step away to put some space in between them. Adam doesn't seem to notice.

"Did someone spill something on you?" Adam asks, his gaze trailing downward. Charon follows it; a wet patch has blossomed from his coat pocket, dribbling southward. Cursing under his breath, he reaches in and pulls the beer can from his pocket. It's sticky-wet, but even with a quick lookover wherever the beer is escaping isn't noticeable. A small puncture, probably; he places it into the alcove of the doorway, the can bending with the force of the motion.

"Oh. That's Butch's." Adam says, no lack of guilt in his voice.

"Yeah," Charon grunts, turning his pocket inside out. It's futile. All of the beer has soaked in, it just hadn't soaked through to his skin, yet. He glances at Adam. "Did you find them?"

He shakes his head.

Charon had been expecting that. Because he wouldn't have returned, if he had found his friends, would he?

"I'm not..." Charon presses his thin lips together, exhaling hard. "Listen, I don’t know what you want me to do. You're only, what?"

He looks expectantly at Adam. He flushes. "Twenty." He supplies.

Charon exhales again.

Adam looks at his feet. "Eighteen."

Charon grunts. And then, "Don't lie anymore."

"I don't—!” He’s defensive, but pleading, “I never do, usually. This isn't..." He wrings his hands. "It's not really my th-thing. Uhm. I... I just don't have the money for a cab."

"I don't either." Charon adds simply. Adam flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears. "And I can't afford to cab you."

Silence hangs between them. Adam's breath comes out in short little puffs of condensation; he has his fingers folded into the sleeves of the flannel, curled around into fists, and those are shoved under his armpits. He stares at his feet. "I just don't know... where to go. I uhm. I was—"

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to go with strange ghouls?" Charon deadpans, just on the edge of self-deprecating.

Adam's smile is small, and strange, "Not really."

Charon stares at him. He is going to regret this, probably. "You have a metro card?"

"No?" Adam says, then stops. He pats himself down quickly; pants pockets, turning them inside out, and then the front pocket on his flannel. His face lights up as he pulls a well-worn paper card from his pocket. "Maybe? This is Butch's. The card. And the, uh, the flannel. He uh, h-he said I couldn't wear anything of mine out."

Charon takes the card. It will do.

He briefly pokes his head into the bar, yelling at Leo from afar that he's leaving for the night. Usually, he would help clean up, but tonight he says it fast enough and ducks right back out before anyone can call for him. He doesn't do it often, so he's confident they won't gripe to Azrukhal about it. Adam follows on his heels almost immediately. They start walking towards the metro station. It's not far, about four blocks away.

Charon pulls the pack of reds from his pocket and lights a cigarette. He offers the open pack towards Adam; the way the kid shakes his head, he can tell he doesn't like the habit. But he also doesn't care enough to not light up, even with his watery eyes staring at him like that. It keeps him awake when it's three in the morning and all he wants is a warm bed and a good nights sleep.

Adam sticks close to his side, almost too close; he's partially bumping against him every other step, his side hitting Charon's. Despite the smoke, even, though Charon is trying not to exhale in his direction.

"You new in the city?"

"Uh, yeah, kinda." Adam mumbles, trying not to look at anything but his feet in front of him. "I go to Vault-Tec University."

"I can tell." Charon says, hunching as the wind picks up, funneled by the tall buildings through the city streets. The tips of his fingers holding his cigarette feel numb.

Adam shivers next to him. They walk the rest of the way in silence. Before they head down, Charon stubs out his cigarette against the concrete partition to the stairs. They walk down the escalators; they should be right on time to catch the last car out.

Charon swipes his card through the gates, and Adam follows with Butch's old metro card. The turnstile barrier pulls back, which means there is at least enough to get him through. Adam skitters through like it's going to close back up on him midway and cut him in half.

There aren't many people down at this stop at this time of night; just one smoothskin, not counting Adam, three other ghouls, and there's a homeless nightkin sleeping sitting up, cross-legged, against a column in the corner. There’s a cardboard sign at his feet that he would read if he didn’t know better than to not make any eye contact. Charon stands with his shoulders against a column and Adam stands next to him, silent. The metro pulls into the stop three minutes after the electronic ticker says it will, the lights lining the tracks edges flashing in quiet warning.

Adam follows Charon into the metro car when the doors open. Charon keeps an eye on the kid. It's almost reflexive. His luck, he'd not go through, and the doors would close with one on each side of the door.

He's not sure why he feels responsible for him at all, really. A female voice over the speakers announces, "Please stand back, doors closing," as they groan their way shut.

"Let me be clear. I do not do this, ever. You can stay the night. You leave in the morning." Charon says it without looking at Adam, momentarily gripping a pole as he stalks towards the back, away from any of the other passengers that also entered behind them. He takes his seat, trying not to touch the tacky fabric any more than he needs to. Adam sits next to him, too close. Their sides are touching. Even through the flannel, he feels cold. Sighing, Charon bears it. "Call your friends when they're sober to pick you up."

He nods. "Of course."

Charon pulls his phone from his pocket to check the time. No messages—

"Mandarin...?" Adam asks suddenly, his eyes on the symbols on Charon's screen. Charon quickly locks his phone, darkening it and shoving it back into his pocket. He says nothing. From the corner of his eye, Adam swallows and shifts and looks at his hands, flushing red with embarrassment.

The car is moving. As it pulls out of the station, the light starts to disappear behind them, only now lit from the inside of the car. The small emergency lights dotting the walls speed by in a blur. The first stop is close, Only one passenger on the car gets out; the familiar voice of the metro follows, along with the beeping jingle, and the doors slide shut.

He can feel Adam's body sag against his, his breathing evening out. When Charon looks over, he is asleep, forehead pressed to his bicep.

---

Charon's finally dozing off to sleep on the couch when Willow walks out into the living room, flicking on the overhead lights. His head jerks upright with a snort.

"There's a smoothskin in your bed?"

It takes a moment before he has enough wits to reply. "What were you doing in my bedroom?" Charon keeps one eye closed, the other heavily squinting. Willow takes pity on him and turns the light off, her ghoulified face disappearing into the dark. The city lights peering through the open blinds seem to light the room well enough that she can walk around to the couch.

She smiles, "I was going to bum a cigarette." She perches herself on the armrest, sitting in between Charon's long legs hanging over the side. The couch groans in protest. He frowns at her. She's wearing one of her numerous Museum of Natural History shirts from work, a cartoon fossilized tyrannosaurus glowing faintly on the front.

Her eyebrows raise. Cigarettes, of course— Charon groggily pats around his chest, before realizing his jacket is on the floor, next to him. He swings an arm over and tosses his entire leather jacket at Willow. It hits her with a heavy fwump.

”You need to stop stealing my smokes.”

She knows where he keeps them. Willow pulls the pack of cigarettes from his left-hand pocket, draping the jacket over the back of the couch.

"Are you picking up tourists now?"

She’s not leaving; contrary, she’s palming around his jacket again for a lighter, not even feigning to move towards the window. They’re not supposed to smoke inside; the owners of the laundromat they’re above sometimes stops Charon in the hallway to complain about the smell, never to Willow, which means he’s the one who has to complain to her.

"No." Charon closes his eyes again. Willow nudges his calf with her big toe. He grunts. If he plays dumb, maybe she’ll go away. "It's a long story. Shouldn't you be getting ready for your shift?"

"I have time." She pauses, hands still roaming over the jacket, and coming up empty. "Lighter?"

Charon sighs so heavily he swears he sinks a foot into the couch. Blindly, he pats around again for the lighter, and then tosses that in her direction. He can hear it hit the multitude of rings she always wears on her fingers when she catches it, and not long after there is the sound of the lighter clicking. He can see the flame behind his eyelids. "Did you sleep with him?"

The question isn’t serious; out of anyone, Willow knows that Charon barely has friends, let alone one-night stands or anything as saccharine as lovers.

"No," Charon says, a little too loudly. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't want to see Willow's expression. "His friends left him at the Ninth Circle without any cash and a dead phone."

She’s flicking the lighter off and on, "Shit friends." She says.

Charon throws an arm over his face, trying to block out any residual light. "That's why I don't have any."

"Mmhmm," Willow hums, amused. "That won't make me leave, you know."

The clock will, though. Charon knows she can’t stay long; she does have to get ready for her early security shift at the museum. Though, now that he thinks about it, that realization doesn’t actually make him happy. Their schedules rarely sync up. Sometimes Charon goes days at a time only speaking to Ahzrukhal and barking orders at drunks. "What a shame." Charon drawls.

Willow laughs; it's just bordering on too loud for how dark it still is outside. When Charon blindly extends his arm out, he feels the momentary warm press of Willow's fingers as she hands her cigarette to him. Patting his knee, Willow pushes herself off the couch and onto her feet. Charon takes a long drag of the cigarette, letting himself exhale entirely before raising his arm up blindly. She squeezes his hand twice, taking the cigarette with her when she leaves for the hallway bathroom. The sound of the taps running and the pipes shaking above finally lull him back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Adam wakes up early the next morning, dehydrated and disorientated. He's still wearing Butch's flannel. It smells— not like him. Which reminds him, he's not in his own dorm, let alone his own bed. It smells like cigarette smoke and another body, a little unpleasant in its unfamiliarity, and the faint scent of cheap laundry detergent.

He knows he had fallen asleep in his pants, too, because even though they were stiff dark jeans, he felt uncomfortable not wearing them in someone else's bed. He remembers that much from the night before. But it must have been too hot overnight, and he had kicked them off; he only realizes this when he swings his feet over the bed and his toes touch the jeans, cold from sitting overnight on the faux-wood laminate floors.

His empty stomach roils; perched on the edge, Adam hunches over, buries his hands in his curls, and mutters, “Oh no.”

He did not drink so much as to not remember, but the moments between the metro ride and getting inside are hazy with sleep, lulled into a gentle brown out by the few drinks he did gulp down between his dorm room and going out with Amata and Butch.

He swears he insisted on taking the couch. But maybe, the bouncer had brought him into the room? He wishes he would have left him out there on the couch. Guilt is creeping fast up his throat.

Adam tries to get his mind to settle. The room he’s in is spartan; not in the minimalist way of glossy magazines, but from an obvious combined lack of funding and lack of care. Plain, blank walls, with no art, not even a mirror on them, though there is one shelf filled with frayed, old books that sits above an Ikea dresser. He runs his hand over the top of the comforter. The furniture is mismatched, though the sheets go together, if only because they are all in shades of grey, faded in spots from age and sweat and the pale orange-pink of misused bleach and cleaners. It feels weirdly intimate, especially the feeling of his bare thighs against someone else’s blankets; not the guest set, either, but something personal.

Easing himself up to his feet brings Adam another fresh wave of dizziness. He has to lean against the wall to put on his pants; it's a slow, stumbling ordeal, but he manages, despite how uncomfortable the jeans feel when his body still feels soft and lazy with sleep, no matter how restless that sleep was. His socks from last night are balled up in the legs of his jeans, and he puts them back on, too. He checks his phone in the back pocket, but it doesn't turn on; there's no clock in the room, either, but that's a given. He doesn't really know anyone who has a clock other than their phone anymore.

It takes Adam an embarrassingly long time to psych himself up to leave the bedroom. The thought of it makes him anxious, and he feels stupid for it; but really, he's in a stranger's home, and he must have taken up the entire bed.

Though he doesn't want to— something, in his head, is telling him he can't leave this room now, not after making such an ass of himself— he forces his hand to the doorknob, even as his teeth chatter. Charon's living room is unseasonably warm for January, and smells like detergent and fresh laundry. It's bigger than his bedroom, but only because a kitchen is attached to it: kitchen being a generous word. It’s more of an afterthought to the blandly open layout. The wall is lined with a stove, a fridge, two counter tops, and a few squares of the wood pattern laminate had been replaced with tile laminate.

The ghoul bouncer from last night, Charon, is standing at the stove. He’s thankful that his back is turned to Adam. Maybe he can sneak out, keep his head down—

"Are you hungover?"

He startles. “Uh—“

Charon’s only wearing a wife beater; Adam can see the maroon muscles of his shoulders move as he putters around the tiny kitchen between the stovetop and coffeemaker. He doesn’t want to say that he’s ripped, because that’s a term Butch likes to throw around about his own lean, muscled but boyish body. Charon has at least a foot on him and his large hands make the spoon scooping out coffee look dainty.

He should stop staring. He should speak. He should apologize for taking his bed, and for being absolutely useless, and maybe also for being born. Adam wants to throw himself out the far window onto the street below, though he knows two stories will not do more than break his ankles.

"No. I only— I only had a shot.” His voice sounds dry in his ears, and he clears his throat: “And a beer, last night."

"Are you hungover?" Charon repeats, not looking up from the ancient coffeemaker he is tapping on; though, his taps are just on the edge of harder smacking, insistent and rhythmic. 

Adam feels his temple throb with each rattle. It’s the only thing keeping him from staring too intently at Charon’s sculpted arms. "A little." On the fourth one, it whirs oddly loud for such a small machine, almost eclipsing the sound of coffee sputtering into the mug below.

He finally turns around to look at Adam, leaning back against the counter. "You're up early," He says, "It's only seven."

Adam shrugs, feeling a bit hopeless. He has no explanation. He should be asleep, probably, but also not, because this isn't his home and he doesn't live here and he barely knows this ghoul other than his name. He's not sure how Charon knows he sleeps too much, anyway. Maybe because he knows he's a student. "I— yeah. I guess that's. Weird."

Charon turns back around, reaching up into one of the cabinets. There goes those back muscles, again, and Adam's stare drops intently to the floor. At this rate, he will know the pattern of the laminate better than the count of the ceiling tiles in his own dorm room. "You drink coffee?"

"Uh. Mmn. With creamer, sorry." He apologizes ahead of time, because Charon doesn't strike him the type to have a jug of some candy-flavored sugar bomb, but Charon moves to the fridge without a change of expression. He opens it with one hand, two empty mugs clinking together in his opposite.

He rummages through it. "Is pumpkin spice satisfactory?" He asks, pulling the container out. Adam nods, at first, and then vocalizes with a small, croaking, "Yes?" when he realizes that Charon's back is still to him. He drags the jug out and sets it on the counter, along with the cups.

"My roommate drinks it black. Or with protein powder." He explains, unasked, glancing over his shoulder. Adam must have looked surprised. He scrubs a hand over his face.

Charon pours coffee into one mug, than the other, leaving a thumbs-width in the carafe that he puts back onto the warming plate. He gives each mug a generous splash of suspiciously orange creamer.

Adam’s eyes widen as Charon wordlessly hands him a steaming mug. He doesn't really seem ashamed of it. Butch always has something snide to say when he catches Adam in the coffee line at school, holding everyone up for his caffeinated milkshakes. He should say thank you, he should say—

"Do you work out?" Adam blurts out. Immediately, he feels his soul trying to leave his corporal form, so he tries to take a big sip of coffee to keep his mouth too busy to say anything else.

The burn to his tongue is instant; reactively, he spits it back into his cup.

When he looks up, Charon's face is mostly blank. Maybe there's a smile there. It's very small; it could be a twitch at the corner of his lips, but he hides it quickly behind the rim of his mug. The heat of the coffee doesn't seem to affect him as his throat works through a few large gulps of it. Adam’s tongue still tingles.

"No. I get plenty of exercise at work." He clears his throat before taking another sip of his drink. Charon doesn't seem to blink often; or maybe, Adam isn't really used to people looking at him like this. Quietly sizing him up. "Did you text your friends?"

Adam shakes his head. "My phone's dead."

Charon looks down as Adam pulls the phone out from his pocket. He frowns, "I don't have a cord for that."

"Oh."

“Hm.” Charon grunts. He takes another sip of his coffee. When he sets it down, Adam can see that he’s already nearly finished. He turns away, back to the counter, pouring himself another. He doesn’t bother with the creamer, but he’s already going back to the cabinet to pull out the filters and canister of coffee grounds to start another pot. “I can drive you back.”

“You have a car?” He wonders if thats a weird question to ask. But they took the metro last night, they didn’t drive.

“Yes.” Charon glances over his shoulder. “It’s parked about three blocks away.”

Adam doesn’t know how long that is. Actually— he doesn’t really know where he is, right now. Every time he thinks back on getting off the metro, the words of the station stop are blurred together. All he can really remember is the weight of his eyes, and the heat of Charon next to him, gently shuffling him up the back steps of the brownstone.

Charon just heaps fresh grounds on top of the used ones in the machine. Adam watches him quietly, moving back and forth between the sink to fill up the water reservoir and start the process again. When he finally glances over at Adam, his brow furrows.

“You can sit, you know.”

“Oh!” Adam startles. He looks over— yeah. Right, of course, a couch. He probably shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the living room like a weirdo. He sits down in the far corner, placing his mug down on the chipped coffee table; it wobbles underneath the weight of the mug. There’s no coaster, but something tells Adam Charon doesn’t own one. He immediately pulls his feet up onto the couch, tucking them close and keeping his feet underneath him; it’s occurring to him that he doesn’t know where his shoes are. They weren’t in the bedroom.

Adam takes out his phone, belatedly remembering its lack of battery only after he’s slid the keyboard out and tried to pull up the texts on his Pip-Boy 3000. Nothing happens, of course. It’s dead. But he wishes it would turn on. He wishes he hadn’t gone out last night, and he wishes—

Adam’s eyes snap up as the couch dips under Charon’s weight. He doesn’t sit jammed into the opposite corner like him, but just a bit closer to the middle, wide legged. He carefully sets his refilled and steaming mug onto the coffee table.

He drops his phone into his lap. “Thank you,” Adam blurts out, wringing his hands in small, hopefully unnoticeable motions in his lap, hidden by the length of his legs. “You know... about last night.”

Charon frowns. “It’s nothing.” He glances away. He can tell he wants to say something, the way his brow’s furrowed. Absently, Charon combs his fingers through his red hair. It doesn’t do much to fix his bedhead. “Your friends usually leave you at bars without money?”

“No.” Adam swallows. “I mean— sometimes.”

“Hmn,” is Charon’s only reply. He sips at his coffee now, more careful than the earlier desperate chugging of caffeine. Adam digs his nails into his knuckles. Charon turns to look at him again. He has these piercing blue eyes, blanketed with a milky, ghoulish sheen.

Adam leans over to grab his mug, anything to do with his hands. This time it doesn’t burn him, at least.

There’s a television in front of them, but Charon makes no move to turn it on, and Adam isn’t about to ask. They finish their coffees in relative silence; Charon finishes three in the time he finishes his first, finally taking his mug to the sink to rinse out. All that’s left in Adam’s cup is less than a sliver of silty coffee and the last bits of creamer. He follows Charon’s lead, setting the mismatched mug down next to the sink. He moves to grab for the dishwasher, but his hand only finds cupboard handles instead of appliance latches.

“You want to get going?”

Adam has the urge to offer to hand wash the cups, but after a beat staring at them, he turns away from the sink, bracing himself back against it. “Uh, yeah. Do you know where my shoes are, though?”

Charon does, and when he tells him he doesn’t even sound half as annoyed as Adam knows he has the right to be. They’re at the front door, lined up nicely next to a pair of steel toed boots that absolutely dwarf his slip-ons. Those must be Charon’s. Still, he doesn’t really remember taking them off last night. Had he helped him toe them off before walking inside? The thought of that makes Adam’s ears feel weirdly hot.

Not in a bad way. Things could have gone— a lot worse, now that he’s thinking about it. He doesn’t know this guy at all. And—

As soon as Adam has straightened up from pulling on his shoes, Charon’s pushing a jacket into his arms. “Wear this.”

“What?”

He’s already turned away to shrug on his own coats; first, a leather jacket that’s seen better days, flaking under his arms at the crease, and then a heavier, slightly puffy coat on top of that. Adam holds up the coat in his arms. It looks the warmer of the three.

“It is cold out.” Charon says, a matter of fact, and then adds, “My car’s heating takes a while to work.”

Adam doesn’t protest. He’s berating himself now for not going out in his own, no matter what Butch had said about beer coats. The jacket is twice his size and swallows him up immediately. The sleeves are nearly as long as his fingertips. He zips himself up, right underneath to slightly past the chin. When Charon turns around, he stops, momentarily, looking him over once before turning away.

“Ready?” Charon grabs a pair of keys hanging on the wall.

Adam follows him out, pulling the door closed behind. His surroundings are vaguely familiar, but not because of last night. He’s been to this part of the city, before, but only in passing.

The walk isn’t far, but it is cold. January had none of the charm of December and was twice as biting. The only positive was that this winter had been a dry one. There hasn’t been any snow this year. January meant there was a possibility they could still drag their way out of winter without one storm. D.C. had previous snowless winters, though there was usually at least one storm per year that always took the entire city by surprise, as if snow itself was an entirely foreign new concept.

Adam was hoping for the former; snow meant ice, and cold. Winter had never been a kind season to him.

He’s not paying attention to where he’s walking, because Charon stops and Adam walks straight into his back, bumping off of him like a fly against a window pane. Charon arches a brow, stepping off the sidewalk and circling the car parked curbside.

The car’s is a beater, a decade-old Chryslus Highwayman that looks like it would break down if driven any further than city limits, one of many to be left abandoned on the side of I95. The outside is dingy but not overly so, just scratches across the paint, nothing too obvious like rust or indents.

But, Charon has to get in on the drivers side and lean over the center shift-stick to open up the passenger side door; the handle in Adam’s hands is limp, unusable. Surprisingly, the inside is not just neat but meticulously clean, and Adam can spy microfiber rags tucked into the back seat door pocket when he gets in on the passenger side.

Their seatbelts click into place, one after the other. “Do you know how to get back?” Charon asks, glancing at Vaultie momentarily before setting his sights on backing the car up. “Your school? Where you live?”

The gears creak every time he turns the wheel more than a quarter of the way. Adam feels his stomach clench. Charon turns around, swinging his arm to the back of Adam’s headrest as he slowly reverses. The car ahead of him is parked too close. It has one of those bumper barricades hanging off the back that the nose of Charon’s car nearly touches when he inches forward.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” Charon prompts as he finally pulls his car out into the street.

Heat crawls into his face. Adam does that a lot; get lost in thought, doesn’t respond. 

“Sorry. S-sorry. No, you’re uh— I mean, no, you’re right, or, you’re right— it is, no. I don’t know.” And he doesn’t have his phone on, so he has no GPS to guide them back. He feels completely useless. “I uh. I have the address?”

Charon grunts.

“It’s, uhm, 8901 Vault-Tec Lane.”

“Ah.” The briefest smile graces Charon’s face, but it’s not entirely genuine. “Vault-Tec University. They have half the city in their pocket.” He pauses, briefly. “What’s your father? A politician?”

“Doctor.” He mumbles, chagrined, needlessly admitting, “Amata’s dad is a senator, though.” Butch got in on scholarship. He wouldn’t have ever even made it in if him and Amata hadn’t helped him with his essays.

“And is that what you are studying for?” Charon almost sounds bored, his voice is so flat. “Or, you are a freshman. I am sure you are undecided.”

“I, uh, I-I don’t know. I guess you’re right. In the, official sense.” Adam stares out the window, elbow against the door propping his head up. “Uh. I think I’d like to do something to uhm, help other people. M-maybe social work. Or, uh, speech pathology.”

He glances over at Charon. Charon looks back, eyebrows raised, before he turns back to the road. Adam smiles, bites his lip, and tries to quash the nervous giggle bubbling up under his fingers that are splaying over his face and mouth. “Yeah, I uh. Know.”

Charon’s smile is very slight and lopsided, but he doesn’t say anything, his attention on the road.

Adam wishes he knew more of the city. He’s not familiar enough with it yet. Him— and Butch, and Amata, all grew up outside city limits, Silver Spring and Columbia and Glen Bernie. Everything looks familiar but only in the vaguest way, buildings blending together along the streets as they pass by. Charon is a good driver. Or, at least, he’s not as bad as some of the other drivers in the city. He doesn’t make sudden stops and he’s careful at lights.

Adam turns inward into the car, and away from the window, “So, you work at Ninth Circle, and live in Lanier Heights...?”

“Yes.” Says Charon.

“Uh.” Adam flounders. “Sorry about. You’re uh. Last night? The jacket? From Butch’s beer? That’s... is it ok? I can... get you back for that?”

“No need.”

Adam swallows. “W-well. If you’re sure. I really appreciate you bringing me back.“

Charon is frowning at the road. He hasn’t attempted to glance at Adam once. “It’s fine.”

“N-no, I mean. Seriously, especially for, uhm. Taking me home, and all. And not making me walk home by myself.” Maybe he should stop speaking. But Adam’s always been poor at being indebted to someone. If anything, he’d rather it be the other way around. Being helpful usually, sometimes, meant people would be something other than mean. It worked, eventually; it only took Butch until the end of eighth grade to stop beating on him. “Maybe next time, when we’re all at Ninth Circle, I can, uh— I, um, really owe you one—“

“Listen,” Charon curtly interrupts, his hands clutching the wheel with such a tight twist the old leather flakes under his grasp, “The bar could have gotten in a lot of trouble if something had happened to you walking home. I did not do it out of the goodness of my heart.”

Adam’s mouth snaps shut. He has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip for just a moment, a sharp point into the soft skin of his mouth. Embarrassment curls hot in his gut. Adam doesn’t understand the reaction. He never usually does.

“I’ll drop you off. There’s no need to thank me.” Charon reiterates, eyes on the road, but his voice is a little softer this time. Adam watches his fingers as he turns the wheel with one hand. Adam nods. He doesn’t want his voice to betray hm.

Adam looks out the window. His phone is dead, but he needs something else to keep himself busy, so he doesn’t want to crawl out of the window instead of sitting in this dead silence. He pulls out his wallet, double checking that he still had everything. His dorm key is still tucked into the small change pocket, and his real driver’s license is still there, along with his student ID and the fake.

He pulls it out, turning the mangled piece of plastic over in his hand. In the light of day, it looks even worse; a pathetic scrap of trash, the cheap print of his picture taken by Butch with a white dorm wall as backdrop staring back at him from behind the spiderweb of creases and cracks.

“... your boss seems almost as bad as my friends.” He mutters, just quiet enough that Charon can easily ignore him, staring down forlornly at the ID in his hands.

Charon chuckles and it actually startles Adam, his shoulders twitching upward. His face goes somber right after so quickly, it almost makes him think the momentary mirth was imagined.

“He is much worse.”

No, wait— he is smiling, just slightly, his milky blue eyes momentarily shifting to look at Adam. “Though I cannot entirely apologize for the ID. You are underage. I would have taken it—” His face flashes again, this time with annoyance, biting his tongue. “If that was a thing the Ninth Circle did.”

Adam ventures, hesitant, “I didn’t... know you guys, uh, took IDs.”

“Exactly.” Out escapes one short, annoyed exhale from Charon’s nasal cavity. “We do not.”

Adam can’t argue, either way. “I wasn’t, uh, the one to pick doing that. Doing, uh, going out, to drink. A bar.”

“I can tell you do not drink.”

Adam presses his cheek to the cold window. Charon wasn’t lying when he said it took his car a while for the heat to kick in, but the jacket he’s been leant is incredibly warm. “Is that bad?”

Charon seems to pause, humming thoughtfully. “No.” He admits. “Not really. Though, others will tell you otherwise.”

“Well. You’re probably better at drinking than me.”

“I know I am better at drinking than you.”

Adam finds himself smiling. “Uhm, You’re also. You know, at least two feet taller than me.”

Charon snorts. “Two is a stretch.” It’s not, though. He’s probably a foot and a half taller than him, let alone pounds more in muscle; Adam is only 5’3.

They both fall silent. At the next light, Charon reaches over and turns on the radio.

“A uh, special news report from Diamond City radio! Travis, here, and we uh, have a news update here, out on the Canadian front—“

“Hi, caller. This is the 188.8AM, and you’re speaking with the Forecaster. We’re here with a special guest, Bloomseer Poplar, to help you with life’s greatest mysteries. But, just as a reminder, if you want a specialized reading from us or one of our certified Psykers on the line, pick up your phones and dial—“

Charon switches the station again, finding one mid-song; its something by the Beatles, the name of which Adam can’t place. Charon’s fingers hesitate over the dial momentarily, before returning them to the steering wheel. He holds it with both hands at ten and two, very straight-backed and proper; the only error in his perfect form is the off-beat drumming of his fingers against the wheel.

The car’s heat suddenly and loudly kicks in with a whir, a gush of hot, stale air coming out from the vents straight towards Adam’s face. He’s suddenly too hot, and Adam is fumbling with the high zipper of the coat. His eyes shift up, catching a glimpse of Charon’s own stare; Charon holds his gaze for just a split longer than he should, before pulling his concentration back on the road.

Their surroundings are getting more and more familiar. They turn a street and suddenly Adam knows where he is; though, belatedly, he realizes they’re so close, Charon probably won’t need any help finding the rest of the way. He really needs to make it a priority to learn his way around the city better.

Still, he mumbles a gentle, “Turn here,” and Charon follows the direction without question. One more turn and he can see the sign for Vault-Tec University, and the Frank Horrigan Science building on the corner.

“You’ll have to direct me to your dorms.”

“Oh, no,” Adam shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. You can drop me off near— I mean. Anywhere around here.” He’s already done so much; Adam doesn’t want to impose anymore than he has.

“It would be easier, for me, if there were a drop-off location. Instead of pulling over at the side of the road.”

Charon flicks on his turn signal, turning into one of the inner roads leading further into campus. Adam chews on his lip. “This is fine, then...” Through here, and it would lead to the small roundabout that encircled the school’s mascot Vault Boy statue, near the main administrative building. Plenty of people get picked up and dropped off there.

“Up here,” Adam gestures, “At the, uh, circle, wherever you can pull over is fine.”

Charon doesn’t nudge his sedan into the parking lane until he’s midway through the circle. He’s certainly not half-assing his taxi duties. Most car shares drop him off the side of the road before he can fully scramble out the doors. This almost feels like door to door service for Adam. He puts his Chryslus into park.

Charon unlocks the car. Adam steps out, and the biting cold hits him right away, sending a shiver through his body. He tries to push the door closed, but ends up shutting it too softly behind him; he tries to open the door again, and the passenger side door handle moves limply in his grasp. He can see but not hear Charon sighing behind the glass, and the window starts to lower as he leans over and opens the passenger door; Adam closes it properly this time. Charon leans out of the window. “Look.” He has Adam’s attention, but suddenly his firm frown is wavering, eyes shifting away. “You shouldn’t be going to the Ninth Circle. None of you should. Just drink in your rooms. Or whatever you get up to.”

It feels like a weirdly finite thing to say. A very adult thing to say, but of course, he’s just a bouncer at some random college bar. Adam finds himself fidgeting with the zipper of his coat. “I’ll, uh, bring that up. At the next student government meeting.” Adam says with a lopsided, nervous smile.

He’s not sure if the joke lands. Charon just shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead, he’s turning the car’s engine back on.

“Just consider it. At least, don’t go with people who’ll leave you.”

Scuffing his shoes against the curb, Adam finds words catching in his throat. “Thanks again,” is all he finally manages. Adam turns away, Charon’s engine jumping at the shifting of gears. He pauses, glancing back and waving.

He keeps walking, watching from the corner of his eye as Charon pulls around and away from the circle, back towards the main road. He’s not far from his dorm, and it feels good to be back home.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. His knuckles crinkle as they hit some sort of packaging, a box— and when he pulls the half-empty pack of cigarettes out, he’s rendered so momentarily dumbstruck he stops right in the middle of the walkway, parting a sea of students walking to and from.

These aren’t his cigarettes.

This isn’t his jacket.

Adam huffs, shoving the cigarettes back into his pocket and looking up at the grey sky. Charon’s long gone by now. Nobody else seems to be noticing him, even as he directly blocks their way. He hesitates before he starts to walk again, towards the direction of his dorm room.

—

Charon can always hear Ahzrukhal before he fully enters. He’s always talking two octaves too loud on a cell phone, and he never enters without one of his cellphones to his ear, too seemingly important to enter normally. Today especially he’s causing a commotion, the timbre of his voice fighting with the sound of front door slamming against the far wall as he shoulders it open.

”Of course, of course,” Ahzrukhal rasps, arms laden with an unwieldy box. Charon can barely see him behind it, his jet-black secondary cell cradled between his skull and shoulder. “Look, that sounds fine to me. I just got back to the bar—”

Charon nearly drops his mop in the rush to Ahzrukhal’s side. The glare Ahzrukhal levels at him as he thrusts the box into his arms tells him it was still not fast enough.

“I understand. Everything’s under control. Let me call you back in an hour or so.” He speaks into the phone, jabbing his finger wordlessly to where he wants Charon to place the box. It’s surprisingly heavy for something Ahzrukhal willingly carried from the alleyway where he parks. Charon drops it without ceremony onto the bar. When he turns around, Ahzrukhal is folding his phone into the pocket of his plaid sports coat.

“Charon! My boy,” he says witheringly, glancing around the bar. Especially in the light of the day, it’s drab and filthy, barebones and well-worn. Cleaning was strictly surface area; they did not have the time and Ahzrukhal did not want to pay anyone to go much deeper than that. Charon can hear his footsteps clinging to the sticky floor. “You must be faster next time in helping me. You know I don’t pay you to stand around.”

Charon exhales, instead of saying what he wants to. He doesn’t want to bicker, not now. Rent’s coming due next week and he barely has the money for his half. “Of course.”

Ahzrukhal frowns, brushing by him to walk behind the bar. He grabs the knife used for cutting fruit and slides it across the taped seal on top of the box. “I have good news, though. I know winter is slow; this one, especially, but I have a special in mind for next week.” Charon takes his mop in hand once more, dipping it into the murky water and pulling it out to splat wetly against the floor. “I’m hoping to have it absolutely packed in here on Wednesday with these.”

Ahzrukhal opens the box so that the cardboard flaps cover what’s inside. Charon can’t see the contents from where he is. Ahzrukhal looks at him expectantly.

Charon bites his tongue. “What?”

"Cat night." Ahzrukhal clarifies. In any other context, those two words together did not sound threatening, but they bubble up like hot tar in Ahzrukhal’s throat.

Charon wants to reply, "So?", but instead he bites the tip of his tongue a little harder and just watches Ahzrukhal, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Ahzrukhal smiles. "Half price if you're dressed as a cat."

"Great." Charon says, because he doesn't know what else to say. Ahzrukhal finally fishes one out from the box: a pair of cheap plastic black cat ears attached to a headband.

"I'll need you inside. I have a feeling it's going to be..." he pauses to catch his breath, words rattling in his chest, "Busy." Charon is trying to keep his face calm. It’s not the right response, though, because he can see the way Ahzrukhal’s brow is creasing, his upper lip curling in annoyance. He tosses the headband pointedly towards Charon; he drops the mop, barely catching the headpiece Ahzrukhal frisbees at his head. "For you."

The mop handle clatters loudly to the ground, bouncing off the laminate. Charon’s grip is so tight the plastic should be cracking in his hand. He feels his heartbeat in his ears.

"You want me to wear these." He had been expecting it, of course. He doesn't know why he bothers to ask. The headband bends in his grip.

Ahzrukhal smiles. "Oh, don't worry. I've already docked your pay for them, so no need to pay me back."

Charon stops bending the plastic, letting it spring back into it’s half-circle form. It's not unusual for Ahzrukhal to dock his pay for random slights and reimbursements. He's had to pay for stools splintered in fights he has broken up; he has never had his black eyes or bruised ribs paid for. There's nothing he can do about it, not when Ahzrukhal has his passport in the back room floor safe. So he just takes the ears, and hooks one end into the pocket of his jacket. When he glares across the room at Ahzrukhal, he’s smiling.

Charon looks away. He can hear Ahzrukhal’s smile, the way he wheezes through his teeth. “Now pick that up.” Charon glances up again, at Ahzrukhal’s eyes shifting towards the mop, and he bends down to right it. One side of the wood handle is cool and slick from the wet floor, and Charon has to wipe the residual cleaning fluid off on a bar rag hanging from his front pocket. “I want this place clean for tonight.”

Charon feels the anger festering in his gut like a sore, his own stomach acids eating him up alive.

Only after Ahzrukhal has grabbed the box once more and taken it into the back manager’s office does Charon realize it had been too heavy just for an assortment of plastic cat ears. Charon can hear the lock twisting into place as soon as the door closes behind Ahzrukhal.

It’s better if he doesn’t think about it.

He’s here until two, and then off again until he needs to come back at nine, where he’ll be staying until closing time. Maybe longer, if that new bartender— he keeps forgetting it’s not Gob, but the new one, Leo Stahl— is pissed at him for making him clean up by himself last time. He’d deserve it, if he was. It was stupid of him to do, last night. He should have left the kid on the corner to figure out his own way home. He had no responsibility for him.

He cleans for another thirty minutes before the office door opens. Ahzrukhal has a stack of paper in his arms. Charon empties his hands of the dish rag before he walks by; Ahzrukhal never gives, he thrusts or throws something and expects the receiver to scramble to catch it, or grovel on the ground to pick it up.

He’s been here at this bar for too long, because these actions are becoming second nature for him at this point. They’re good hunches, though; he catches the ream of paper before it hits the moist bar top.

“Hang these,” Ahzrukhal wheezes. The fliers are on red paper, the Ninth Circle logo imprinted in crisp black at the top. A gradient black cat slinks across the middle, with what he assumes are all of the details of the cat night special underneath.

Ahzrukhal doesn’t dignify Charon with a goodbye. He breezes past him as soon as the fliers are out of his hand, briefly checking a phone that he’s pulled from his pocket. It’s different than the one he walked in with on his ear. “Lock up.” He barks as the door closes behind him. It’s part reminder, part threat.

Charon stows the cleaning supplies away, and gives the bar one last glance over before he leaves. It’s as clean as it’s going to get, and it doesn’t matter, besides; they keep it dark for a reason, and most who come in are too drunk to really care. It’s where they can get in; the university kids talk about it later in stories and social media posts, the grimy bar they all pack themselves into, but they never stop coming. Maybe in some ways, it adds to the appeal, all of these buttoned-up kids coming into a part of town where they could drink and dance until they couldn’t remember.

He locks the front door from the inside and leaves out the back emergency exit, locking that one behind and putting his keys safely into his pocket. The biting wind outside keeps his fingers from steadying; it takes him two tries before he can slot the key into handle lock.

Chapter Text

“Wow, they really tore your ass apart, huh?”

Amata frowns, leaning over Adam to smack Butch’s shoulder, firm enough to show him she meant it. “Butch! Really?”

Adam knows he says things like that to get a rise out of him, and still, it works, making his stomach slightly queasy at the violence of the words, too harsh for a Monday afternoon. Amata settles behind Adam, combing her fingers through his hair, patiently untangling it. He can feel her huff against the back of his neck. “It’s just an ID. I’m sure... we can just tape it.”

Adam frowns, his head leaning back with her hands as she snags a particularly stuck knot. Adam’s always been tender scalped. He buries his fingers into the shag rug underneath them. “It’s pretty, uh, bad.”

She knows. They all know. It’s lying between the three of them sitting in a circle on the floor, like an offering in a seance. Though the wrap on top of the ID was still mostly intact, the actual plastic backing has cracked in half and nearly completely pulled away. It’s irreparable.

Butch grins, leaning back against the side of the bare, unmade bed. Adam’s dorm room is still demarcated in two, though his previous roommate was expelled at the end of the first semester. He keeps expecting the university to tell him he’s going to have someone new move in, so he doesn’t touch the other furniture. He knows they probably wont bother, unless a sudden transfer comes in.

It’s functionally a single now until the end of the year. That leaves his room as the one everyone meets up in, the three of them— possibly more, one day, though Adam knows he doesn’t have the friends or personality to host his own party, or even the real want to, besides daydreams of people coming over and pretending to be his friend. Aside from the bare mattress and empty desk, his side is fully furnished. It’s very tidy, a small metal cart filled with snacks next to the microwave his roommate had left behind, his appliances and organizational things in muted, grey tones. But the walls are plastered in posters— still neatly hung, with colorful tape on the edges, over every inch of his side of the walls, save the corner with a mirror. At one point, he thought the RA was going to try and make him take some things down, as it was definitely not up to fire safety code.

“Yeah, nosebleed, there’s no chance anywhere will let you in with this.” Butch gestures at the ID, but does not touch it. “Maybe you can buy booze down at the deli, but an actual bar?”

An actual bar, no. And it took him so long to get a fake in the first place. Amata and Butch have had theirs since high school.

“So,” Adam can feel his voice warbling in his throat before he hears it, “I’ll need to get another one? A new one?”

Amata sighs behind his ear. Butch is the one to respond, though. “Yeah, you do.” He’s already sounding bored of the conversation, pulling out his phone and swiping through it. The conversation lulls momentarily, with Butch on his phone and Amata concentrating on parting Adam’s hair into sections for a simple braid; it’s not really long enough for anything large, and she doesn’t have elastics, but its the familiar motion of it. The silent apology of the act.

Sometimes, his dorm room still feels too small when the three of them all sit here, even though half of it is empty.

Amata’s fingers tug too hard at a knot, catching in her nails, making Adam flinch. “What about that website last time...? Uh. Wh-wherever you got it?” He asks.

Butch barely glances up from his phone. “Nah, that Chinese website I mail ordered from? Shut down. They don’t ever stay up long.” His eyes fall back to the screen, “And I don’t know anywhere else right now.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Amata rushes to reassure, “You don’t even drink that much, besides.”

“I don’t.” Adam mumbles, leaning back into her touch.

“Yeah, but you wanna go through, what,” Butch counts, “Three and a half years left without it? You ain’t gonna turn twenty one until senior year.”

Adam sighs, closed-mouth. “I... I don’t think I’m going to be going out, not soon, besides…” Trying to avoid Butch’s eyes, he finds himself staring at a straight pile of textbooks at his desk, reading the titles on the spines in his head.

“What? Are you serious? The bouncer wasn’t an axe murderer or anything, was he?”

“He was actually really nice,” Adam rushes to the defensive, “H-he didn’t... I mean, he didn’t have to let me sleep over. He could have left me there.”

Amata’s hands still, and he feels a pang of guilt knowing that he’s just brought the other night up, even inadvertently. He hadn’t been the one to bring it up, the shame of the only two friends he has having left him a little too sharp, made him a little too tender. He would have forgiven them both, even if they never spoke of it; but Amata had worried and apologized of her own accord, having left him twenty texts and two voicemails that popped up onto his phone as soon as it had charged itself enough to turn on. Butch hasn’t said a word.

“I know, Adam— I’m— we’re—“ Moving out from behind him, he catches the tail end of the glare Amata levels at Butch. When she turns to him, though, her face softens with genuine regret, her round face pinched with it. Butch is looking anywhere but at the two of them. “We’re really sorry for leaving you there. I know I got way more drunk than I meant to. I’m glad everything turned out okay, but that could have been really dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Butch agrees. When Adam looks at Butch, his face hardens, “Good going almost getting yourself killed, poindexter.”

Amata inhales sharp and annoyed through her nose.

“He was nice.” Adam reiterates again. And he means it. “I actually have to return his jacket—“

“Why do you have his jacket?” Butch asks, accusatory.

Adam shrinks back. “N-not... nothing weird. I didn’t go out in one.” Butch squints at him. “Remember? So he let me, uh, borrow one of his...”

He points to the dark wool coat hanging on top of the full hook attached to the back of his door. He should have returned it that day, or maybe Sunday, but he doesn’t know Charon’s home address and a part of him still feels a little wary to rush back to the Ninth Circle so soon after being humiliated. “I just forgot to hand it back when he dropped me off.”

“At your dorm?” Butch asks, glancing around as if a feral was about to leap out from behind the spare dresser.

“Adam, that’s kind of dangerous, if he knows where you live.” Amata adds, gently, in that mildly maternal tone of hers that Adam only hates when she uses it while agreeing with Butch. 

“He doesn’t. He dropped me off at the circle.” He says, shoulders creeping up defensively towards his ears, “And— and, if you don’t trust the bar that much, why did we even go there?”

“That’s the point, Adam. It’s not like some fancy-ass gastropub or whatever. It reeks and the beer tastes like piss.” Butch says, finally putting his phone down, “But, at least, most of us can get in... that’s why I don’t get so drunk I get my ID cracked in half by some zombie asshole.”

Adam feels his stomach doing those flips again, and he scratches a little hard at his arm, his nails making red marks across his skin. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t even drunk.”

Butch rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure.”

“I wasn’t. You—“

“I believe you, Adam.” Amata interrupts, glaring over at Butch. “Would you lay off him? What is this, middle school?”

Butch closes his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Besides,” With Butch silenced, Amata scoots back over to Adam, gently shaking out the temporary braids in his hair. It fluffs and frizzes out like a halo around his face. “We both know we were the drunk ones. We messed up.” Her eyes are earnest, hesitantly brushing against his arm. “I mean it, I am really sorry.”

Adam flashes Amata a shy smile “I know. I’m not— I’m definitely not angry.” He assures. Amata smiles back, warm. He really isn’t mad; he’s never held Amata at arm’s length for long. She’s been his only friend for a long time. It always feels wrong not being able to talk to her.

“Well,” Butch’s offhanded drawl breaks up the moment, “if you don’t get another ID, maybe your dad could just purify some water into wine for you.”

Adam frowns, managing to muster up sort of a glare at Butch. “It’s— no. He’s not Jesus.” He mutters, “It’s a water purification sys— it’s not even working, yet.”

He avoids Amata’s eyes. She always gives him that look when dads come up, and he’s not in the mood to think about it. Butch doesn’t understand; his dad had left his mom when they were young, and the very fact they had theirs, no matter how bad they were, was apparently better in Butch’s eyes than not having a dad at all.

Amata and Adam had spent the majority of their lives together shuffled between strenuous classes and after-school latchkey programs, mostly to get out of their respective fathers’ hair. Right now, Amata’s father was fully in the swing of campaigning again for reelection as the Republican senator representing Maryland; it felt weird, seeing his face in commercials and on lawns so often when he was so elusive in real life.

Some people seemed to hate Adam on sight; he’s gotten used to it over the years, in some ways, expected. Mr. Almodovar was one of them. The man was perpetually short with him, and intolerant of polite conversation when it wasn’t a means to an end or a personal interest. His own dad was just as obsessed with work, but he was never actively cruel.

Except, speaking of work— “Oh,” He starts. But Butch and Amata have already moved on by the time he’s come back from his thought process. They’re mid-conversation about small gossip, names that Adam doesn’t know— “I have to be at the biology department in half an hour.” Adam says, quietly, though he’s not sure if they’re actually listening.

Amata is, though, and she whips her head to stare at him. “Wait, but that means—“ She’s glancing around the room, just for a moment, even though she knows there’s no wall clocks in here. “It’s 2:30?”

Staring at his phone, Butch can instantly answer: “Yep.”

“Oh, shoot,” She swears gently, double checking the watch on her wrist, and then pulling out her phone from back pocket and checking the time there for good measure. “You’re right. I have to run or I’ll be late.”

Amata stands to her feet, and Adam follows, even though it mostly just puts him in her way as she goes to grab her backpack from where it had been thrown underneath his dorm window. “Don’t run,” Staying seated, Butch clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, watching her. “C’mon, Amata. That’s lame.”

Amata slings her backpack over her shoulder with a frown. “Failing because you miss mandatory class participation is even lamer, Butch.” She quips back, checking her phone for the time once more as she walks towards the door.

Adam follows her, holding the door against the wall when she swings it open. “Text me, when class is over?”

“I will. But.” Amata pauses, moving her phone from hand to hand with anxious energy, ready to bolt to class, “Don’t sweat the ID thing. It’s not a big deal.” She looks over Adam’s shoulder, most definitely at Butch, who Adam is only now realizing still sits on his floor. “Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butch calls. “Aren’t you gonna miss your perfect attendance?”

She rolls her eyes, blurting out a “Bye” and bolting down the halbefore Butch is even done pretending to agree. Adam just raises a hand in goodbye, though its slow enough he’s not even sure if Amata saw it.

Adam lets out a little sigh. He turns, leaning against the open door. Butch is still sitting there on his phone; he hasn’t even pretended to move, not even an attempt to make it look like he had the intention of doing so. It’s strange, because while they didn’t fight anymore, and could get along on occasion, their tentative friendship— or whatever it was— was completely tethered to Amata.

They did not exist as a pair; they only ever interacted when it was the three of them. But Butch doesn’t look up from his phone, and Adam feels himself squirm a little. There’s no excuse to kick him out, and he’s not a good enough liar to think of any pressing matter he can fib about needing to attend. He’s not even passive aggressive enough to keep standing there with the door open, so he takes a step forward and lets it swing close behind him.

“I could get you another ID.” Butch says, as soon as the door audibly clicks shut.

Adam frowns, holding onto his elbows. He’s not sure why Butch is bringing this up now. Hadn’t he said it was impossible when he had asked about the previous website they used?

“I, uhm,” Butch looks up at him, and Adam has to look away from his blue eyes, “I mean— I’d appreciate it. If- if you could.”

Butch puts his phone away. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up, resting his elbows on his kneecaps. “Look, you know Sole Park?”

“Uh.” Adam clears his throat, “Maybe?” He doesn’t move to sit back down, standing with his back to the painted brick wall. The name is familiar; he’s pretty sure that’s the Junior in his Intro Philosophy class.

“He’s middie —“ Butch gives Adam a depreciating look, even though he’s always been too self-professedly cool to participate in any organized sport, “You know, midfielder, our lacrosse team, the sport with the sticks—“

Adam hurries to nod. “Y-yeah.“ The guy in class he’s thinking of is big, he’s pretty sure that’s him. He assumes everyone over a certain stature probably plays a sport. He does cardio, and Amata has dragged him to some classes that were fun, but competitive sports made Adam too anxious to function.

“Anyway,” Butch draws out the word slowly, holding out his hand as he gestures through the names he starts to list: “Freddie hooked up with Sierra last weekend and she’s roommates with Sarah and Sarah is friends with Nora. You know, the RA on Amata’s floor? Well, before Nora and Sole broke up, she got her ID through Sarah who got hers through Sole. He has connections.”

Adam finally peels himself off the wall, sitting back down across from Butch. Lowering his voice, he leans in, “Con—“ He has to do a double-take, trying to pair all the names Butch is saying to faces in his head. It feels like a game of Guess Who? that he’s definitely losing. He knows Sarah Lyons, from highschool, who was a grade above them all, but everyone else is a stranger. Still— “Connections?”

Butch rolls his eyes at Adam, but matches his hushed voice. “Yeah, I heard he has a printer in his closet.” Butch is talking as if he knows him personally and well, though Adam’s sure he’s never talked to him before in his life. “And he knows the guy who owns that liquor store over in Park Plaza, so he can get kegs.”

Adam doesn’t want a whole keg. He barely wants an ID, but he also knows being left in his dorm while Amata and Butch go out will also grow lonely fast. The first half of freshman year they’d both had been too busy acclimating to really try, but now Butch practically pestered them to go every weekend.

Butch raises his eyebrows, “I’ll ask Freddie, see if he can, you know, ask Sierra to talk with Sole, and all that,” He waves his hand, “See if we can get an ID from him.”

The chain of command from Freddie’s one-night stand to a shiny new fake sounds tenuous, but Adam doesn’t really have any other choice. It’s silly, but a part of him thinks Butch can do it, even though it sounds impossible; Butch seemed like that type of guy, right? The kind to be able to procure IDs out of thin air? The always mildly threatening persona he had lended well to it. “Alright.” Adam sighs, “W-well. Awesome.” He nods, gives Butch a lopsided smile. Maybe he’s just convincing himself.

For a moment, Butch’s expression turns soft, a warmth tinting his face. He looks away. “Yeah, whatever. We’ll see. I’ll see what I can work out. You’ll owe me.”

“How much?”

Butch seems taken aback at the question, like he hadn’t expected what Adam thought was a pretty logical follow-up. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Whatever it was last time.” He exhales, flustered, “Eighty or something, I guess.”

He’s suddenly standing, rolling his shoulders and shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Adam stays seated, pressing himself back against the side of the bed as Butch steps over him to grab his backpack from the ground. He nearly whips Adam with it when he shrugs it on. “Look, I should get going, too.” Butch says. Adam watches him step on the broken ID as he crosses the floor.

Adam opens his mouth, but then closes it. Something— he did something wrong, maybe, but Butch is at the door, and he pulls it open. “There’s no guarantee, or anything. We’ll, uh, see.” He says it as it’s closing, so his last words are barely heard over the loud sound of the door falling shut: “See you, nosebleed.”

The force of it knocks half of the coats off of the door hook into a heap on the ground. He sighs to the empty room. It takes Adam too long to stand and pick them up; he feels exhausted suddenly, drained, the thought of having to go to his work-study job excruciating. He bends down and gathers them all up, though it’s hard juggling them all. The pile’s so big he can’t successfully heft them all up together, continuously on the verge of dropping them all.

So in a silly, dramatic way, he tries to throw them up on the hook. They fall right back on top of him, covering his head. He sighs. It takes him longer to get out from under the coats than it should.

—

The front door of the Ninth Circle opens, letting in a windy burst of frigid late afternoon air that reaches Charon all the way down the hallway and behind the bar. It surprises him more than it should, but Ahzrukhal is in his office, and there are two sets of footsteps coming down the hall. They don’t serve food; the bar opens at five at the earliest, and it’s not even two. Charon can feel stress tensing across his shoulders.

“We’re closed.” He calls.

“We have business with Ahzrukhal.”

It’s a ghoul’s voice that replies just a moment before they step into view, which only minimally puts him at ease. This is abnormal for Ahzrukhal. He usually does his deals at night, when everyone else is busy and can keep their nose clear of his business. 

Charon doesn’t put down the glass in his hands, or the dirty rag that he’s running around the rim. “Yeah?”

He’s purposefully acting brusque, but the slimmer one with the thick, trendy glasses just smiles, “Murphy.” He gestures to his taller colleague. “And this is Barrett. For our three o’clock meeting.”

Murphy has bangs plastered to his forehead that they nearly touch the rims of the large glasses on his face. When he turns his head to look at Barrett, he has to push the glasses up, as Charon can see he’s not wearing any tape and the nubs of his ears barely do anything to keep them on his face. He’s lean and alert, but nothing Charon couldn’t handle.

Barrett, however— Barrett is almost as tall as Charon, towering head and shoulders over Murphy, his t-shirt taut over his chest. He’s carrying a mid-sized duffel bag in his arms, and he does not smile in response to Murphy’s introduction. In fact, it’s annoyingly blank.

If they actually are expected, Charon can guess why Ahzrukhal would want him nearby and unoccupied with customers. He has height, and can bluster, but a man of Barrett’s stature would beat him to a pulp. He’s neither Ahzrukhal’s secretary nor his personal bodyguard. The thought that Ahzrukhal would purposefully and actively mislead him at this level— the thought makes him put the highball glass in his hands down a little too hard against the bar mat.

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Great.” Murphy says, a little too fast. His eyes are wandering around. With all of the tables and chairs put away, there is nowhere to sit except for the stools the bar, and Charon is not going to offer them, besides. They can sit on their own accord, or stand uneasily in the entryway.

Charon steps out from behind the bar, wiping his hands off on the front of his jeans as he walks down the side hall. Past the bathrooms and at the end is the manager’s office, right next to the back exit. It’s dark down here, save for the green light of the EXIT sign hanging above his head and the light coming from under the doors. He knocks. “Ahzrukhal.”

“Charon,” His voice is muffled, “What is it?”

Charon opens the door. He won’t speak through it. Ahzrukhal has the nerve to look annoyed sitting at his desk, his hand at the edge of his computer monitor, a child hiding the screen from his parents.

Charon could not care about what Ahzrukhal does back here. The less he knows, the better.

“You have visitors.” Ahzrukhal’s pinched face suddenly relaxes as Charon speaks. “Two ghouls. Murphy and Barrett.”

“Murphy, Murphy, yes.” Ahzrukhal mutters momentarily, typing in a one-handed flurry before pressing a button on the monitor. He turns his focus back to Charon, smiling predatorily fond. Charon feels it in his voice, that he’s being praised for coming back here and alerting him of strangers like a well-trained dog: “I appreciate you coming to tell me. Would you be a dear and bring them in?”

Charon wants to shove his fist down his throat. Instead, he bites his tongue. “Of course.”

Exiting the hall, Murphy and Barrett haven’t moved an inch from where Charon had left them. 

“Follow me.” He doesn’t fully stop, gesturing at them both as he pivots on his heel back towards Ahzrukhal’s office.

He doesn’t knock before entering this time either, but Ahzrukhal has prepared himself. It wouldn’t have surprised Charon if Ahzrukhal had licked his thumb and slicked that especially long cowlick of his remaining hair back against his forehead in the time he had took to bring them in, adjust the papers on the desk, look a little more presentable. He was always overly invested in his own appearance, even if he peddled watered down drinks in a dirty bar as his most visible source of income; the desk and chair he is sitting in are a little too impressive for the space, heavy wood and brass, but it’s anchored by the monolithic floor safe behind him.

“Gentlemen, welcome, make yourself at home,” Ahzrukhal rasps, and Charon waits until they both step inside before closing the door behind them. “Please, sit.”

He has only one chair across from him. Barret makes no move for it, but Murphy doesn’t pretend that he was waiting for him to, taking the seat for himself. Barrett steps behind Murphy and sets the duffel bag next to him in one motion.

He crosses his arms, giving one sidelong glance to Charon. Charon would much rather fade into the background. He’s not interested in helping Ahzrukhal more than he needs to. He’s been careful not to step fully in front of the door and block the exit, to rankle this ghoul’s chained bulldog.

“I hope you found your way here easily enough?” Ahzrukhal speaks up.

“Oh, yeah, Barrett’s a terrific navigator.”

“Wonderful.” He smiles.

Murphy leans his body forward, resting his laced hands together against the desk. “But that’s not what we’re here for, right? To talk pleasantries?” His leg is bouncing against the floor, knee occasionally bumping up against the underside of the desk. The thumping noise is already starting to irritate Charon. “No, we’re here to talk about the best business opportunity since Bradburton sold Nuka stocks.”

“Alright, Murphy.” Ahzrukhal responds, his brow creasing. He likes to be the only showman in the room. “Get to the point.”

“Okay—” Murphy taps his fingers against the edge of the desk. “So, you’re familiar with jet?”

It’s instantly apparent why Ahzrukhal never warned him of this meeting. Charon tries to subtly glare at Ahzrukhal, but his focus is entirely on Murphy. He would have never agreed to act as his muscle in a drug deal; he wants no part in this. He’s carried boxes for Ahzrukhal before, and delivered things, but only ever sealed containers that lets him claim a shred of willful ignorance to its contents.

"I'm familiar." Ahzrukhal replies archly. "Jet's not so big here in the capital as it is elsewhere."

"Which means there's an untapped market! And this isn't some backwater gas, I’m telling you,” Murphy jams his fingers against the top of the desk, “This stuff is strong. It's good.”

"So you say."

“I do. I wouldn't pin my reputation on anything less.” Murphy smiles, twisting fully in his seat to turn to Barrett. “Would you...?” The touch to Barrett’s perpetually crossed arms is noticeably gentle, just a light brushing of his fingers against the crux of his elbow. Charon watches the way his arms unfurl from around his chest, purposeful, something undeniably soft momentarily passing his face.

Barrett’s eyes shift and he catches Charon’s stare. He knows his face is steeled neutral, but Barrett frowns, looking away quickly.  Wordlessly, he leans down into the unzipped bag at their feet. He pulls out two inhalers, the bag clattering with the plastic clicks promising more inside. 

Placing them on the table squarely in front of Murphy, he straightens up to his full height, settles back into the background. Ahzrukhal does not seem to notice what's transpired between the drug runners; his full attention is on Murphy. Murphy picks an inhaler up in each hand.

“I got a taste myself out West, in Nevada. It hasn’t traveled like it should. Suppliers are stingy with it, they only make enough to supply their base out west; why try to push it out when they make plenty of money at home?" Murphy begins. In his left, a noxious orange liquid sloshes inside of the canister; the right has been painted a solid, opaque red. "Avoid the attention of the feds, am I right? Well, jet, you know— but,” He turns, to Charon, briefly, as if he’s included, “For those uninformed, it’s a good, clean high. Everything just,“ He moves his hand in a sharp slash through the air, “Speeds up. No come up time, and a strong, hour-long high... for humans.”

Ahzrukhal hums in reply, his eyebrows raising. “I’m listening.”

Murphy tries to hide his smug smile behind adjusting his glasses. “Ghouls are a different story. Fifteen minutes, tops, and the high isn’t the same.”

Leaning forward, Ahzrukhal smiles, unkind. “And you have the answer for that.”

Murphy, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “Exactly.” The confidence in his product, at least, seems to come easy; his leg no longer bounces, he keeps his gaze fixed on Ahzrukhal. “This is my special formula. Call it Ultrajet. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like it on the market. Twice the potency. Perfect for ghouls, and the adventurous human.” He puts both on the table, and slides one inhaler across the table, then the other. “Ultrajet’s the painted one. Go on. Compare and contrast.”

Ahzrukhal squints. He picks up the Ultrajet inhaler.

“Your prices, frankly,” Ahzrukhal clutches the inhaler in hand, idly shaking it. An internal mechanism inside it clicks with the movement. After a beat, he sets it back down. “Are ludicrous.”

“Right, but—"

Ahzrukhal holds up a finger, silencing Murphy immediately. Charon can see, from the corner of his eyes, Barrett bodily flinching behind Murphy; a barely holstered lunge. Ahzrukhal's eyes drift up, but only momentarily, not once stalling his speech, “And what’s to keep me from finding someone who will sell me normal jet for smoothskins? My entire clientele here at the bar are made up of those sniveling little university children. Ultrajet seems...” He licks his lips. “Harsh.”

Murphy leans back in his seat. “That is true. But... I’ll be honest, Ahzrukhal.” He sounds genuinely candid, “I’d be surprised if you can find a jet dealer who will sell to us.”

Ahzrukhal's only reply is to smile, but his silence is telling. He picks up the plain jet this time with little fanfare, giving the inhaler two perfunctory shakes before raising it to his mouth. There is something that makes Charon's flayed skin crawl to watch Ahzrukhal's thin lips wrap around the mouthpiece, too-long nails depressing the canister with an audible hiss. He takes a short inhale from it, as if he’s taking a sip of air, holding it in his lungs for only a moment before he exhales a thick cloud that falls and dissipates across the desk.

Charon’s seen humans take jet— that’s an experience, as he can acutely remember having to shake Leo Stahl from a stupor from a bad strain that had left him momentarily slumped comatose in a puddle behind the bar on a packed Friday night. But jet for ghouls was useless; it’s as mild as prescribed Mentats, but still priced with the rarity and magnitude of a smoothskin in mind. Ahzrukhal doesn't seem to react, doesn't even cough or clear his throat.

"The jet's fine, for what it is. And you're saying the Ultrajet will double the effect?"

"Double? Triple— no, quadruple," Murphy gestures to the unused, painted inhaler, “I’m serious. It’ll blow your mind.” He’s watching Ahzrukhal intently, eagerly trying to parse his reaction. He's more than a salesman; this is his lifework. Even the normal jet must be his own product. “Go on,” Behind him, Barrett crosses his bulky arms across his chest, leaning forward. “Tell me what you think.”

Charon is wondering if he can leave. He glances at the door, and takes a half step towards it.

Ahzrukhal immediately looks up, locking onto him as if just remembering his presence. “Charon,” He slides the painted jet across the desktop, towards the direction of where Charon is standing. It nearly skitters off the edge, but stops just short. “Would you like a taste?”

Sweat instantaneously prickles up the back of his neck, where the collar of his t-shirt rests. He lets his eyes dart down to the inhaler.

“No.”

Ahzrukhal’s eyes narrow. Charon has dabbled. He’s taken Buffout on occasion, when his body is sore from unruly patrons for weeks in a row and he just wants some relief. He smokes cigarettes much more than he should, and he drinks, but not as much as he used to. Nothing harder than that. Even though it was nothing more than a placebo for ghouls, jet has always been a warning of danger packed in a red little inhaler, and the idea of a concentrated version makes his blood run cold.

He fears it more than he fears Ahzrukhal’s retribution for denying him. Almost. Though, when Ahzrukhal smiles, all teeth, he’s already second-guessing his decisions.

“Come here, Charon.”

Charon clenches his jaw. He takes a step forward. There's a very faint smell that still lingers from Ahzrukhal's brief inhalation around his desk; an undercurrent of methane, something acrid and sharp as vinegar that he can nearly taste on the back of his palate.

“I need to know the quality of this jet, Charon, and if it truly works on ghouls. This is an opportunity for both of us— and aren’t you excited that I chose you, specifically, to help me with this?” It’s never good when he keeps repeating his name like that, nailing him to the moment. On his inhale, Charon can acutely hear the phlegm rattling in the back of Ahzrukhal’s throat, “You’ll be fine. You don’t imbibe, do you? Not like Wooz, or Leo, hmm?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Murphy lies, knee resuming its metronome bouncing.

Ahzrukhal leans forward, snatching the ultrajet from the edge of the table and tossing it to Charon. It's reflexes alone that makes him catch it before it falls. The canister’s temperature in his palms is noticeably cooler than room temperature, and he can feel liquid moving in it when he turns it in his hands.

“Try it.”

It is a command. Charon looks to the safe behind Ahzrukhal. When he looks back at Ahzrukhal, his eyes are on him, having followed his line of sight. He will not deny Ahzrukhal twice, but he does pull a sour face as he raises the inhaler to his mouth. Three pairs of eyes watching as he wraps his lips around the mouthpiece.

He’s never triggered one of these before, and he realizes too late that he’s using too much force to press it down. It depresses easily under his forefinger, emptying the canister, more than he can inhale, smoke leaking from the corners of his lips. The taste of it skirts the top of his tongue, foul. Like canned air and gasoline and something else, chemical and sour, unnatural.

He exhales, empties his lungs of every weightless ounce of smoke that pours from his maw. And as it leaves him, falling heavy like fog towards the floor, something else rushes up around his ears, cottoning his skull.

Charon coughs, but doesn’t mean to. His chest burns. The inhaler falls empty to the desk. Murphy is grinning at him, his eyes strangely small behind the lenses of his glasses. His cough sounds far away, the percussive beat of his lungs rattling against his ribs echoing in his own head.

“Not bad, right?” His words are too slow. Murphy turns to Ahzrukhal, for whom the question was really meant for. Charon does not like to be intoxicated, not in this capacity. Panic is shooting— no, it’s creeping, tentacles curling forward, the suction cups popping off and on along his skin, a treacle of anxiety that he has to watch, unable to stop it, bubble up to the forefront of his mind. “And I can make this type of product, consistent quality, for your sole distribution.”

“You can see it in his eyes,” Ahzrukhal says, pointing at him with his entire hand, his fingers spreading out slowly. The attention he pays to him is unnatural, and he's unable to direct himself away; he can see each joint in his fingers flexing, the way his knuckles pop and his fingers unfurl away from his hand. His middle finger has a hang nail; the nail of his pinky is too long.

“Exactly,” Murphy can’t keep the excitement from bleeding into his voice, gazing at Charon with all the fond benevolence of a scientist with his test subject. “Good, right?”

Charon opens his mouth. His lungs seize; he just manages to raise his fist to his mouth to cough.

Ahzrukhal laughs. “Look at him.” His voice comes out too slowly. He raises a hand, flicking it dismissively. “I apologize.”

For him? Charon feels sweat slick his palms, as if he can actually feel each ragged pore open and start to weep.

“Oh, no. No apologies necessary.” Murphy’s eyes have expanded under his glasses. “I love seeing my product in use. Really showcases my quality.” When he reaches behind him, Barrett already has a clipboard in hand that he’s handing to Murphy.

“Results are results." Ahzrukhal admits. "Lets get down to brass tacks, shall we?” His eyes flit up to Charon, and on sustained, direct contact his face distorts, cruel. “That will be all Charon.”

Charon stumbles for the door. The knob rattles in his hands, trembling minutely; as he steps through the doorway, he looks down at his feet.

And Charon's entire body startles when he looks back up, snorting, sharp and sudden, as if waking from sleep. He glances around the bar, and— no, he had fallen asleep, hadn’t he, his neck aching as if he had nodded off against his chest. But he hadn’t. Had he? His mind tries to access the point between the doorway, to the now- him, alone, behind the bar again. As if he had never left, as if Murphy and Barrett had never been through here at all.

He flexes his fingers, clumsily dropping the glass in his hand half an inch before his brain can process that he is holding something; he catches it before it shatters on the ground.

“Are you alright?” Leo Stahl is sitting in a booth against the wall; there’s a rag on the table, neglected in favor of texting on his phone. Ahzrukhal would have his hide for that, if he was still here. “You get off in thirty minutes, right?”

Charon blinks. He hadn’t heard Leo come in. It’s dark outside, from the looks of the small window above Stahl’s head. Has he been sitting there this entire time? Has Charon? “What time is it?”

Leo's stare is suspicious. “Five.”

He was supposed to have gone home an hour ago.

“Where’s Wooz?” His voice sounds hoarse in his ears.

Leo pockets his phone and grabs the dishrag from the table as he scoots out of his seat. “Playing Tragic in the back closet. You know he’s no fucking help before open.” He slides behind the counter, grabbing the glass from Charon’s hand. He seems to hesitate, eyes downward cast; it's only when Charon follows his gaze does he realize his hand is shaking, and he reflexively curls it into a fist. “Look, it’s a Monday night. We don’t need a bouncer.” He jerks his thumb towards the door, “Head home.”

Charon walks to the station. There’s a weariness that has seeped into his bones, pure exhaustion that makes all six feet plus of him wobble on his feet. It feels like he has been glazed over; things are going too fast, people blurring past him like lights on the highway. Or, maybe those are the lights of the metro tunnels, flickering on the walls as they pass the stops. When he blinks, he’s stepping off of the car, jostled between people in coats, 9 to 5s trying to make their way home. He acutely feels like he’s stepping into each moment, down into a hole through time, and suddenly when he steps forward again, he’s falling and blinking back into his apartment, tumbling forward to the couch, kinetic energy the only force driving him forward.

Willow shakes his shoulder. “Charon. Charon?”

He feels his body move, bonelessly wobbling against the couch cushions. His hands ache, deep in his palm when he flexes his fingers, trying to grasp her arm.

“Charon?” She whispers.

He peels open one eye. He has an acute sense of time loss; as if he had fallen asleep in a casual nap, except, he has no idea what time it is, if it is even the same day. His living room is dark, way past sundown, but with the curtains still open from earlier he can see everything in the city lights reflecting in. She looks concerned. Charon closes his eyes. It’s still too bright. “Yes?” He manages to croak. He feels very, very tired.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Charon says, slowly, “I’m fine.”

Chapter Text

Adam arrives at his Intro to Philosophy class a little later than usual; admittedly, that’s not saying much. He’s usually one of the first ones there, waiting for Dr. Dashwood to unlock the classroom door. It’s not held in one of those big amphitheaters, only a class of thirty or so; Philosophy wasn’t a popular subject at Vault-Tec.

He doesn’t remember where he had sat, but his hunch was correct. Adam had looked his picture up in the school database just to make sure. And even though he’s noticeably younger looking in his photo ID, he’s easy to spot sitting in the back row: Nathan “Sole” Park, strong jawed and tanned. He’s larger than his summer orientation picture, too, so broad-shouldered that he looks uncomfortably stuffed in the plastic desk chairs.

Adam carefully push his way through the aisle, past the rows of students already seated. He feels especially clumsy with his overstuffed backpack and the extra coat he’s clutching in his arms, bumping into the hard edges of desks, mumbling apologies until he finally gets to the end.

“Excuse me,” The chair to Sole’s left is empty; the one on his right is taken by the sullen-faced high-schooler savant who always likes to bicker with the professor. He pulls a face when Adam shimmies past, but doesn’t make eye contact. Adam sits down heavily in the empty seat. Sole hasn’t looked up from his phone once. 

“Mr. Park,” Professor Dashwood calls from the front.

Adam looks up with alarm. 

“I need that travel letter ASAP. Emphasis on the soon!” Dashwood punctuates his request with the tap of his chalk against the blackboard. “Don’t forget.”

Sole waves a hand at him, finally looking away from his phone, and smiles out of politeness. “Alright, Dr. D.”

Dr. Dashwood turns away to write on the board. No, obviously he didn’t know his mission to illegally procure a new, illegal, very illegal ID. He drapes Charon’s coat over the back of his chair, then shrugs off his own. He’s not even sure if he’s going to go through with asking him. He’s not even sure how he managed to get here; mostly, his actions have snowballed, and somehow he’s been brave enough not to give in and shrink back.

Adam opens his backpack with a tense exhale, pulling out: his textbook, an excessively flagged copy of Republic, pens, his agenda, a notebook— he lays everything neatly on the desk and then shoves his still overstuffed bag partially under his chair. His palms feel noticeably sweaty. Part of him wants to shove everything back into his bag and run down to his usual seat in the front row, or, more likely, run out of class and not come back until Friday—

“Hey, ain’t mean to bother, but would you happen to have an extra pen?”

Adam startles, whipping his head to stare owlishly at Sole. “Oh! Um, sure.”

“Yeah, forgot it again.” Sole muses, bashfully scratching at his stubble. He has a deflated backpack at his feet and a ragged notebook on his desk. The textbook on his desk has a large, neon yellow DO NOT REMOVE FROM LIBRARY sticker plastered on the cover.

Now that Sole is looking at him and not his phone, with that kind of approachable smile, Adam’s idea to just— ask for a fake feels ridiculous. He seems approachable, but he feels incredibly untouchable by Adam's standards. He's just— too much. Popular with most people, on the D1 lacrosse varsity team, intimidatingly handsome. He’s all tan with dark eyes and a trendy faded buzz cut that makes his own overgrown curls feel frumpy. He has to stare at his hand when he gives him a spare pen, as if he could do it wrong and completely fuck it up. Stab him with it, or something. Sole hasn’t even noticed Adam’s not supposed to be here, sitting next to him. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

“Thanks.” 

“No, uh, problem.”

Adam squints towards the blackboard, which seems further away than it should. He usually sits in the front row next to one of the commuter students named Gob. He was a part-time student, and incredibly kind; they usually traded notes after class, especially since the first few weeks of the semester, Gob’s writing had been seriously hampered by his arm being in a splint. 

The older ghoul actually does a double take when he walks in, seeing two seats open near the front; he scans the class, sees Adam, and his eyes widen in recognition. Adam gives him a slight wave, at loss of what else to do, his fingers crooking hesitantly. Gob just seems confused, and maybe a little hurt. He sits in his usual seat up front, now with two empty seats buffering either side of him. Adam will have to make it up to him, somehow.

“Hate to bother you again, but,” Sole speaks up at his side, “What was due today?”

Adam’s attention turns. “Oh! The reading. Uh.” He shifts things aside on his crowded desk, flipping over his agenda so he can read directly from it. “Pages one thirty-four to one sixty in the text book, and a one page opinion piece on one of, uhm,” He flips through pages, trying not to directly meet Sole’s patient gaze, “one of Plato’s analogies.”

When he looks up, Sole still looks confused. Adam explains, “You know, the sun or the line or, uh— the cave.”

Sole’s thick brows knit together as he leans in, his voice low. “I thought they were allegories?”

“I, uh. I think the cave is just an allegory.” Adam flusters, feels himself sinking back in his seat. “Or, maybe they’re all allegories. I’m not sure.”

Maybe he won’t ask Sole. Maybe he’ll just— and now the thought of how, after this, he was planning on catching the bus to the 9th Circle and finally return Charon’s jacket— maybe he shouldn’t do that, either. Maybe Charon didn’t need the jacket, not really, and wouldn’t care if Adam ever brought it back. It would be a lot easier just to do nothing, and not have to face the potential, looming sting of rejection.

“Alright, everyone.” The general murmur of the class dies down as Dr. Dashwood addresses the class. “Please open up your textbooks to page one hundred and thirty...”

Usually Adam finds Dashwood’s class interesting. He’s a charismatic professor, and peppers what could be a boring, too thinly-spread introductory class with personal anecdotes and stories that just border on the unbelievable; he’s always connecting philosophic concepts to his adventures with his now-husband Argyle in his youth, traveling to distant countries back when you could, sailing the seas, climbing cliff-faces barehanded. He talks about his youth— “You all, of course! The young and spry,” He projects his voice over the murmured, good natured laughter of the class— in ways Adam couldn’t possibly imagine relating to. 

But right now Adam can’t concentrate on the lecture, unable to focus fully on either philosophy or the fake ID. Absently, he circles his pen across the margins of his notebook. 

Somehow, though, this is manifesting in daydreaming about being stuck in a cave, watching projections of Butch and Amata march by, their distorted shadows balancing cans and bottles on their heads. It feels ludicrous to equate drinking with enlightenment, but he can’t stop thinking how he’s going to be left behind again. Adam had promised himself that college would be different; he wasn’t going to let it slip by like high school had. But his freshman year was already hurtling to its end, and he had nothing to show for it. Ahzrukhal, in one swift, cold night, had wrestled him back into the seat, strapping his head to the chair.

Adam takes in a steeling breath. And then another one, because deep breathing as a courage tactic was pretty flimsy, all things considered; he feels propelled on pure anxiety alone.

“Do you. Uh.” His own words sound distant in his head. He’s thankful Sole is looking at the chalkboard, and not him, because if he made direct eye contact, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to finish his sentence: “Make fake IDs?”

Sole turns to look at him, and his gentle face flashes with something very sudden and dark under his short eyelashes, a micro-twitch that bounces back immediately to a baleful smile. Adam feels his body tense. “Awful strange question to ask. Now,” Sole’s voice is nice and low, his eyes slowly sweeping around, “Who was goin’ around spreading those types of rumors?”

“I—“ Adam halts. His gaze breaks away to Dr. Dashwood, at the front, who is still talking with his back to the class. “Uh.” He can acutely feel cold sweat prickling on the back of his neck, all the way down his spine to the small of his back where it starts to pool. He doesn’t want to say Butch, or Freddie, but his mind is racing to say something and he croaks out the first name he can remember: “Sarah?”

Sole scoffs. “Lyons?” And then he stops, realization dawning on his face. “Oh.” It’s such a small, unguarded sound, Adam’s sure he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“Sorry.” He croaks. He desperately hopes this wont get back to Sarah; he knows her, she’s nice. He doesn’t mean to accidentally incriminate her— “I mean—“ Sole’s attention turns back to Adam, and he can hear his voice losing its confidence as he speaks, “I lost my ID, last weekend. It, uh...” He chuckles nervously, watching for Sole’s reaction. “The bouncer— he was. It was a New York ID, you know, the bendy ones?” It occurs to him suddenly that he doesn’t even know where Sole is from, other than the fact that his accent twangs more southern than D.C. or even neighboring Virginia, “and it was so cold out, it just— the owner actually came out, and snapped it right in half.”

There’s a beat of relative silence. Sole laughs. It’s real, and overly loud, and other students are glancing away from their notebooks to stare at them both. Dashwood is turning away from the chalkboard, his kind face scrunching into disapproval, wrinkles deepening.

“Mr. Park, please.” He’s staring at Sole, but he does give a halfway glance towards Adam that nearly stops his heart in his chest. “I know Plato can’t be that humorous, right?”

“It ain’t.” Sole visibly wrestles down his wry smile, “Sorry, Dr. D.”

Dashwood gives Sole one last meaningful look before he turns back to the board. The rest of class is generally uneventful. Adam has done the reading as assigned, but Dashwood teaches the class on the assumption that nobody else has, and by the way Sole is furiously scratching away, most hadn’t. The heart-pumping fear of suddenly being almost called out on has only left Adam with adrenaline; so he takes notes in shorthand, just as reinforcement of what he’s learned, his foot bouncing under his seat.

He actually asked Sole— which, while terrifying, and turned out to be a dead end, but it’s still something he had taken the initiative on, instead of relying on Amata or Butch. It feels... good, and Adam has to hide his smile behind a hand whenever he thinks of it, too worried of someone spying him smiling like an idiot at his own notes.

When class is finally finished, Dashwood assigning homework in chicken scratch chalk across the board, all Adam feels is relief. He was a reliable professor in that way, sticking strictly to class time and regulating his office hours for any questions. Adam fills in his agenda; Friday is a possible quiz, next Monday they need to have finished the first chapter on Kant.

“I can’t get you an ID.”

Sole’s packing up his things, not looking Adam in the eye. For a second, he thinks he imagined it, but then Sole speaks again, flipping his notebook closed, voice low: “I ain’t got a machine in my room, or whatever Sarah told you.” His eyes shift, “And don’t spread those kind of rumors. Can get a innocent man in trouble with words like that, huh?”

“I—I get it.” Adam mumbles, struck rabbit-still in his seat. “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. Took guts to even ask. Hey, you know what, though—“ He kind of laughs to himself, but it doesn’t seem like its at Adam’s expense, which is usually how it feels when someone’s laughing and Adam isn’t. “You doin’ anything Friday?”

“Uh,” Adam swallows, “Probably, uh,” His brain is blanking on something good, not just sitting in his room with a pint of ice cream playing Red Menace on his phone until he falls asleep, so he just says what he did last weekend: “Going to the Ninth Circle, maybe. If I can get in. You know.”

“Yeah, yeah. The ID. Hell, I kind of want to see it.” Sole chuckles, shaking his head. “God, that’s some underclassman shit though, that nasty bar.” He grins. “I don’t know how ya’ll do it. Listen, though, I’m having a party on Friday over in Braun.”

Braun— oh, the good dorms, the upperclassmen ones on the north side of campus. But usually those dorms were taken by seniors, not even juniors. That makes him perk up. A very small part of Adam feels like how he bets being asked to prom would have felt, his heart fluttering in his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sole zips up his backpack, very nonchalant. The sheer fact that he doesn’t realize how cool he is could strike Adam dead from nerves on the spot. People like him should not be asking him over to parties, interacting with him in ways that weren’t out of either obligation or mockery. “Starts maybe around eight, nine, give or take. Might go out afterwards, but nowhere that’d let you in. But you could pre-game with us?”

“Uh, sure. Yes. Maybe.” This is happening very fast for Adam. He’s trying to find the right words, before he fucks this up. “Can I bring some friends?”

“Yeah, course.”

“Just, uh, my friends Amata and Butch.”

Sole shrugs. There’s clearly no recognition there with either of those names. “Yeah, alright.” He stands, rapping his knuckles against the edge of Adam’s desk. “Braun, one-eleven. I’ll see you there.” 

Adam just nods as Sole slides past him, watching his leave the classroom. His pulse is still loud in his ears. Draped over the back of his chair, he nearly forgets Charon’s coat, and has to double back to grab it, bumping into other students filing out of the rows.

Gob does a double take when Adam reaches the front of the class. He’s still packing his things away in his bag. Normally, Adam would stop and chat, and walk with the ghoul to his car on his way back to his dorm, but he’s going a different direction. That’s his main excuse, Adam reasons, waving skittishly before turning for the door. Another part, a big part of him, doesn’t want to explain to where he’s going; not after the fuss Amata and Butch made.

Gob gives him another poorly masked wounded look when he waves back.

On the bus, Adam settles into an empty seat behind the driver and pulls out his phone, sliding out the keyboard. He types and retypes a message to Gob. Some are apologies, some are greetings. He sends nothing, unable to formulate the right words. Adam ends up taking pictures of his notes, holding them steady on his lap through the potholes and tight turns. He sends an email from his phone to Gob’s, with just a smiley face in the body and pictures of the notes attached. As soon as that’s sent, he pulls up the group chat that he has with Amata and Butch:

ONEOHONE

me: Hey I think we’re invited to parks party Friday?

Amata: What?

Amata: Park??

me: Sole Park

B: what did you talk to him i told you i was talking to freddie

B: what the hell

He can feel any confidence still lingering draining out of him slowly, leaving him empty in its wake, anxiety rising to take its place.

me: no

me: Not like that

me: I have philosophy w him

B: k

me: and we were just talking and he invited me. He said I could bring people.

B: k

The bus pulls off to his stop just as he sees that Amata has started to type a reply. He shoves his phone into his pocket before she can respond, half-standing with Charon’s coat draped over his arm as the bus pulls over to the far right lane to stop and let people off.

In the light of day, the street looks different. There’s something mysterious and fun about going out, even he has to admit, when it’s cloaked in darkness and the night has been glazed over with a few drinks. He’s only seen the Ninth Circle during witching hours, so it’s a jolt to see the bar so plain in the day, the sun shining on the faded form stone bricks, litter skittering by in the sharp wind. The Ninth Circle looks particularly grimy, even from the outside. Adam feels like he should take a picture of it, for some reason; like he’s caught the Mysterious Stranger of local legend, and wants proof to show everyone later that it wasn’t half the myth it was made out to be, sad and stained. 

He takes out his phone. Amata’s reply pops up on his screen as soon as he slides out the keyboard: Sounds great. Meet for early dinner later at Drumlin? More texts from Butch are underneath, sent separate from the group chat; Adam snaps his phone closed, the screen going dark, before he reads them.

He puts his phone back in his pocket, trying to focus at the task at hand. He will reply after this. It feels weird to approach the door. He almost knocks, but that, he reasons, would be silly; The Ninth Circle is a business, not a home— so instead, he just tries the handle, and it’s unlocked. The wind grips the door as soon as its cracked open, threatening to swing wide against the opposite wall; Adam grapples with it momentarily, darting inside. Somehow, the wind lets up, and he’s able to close it softly behind him before it threatens to slam open again.

Despite it being day, the Ninth Circle isn’t much brighter than he imagines it is at night; compared to the midday sun outside, Adam’s eyes have to adjust in the dim light to even see. The front door of the Ninth Circle leads to a narrow hallway that opens up into the main bar, and there’s no direct lighting in the hallway, the dated dark wood wall paneling absorbing much of the weak light coming from the bar area.

“Charon!“

That’s the owner— Charon’s boss, Ahzrukhal, his voice ringing from the room over, the abrupt loudness of it nearly making Adam jump out of his skin. There’s something inherently nasty in the way he’s barking, though he’s clearly not screaming out of anger; loudness for the sake of it.

“Ahzrukhal—“ Adam freezes. Charon’s voice, firm and measured. There’s the sound of something heavy being dropped onto a table. He can see shadows moving at the end of the hall, the soft, vague form of a body stepping back, another wavering forward. “No, no. I refuse.”

“You what?”

“I will not be doing this.” Charon’s voice is low, and dark. Adam’s too petrified to approach the end of the hall, bracing his hand against the far wall, trying to lean back from the entryway.

“You will be doing as I say.”

“No. Not this time. I—“

“What about our agreement, Charon? Our little contract? Hm?”

Clutching Charon’s coat tight to his chest, Adam can hear Ahzrukhal’s breath rattling like pestilence.

“Where would you go if not for me, boy?”

Silence.  

“Back home?” He asks. There are things left unsaid, but the ghosts of them are hovering over them. Adam can’t see them, but he can feel them, even hidden in the hallway, sinking cold and smothering into his chest. He chances a glance behind him, at the door.

Charon still has not spoken. The air feels dangerous; Adam is afraid to breathe. “That’s right.” Ahzrukhal growls. Phlegm echoes in his throat, a rattlesnake’s warning. “Even you must realize how stupid you’re being. Now, not another word. Don’t act like you’re growing a conscience on me all of a sudden. You overestimate how useful you are with an attitude.”

By the time Adam hears footsteps approaching, it’s too late to leave. Besides, anyone approaching would hear the door opening, see the sunlight coming in. Adam doesn’t know what else to do but drop back against the wall, towards the corner, pressing himself firm against the wood paneling. It feels tacky to the touch, a spiderweb that’s caught him here.

Ahzrukhal’s face is grim, especially in the dark shadows; he feels impossibly large in the small hall, but somehow, they don’t touch, even with his arms swinging in a power walk as he strides out. Adam only releases his breath when the front door has swung shut behind Ahzrukhal and the lock of the door finally clicks. His chest is heaving, silently breathing though his nose, clutching Charon’s jacket to his chest like a security blanket.

He’s only woken by his panic-induced reverie at the sound of glass breaking. That finally startles him off the wall. Maybe he should head home; being brave is proving to be incredibly exhausting. 

But Adam’s feet take him down the hall, into the belly of the Ninth Circle. He knows he would feel guilty just tossing the coat to the ground and bolting; it was only polite to hand it back. He’s always been very light of step, so Charon doesn’t look up when he enters, silent. Charon’s face is dark, glaring hard at the bar as he roughly scrubs at it, hard enough that Adam’s sure he’s somehow sanding it down even with only a soggy dishrag. There’s a cardboard box on the corner of the bar, the top flaps pried up partially, but not enough that Adam can see what’s in it from where he’s standing.

Adam takes another step forward. Charon tosses the rag aside, ducking under the bar; there’s the sound of glass moving, brushing, and when he surfaces, he’s holding a small dustpan filled with shards of what looks like a pint. Maybe he should say something? But he’s not sure what, so the sound that comes out of his throat is more of a half-croak, half-throat clearing garble.

“Yes, Ahzrukhal—“ Adam’s not sure if he should be alarmed that whatever sound he just made could pass for coming out of that ghoul, but he doesn’t have much time to think on it when Charon looks over and settles on him.

“You.”

There’s something in his eyes— Adam freezes, as if he wont be able to spot him if he stays absolutely still, though of course Charon still can, maneuvering out from behind the bar and stalking towards him.There’s something in his eyes that almost reminds him of Butch, in a way, nearly triggering his fight or flight.

“Why are you here?” Charon asks. Adam takes a step back, clutches the jacket a little tighter to his chest. Immediately Charon stops, leaving a few feet between them. He’s still holding the dustpan, and he tosses it onto one of the tall cocktail tables dotted around the room. The glass shards rattle, threatening to jump out and onto the table. “Answer.”

“I-I—“ He clutches his jacket to his chest, trying to find the words. “I— I have your jacket.” Adam’s shoulders crawl up to his ears, “I thought, uh. Either you’d be here, or maybe I’d leave it here, for when you would...” Charon’s hard glare softens as he speaks into something more neutral. “You, uh, you would be here.”

“Ah.” Charon’s voice has lost all its venom. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine. It’s okay.” Adam mumbles. Hesitantly, he bridges the gap between the two of them. “I, uh. Sorry it took me so long to return it.”

Charon shakes his head, combs a hand back through his patchy red hair; it’s a surprisingly earnest expression from someone so usually stiff. “It’s only been three days. I am glad you did.” His tone is flat as he reaches for the folded jacket from Adam’s arms. Their hands brush in the process; Charon’s skin is dry and warm against his own, the rough texture dragging against his fingers. “I appreciate it.” He frowns, turning away somewhat. “And I apologize for the outburst.”

“It’s— it’s fine. I, uh.” Adam rubs the back of his neck. For a moment, he had almost expected his own skin to feel like Charon’s, but it doesn’t, just the callouses from writing against the wiry hairs at his nape. “It’s been cold out, lately. So I wanted to get it to you.” He finishes lamely. A part of him wants to tell Charon what he’s just heard, but it doesn’t feel like a good idea. He shouldn’t have heard it in the first place. Instead, he glances towards the bar, lets his eyes settle on the abandoned dustpan. “Are, uh. Are you. I heard a crash?”

Charon pauses to look at him, his eyebrows furrowing momentarily, before he shakes his head. “I dropped a glass.” He turns to glance near the floor; Adam follows his line of sight, and he can see a few shards still glittering on the black rubber mat behind the door.

Adam very much doubts that this is true, but he doesn’t push it. He’s done similar things before. When the Tunnel Snakes were still very much a sneering, adolescent and testosterone-fueled thing, the school years stretching far and without end in front of him, the occasional screamed-into and shredded pillow kept him sane. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Charon grunts. He takes his coat back behind the bar, hanging it up on a small rack at the end that wobbles under the new weight.

Reflexively, Adam grabs the dust-bin and brush from the table. When Charon sees him with it, his brow furrows, but he meets him halfway to take them from his hands.

“You have your phone and money to get back home this time, right?” Charon asks. Adam can detect a hint of amusement there above the roundabout dismissal.

“Yeah, this time.” Adam’s smile is kind of lopsided. “Usually, I do.” Without Charon’s coat in his arms, they feel strangely empty. He wraps an arm across his chest, rubbing at his bicep.

Charon just looks at him. The corner of his mouth ticks upward.

“Well—“ He feels compelled to say it, even if Charon doesn’t care, because the last he talked to him, he had been okay to trash talk his only friend: and, though slightly deserved, he feels guilty about it. “Amata, she did, she apologized, you know.”

Charon pauses. “The girl, right?” Adam doesn’t think the name Amata is so unusual that it would be hard to place, but he nods either way. Charon snorts, neatly dumping the glass into the trash can, and moving back behind the bar to sweep up the remaining fragments. “And what about the other one?”

“Butch?” Adam huffs out a half-laugh. “No. Never.”

Charon makes a noise in the back of his throat, that, somehow, conveys a note of annoyed understanding.

Adam takes a few steps towards him, shifting his backpack higher up on his shoulders. He leans over the bartop. Crouched on the ground, Charon sweeps at the last few stubborn pieces still clinging to the corrugated rubber mat. “Do you have bread?”

He looks up at Adam, squinting. “What?”

“Uh, bread.” Adam makes a dabbing motion, which is probably less clarifying then he thinks it is, “Bread picks up little pieces of glass.”

Charon’s forehead is one deep, confused line. “No.”

“It, uh. It works. Really.” He continues, still pantomiming his bread dabbing action, though the movement is getting slower as Charon keeps staring at him. “If you— if you’re having trouble, I could run down to the mart down the street, pick up, uh, some hamburger buns or something.”

Charon just blinks up at him for a moment longer before he shakes his head and turns back to sweeping. “No.”

Adam balks. “Uh. Oh… okay.”

For once, the persistent buzz of his phone is a welcome distraction; Adam pulls it out of his pocket.

It’s Butch again: what did u say to sole did you rat out freddie hell kill me if siera hears about it. And below that, an email notification from Gob: a smiley face back, and an attachment of notes.png.

He puts his phone away, answering neither. When he looks up, Charon’s standing upright once more, dustpan in hand. It strikes him how tall he is, which feels like a silly thought; it’s not like Adam’s never seen anyone as tall as Charon. But he’s never seen someone carry themself like that, confident while still melding into the background. 

Charon cuts a path through the barstools towards a back hallway. Adam owlishly watches him leave, and tries not to let them dawdle over the way his plain black tee pulls across the width of his shoulders. Generally, he knows someone would have shown him the door by now. But Charon hasn’t, not yet, and if Charon isn’t going to kick him out, he’ll stay a little longer. Adam finds himself picking up coasters off the high tops, having to dig his nail underneath to pry it from the sticky grasp of the table; they make a satisfying crack when they finally separate. When he looks up, Charon is back and watching him, shoulder back against a far wall.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Wordlessly, Adam shrugs, bringing the pile of coasters over and setting them with the others in their tray on the bar.

Charon crosses his arms. “Are you always this helpful?” He asks archly.

“Sorry.” He answers, automatic. “I, uh—“

“It’s fine.”

Adam falls silent. He usually is this helpful, though even he can admit he has some ulterior motives; the thought of accidentally running into Butch back on campus, thinking he’d possibly mucked up his name with the popular upperclassmen crowd, is making him a little queasy.

Charon pauses as he slides back behind the bar. “You want anything?”

“Want...?” He nervily fidgets with the coasters, chancing a glance at Charon. His expression is neutral.

Charon picks up a glass, tilting it. “A drink?”

“Oh!” Adam eases himself up on the barstool. “A cherry nuka?”

Charon snorts, “We don’t have that.” Only after he’s asked does Adam realize that, maybe, Charon was asking if he wanted a drink drink, though the thought of anything alcoholic at this time of day and having to step back out into the real world, slightly buzzed, feels strangely daunting. Charon picks up the soda gun, momentarily weighing it in his hands in thought. He looks up at Adam when he finally settles on an idea: “I can make a Roy Rogers?”

Adam wants that more than anything in the world, but he tries to keep that from his voice. “You don’t have to do that.”

He’s already filling up the glass with ice. “I do not mind making drinks.” He fills up a second glass, setting it next to the first, “I’m not usually put behind bar.”

Adam watches, “Are you any good at it?”

Charon shrugs, holstering the soda gun and reaching for the grenadine; there’s bright red syrup crusted around the cap, smearing across Charon’s fingers as he twists it off. “Average.” He tops off the soda, and then shoves a straw in to stir. “Cherries?”

Adam flushes, and nods, too embarrassed to voice a yes.

Charon flips up the lid of the fruit tray, snagging two maraschino cherries by the stem. They drip a line of bright red juice on their way to the glass. When his hand pulls back, he raises his thumb absently to his mouth, his tongue swiping the tip clean. He doesn’t seem conscious of the motion, which makes Adam’s own hyper-vigilance of it heat his cheeks. He drops his gaze.“Cherries are about the only things you should eat at the bar.”

“How come?”

He snatches a straw and gives the soda one last stir before placing his finger over the top, pulling it out to take a taste. There’s nothing on Charon’s face that conveys any sort of opinion. He can’t anticipate if this is going to be bad, and a part of him is suddenly dreading the possibility of choking down a syrup-soaked, flat concoction. Adam knows, even if it’s bad, he will finish most of it out of politeness. “The limes and lemons are never washed.”

Adam blinks, “Shouldn’t they be?”

“Yes. Are they?” Charon shakes his head as if he’s thinking of someone in particular. He slides the finished drink over to Adam, “No.”

“Good... good to know. I think.” The first sip is a little strong on the syrup, but when he stirs it again, ice clinking against the glass, the second sip comes out perfect, sweet and nostalgic. He doesn’t have to say it; Charon must see it in his face, hiding an easy smile by crouching down and fishing out another clean glass from under the bar.

Adam braces his forearms against the sticky bar top, taking long sips, trying to drink as much as he can when everything was still freshly cold and carbonated. He watches as Charon prepares another drink: syrup, soda, stir, exactly the same as his.

“Are you making one for yourself?” He doesn’t mean to sound as incredulous as the words come out. 

“Yes.”

“I, uh. Not that.” Adam gestures lamely. “Just.”

“Should I not?” Charon asks.

”No!” Adam’s shoulders nearly touch his ears. “I mean, you should make one. Just, uh. I just noticed— you like—“

Just, he had noticed Charon liked sweet things. And it wasn’t weird, but— maybe it was weird he was noticing in the first place, so instead of voicing his thoughts he stops while he’s behind, occupying his mouth with the straw again, staring down at his drink. When he looks back up, Charon’s leaning halfway against the bar, the corner of his mouth quirked in dry amusement, forearms crossed against the bar top.

They look— good, in a faded black t-shirt, the short sleeves pulling just taut enough, in a weird way, because when he steals glances at his arms, he can map the corded muscles that are showing through his flayed skin. Biology would have been a lot easier if the textbook models looked more like this.

“Don’t you have class?”

Adam coughs. If Charon had noticed him staring, he hasn’t said anything. “I had one this, uh, morning. Philosophy.”

Charon’s brows rise, but otherwise his face is flat. “Philosophy.” He muses. He takes a sip from his drink, hands-free, just leaning in to drink from the straw. 

“Yeah,” Adam croaks, but he doesn’t know why. “It’s— it’s okay. It’s, uh, my only one for today.”

The silence they fall into is surprisingly companionable; Adam feels his perpetual background anxiety quiet with the sounds of ice clinking and the faraway noises of city traffic outside. When he takes another sip, the rattle of the dregs of the drink it sounds comically loud. He hadn’t realized he drank it so fast— he stirs it around, once, twice. Adam frowns down at the red-tinged ice, taking one last sip before he pushes the glass forward.

“Hey, Charon? I—“

In his pocket, Adam’s pip-boy pings; it vibrates audibly against the stool. Charon’s eyes follow.

“Uh, I mean. Thanks.” Adam gestures lamely, suddenly flustered under his attention. He’s practically speaking into his coat collar as he slides off the stool, “I should probably head back.”

If Charon is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “You should.” Charon agrees, checking the yellowed clock on the wall. He looks down at the glass in his hands, almost avoidant of Adam’s eye contact, “And thank you.” He nods his head towards the coatrack, “for returning my jacket.”

“Oh! It was, it was no problem.” Shoving his hands self-consciously into his pockets, Adam twists his fingers nervously and shrugs. “And, for the soda, uhm—“

“On the house.” Charon affirms.

Adam finally looks up at him, unable to quash his flushed smile. “Thanks.”

In the amount of time he had been in the bar, Adam had forgotten how bright it was outside, startled as soon as the door opens. He blinks into the sky, January winds biting sharp at his cheeks and nose. His first reaction is to turn around; to crawl back into the dim warmth of the bar, and Charon’s gravelly voice, and another tall glass of soda and a red streak of grenadine licked off a finger— but the door is closed, and he knows he has to eventually go back home again.

Adam spends the bus ride back with his face nearly touching the window, gazing out as the buildings pass. He tries to recognize them, commit  landmarks to memory from the last time he was driven back to Vault-Tec; not that he’ll ever have Charon driving him again. But it keeps him from checking his phone, and soon he spies Vault-Tec University’s signature blue flags that dot the flagpoles around the immediate neighborhood around the university, the yellow eye flapping in the breeze.

He disembarks at his stop, and walks the short distance onto campus and towards the main dining hall. Drumlin is usually busy, but on a Wednesday afternoon before the dinner rush, it’s mostly empty. Amata and Butch are easy to spot at a table in the corner, waiting for him as he swipes his ID card to get through the doors.

Butch has already zeroed in on Adam, but he doesn’t walk close enough that he can say anything, just giving them both a half wave before he veers towards the buffet and grabs a plate. If he takes his time grabbing food, maybe Butch will be calm by the time he makes his way back to the table. He still hasn’t replied to any of his messages. The mac and cheese is the only thing that looks edible, though still it somehow looks worse than a box of Blamco, dry on top and partially burnt.

Adam takes his seat next to Amata on the opposite side when he approaches the table, hesitantly shrugging off his coat to hang on the back of the chair. Butch’s gaze could burn a hole through his head. “Hey...” Amata is picking at a limp salad, flipping a cucumber back and forth with her fork, her introduction to biology textbook open next to her plate.

“So,” She glances up at him, setting a finger on the page to hold her place, “a party?”

Butch scoffs, bristling and barely contained: “You’re shitting me.” Amata’s eyes shift over to him, but Butch ignores her, leaning forward so far the strings of his hoodie are practically resting on top of his pizza. “Sole Park invited you to his party?”

Adam nods, concentrating on the macaroni and cheese on his plate. “I mean, uh, yeah.” He tries to slide a noodle onto each prong of his fork, mostly so he doesn’t have to look up at them, especially Butch, who he can feel hovering. “I sat next to him, in class, a-and— asked if he made fakes—“

Amata gasps, “Adam,” She shakes her head, “You didn’t.”

Butch snorts. “He couldn’t have been serious about you coming, then, if you’re going to try and narc on him in the middle of class.”

Adam looks up. “I didn’t— ‘narc’ on him, I—“ He frowns, “I think he was being honest.”

“Maybe he invited you so he could beat the shit out of you.”

“This isn’t some— bad teen movie, Butch.” Adam mumbles, finally taking a bite of his dinner. The noodles are kind of hard and the cheese sauce is a little gritty. But now that Butch has said it, coming from a former bully, it’s making him paranoid. “He was... nice.”

“I’ve heard he’s really actually sweet.” Amata agrees.

“That’s cause he has an accent.” Butch grumbles, clearly annoyed.

“You’re being stupid.” She frowns, finally turning to him. “You’re always saying you want to go to this party and that party. And now Adam actually gets us invited somewhere, and you don’t want to go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you could be nicer about it. It’s not like you’re throwing any parties.”

Butch frowns, “I could, if I wanted. But, you know.” He shrugs. “You know how strict the freshman RAs are. I've got Morrill, and he's a dick, and Adam has Cross, ” Amata’s eye rolling only makes Butch double down on his point, who continues on even as Amata turns her attention back to her book. “They just go on power trips trying to find us doing something wrong.”

“They're just trying to keep the peace.” She says, half-heartedly. “That’s what RAs do.”

“Yeah? They’re power hungry assholes.” Butch says, and because Amata won’t look up at him and deign him a response, he turns his focus towards Adam, “Come on, nosebleed, back me up. You know Cross.”

Adam shrugs. “I don’t... n-no.”

Butch snorts. “Remember? End of last semester, when we were all studying, she wrote up Mags, O’Hanrahan, all of them for watching a movie too loudly during twenty-four seven finals quiet hours. Your room’s like right next to them, and I couldn’t hear shit.” He stares at Adam. He hates being called in to take sides whenever they bicker, but it’s always inevitable. “You remember that, right? I thought Poindexter was going to get all weepy when he couldn’t talk her out of it.”

“I do.” Adam admits. He had been studying at the time in his room, three doors down; turns out, his fellow students were a lot louder after they had been written up for watching a movie than before. Poindexter has that kind of voice that travels through walls, especially when he thinks he’s in the right.  He’s not sure if Cross actually cared about disturbing people studying for finals as much as she cared about her strangely loyal sense of duty to being an RA. He can’t see how it’s worth it, when she’s a senior stuck in the freshman dorms, but he doesn’t do well in positions of power like that.

Amata shakes her head, and Adam gives her a half-hearted shrug.

“Told you.” Butch says.

Amata sighs, “Fine. You told me. So,” She stabs the cucumber she’s been pushing around her plate with an audible tink, and eats it with a grim finality, “Are we going to this, then? This party?” She looks at Adam, setting her fork down. Butch leans forward a little, exhaling out of his nose.

“Yeah.” Adam nods, eyes going from her, to Butch. “Friday night, over in Braun.”

Chapter Text

It’s been dark out for a few hours by the time they venture outside, Adam, Butch and Amata. The air is cold and wet, and when Adam inhales a gulp of a breath it feels sharp in his throat. There’s no clouds in the sky for snow, but it still feels like it should be, the moon looming bright and large overhead, the grass starry with frost. Adam hides the twelve pack of Gamma Gulp Ice cradled underneath his jacket, looking eight months along with the world’s squarest baby. He almost drops it twice as they make their way down the hill towards the shuttle stop, Butch leading the way, and Amata bringing up the rear in a pair of heels.

The university shuttle pulls up five minutes late, warm air gushing out to hit them as the door creaks open. The driver couldn’t give less of a shit, a nightkin sitting uncomfortably hunched in a too-small seat, but Adam is still sweating as he holds the box to his body, even though its fridge-cold through the thin layer of his t-shirt. Amata leads the way to the very back, and they all cram in together in the last seat, with Adam in the middle. He finally lets out the breath he’s been holding when the shuttle lights dim and they pull away from the curb.

Butch is practically vibrating next to him on his left. “Oh, man. What kind of girls do you think are going to be at this party?” He’s already sitting too close, even though the majority of the back seat is free, so the elbow he jostles into Adam’s ribs is not unexpected, though it still makes him wince. “You should have let me invite the guys.” Adam is already starting to shake his head as Butch blusters on, “Wally would have loved to come, and— what?”

“No. Not— the guys.”

Adam can’t even imagine— he’s anxious as it is, going to this party full of mostly strangers, holding the twelve rack in his lap. The thought of Butch and the three other boys, his “gang”— while they weren’t as close as they had been in high school, they still got together during breaks. 

Butch may had laid off him before the start of high school, but Wally had continued to hip check Adam into lockers until their graduating day. Only Freddie had ended up at Vault-Tec along with them, and Adam thanks a higher power every day that he was the only one he had to deal with occasionally in conjunction with Butch. He’s not sure he could handle all of them for another four years. 

“Well, they’d help me get some chicks.” Butch says, kind of snidely. 

“Don’t be gross, Butch.” Amata’s face is pinched. 

“I’m not gross!” He scoffs, “Some of us aren’t virgins.”

Amata immediately turns red, and when she turns from Butch and meets Adam’s eyes, she quickly looks away. “Now you’re definitely being gross.”

“Come on. Don’t get weird.”

“I’m not.”

Butch exhales in a huff, mirroring Amata as he stares out the opposite window.

Adam had only taken one shot in his dorm when Butch and Amata had come over in the hour beforehand. Now, he wishes he had agreed to another, even if the mutfruit-flavored vodka she had bought nearly choked him going down. He doesn’t know if Amata is a virgin or not. They’re close, but they don’t talk about those kinds of things. He kissed her once as kids, because Almodovar and his Father were always saying in so many words that he should. They both agreed never to try it again. Senior year, he had told his childhood dog that he was gay, because he had nobody else to tell it to. The Australian Shepherd died two weeks later. He is very sure that he is cursedly unlucky. 

“Well, what’s Chrissy or Susie doing?”

Amata doesn’t look over at Butch, her face in her phone, nails clicking against the keyboard. “I don’t know.” Adam’s pocket doesn’t vibrate, so she’s not texting him. But even if she was, he’s not sure if he’d risk trying to pull it from his pocket, feeling too paranoid to move that much; the cardboard feels sturdy, but the dread of being caught with beer spilling to the floor is too potent. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“I can’t just ask.”

Adam sinks back into his seat.

“I don’t know, Butch.”

It’s twenty minutes, phoneless, with the occasional stop, until the shuttle rolls up to the far edge of campus, their last stop. All the seniors and juniors lived on campus in old converted apartments the university had bought a decade ago in the hastily-expanded north end of campus; and while all the appliances were dated, it was downright luxurious and spacious compared to the dorms, which had floor-shared bathrooms and no kitchens. The Braun apartments were the nicest ones, multi-level attached townhomes, and a hot commodity that only the luckiest seniors managed to snag come dorm lottery time. 

Amata taps Adam’s wrist and he stands with her, Butch trailing behind. They’re the last ones on the shuttle. The three of them mumble thank yous to the silent Nightkin as they step down the stairs and out into the cold.

Adam pulls the beer out from under his shirt and hoodie with a sense of relief, the cardboard handle digging into his palm as the shuttle pulls away.

“We’re going to Braun, right?” Amata wraps her arms around her body, shoving her hands under her armpits. She’s wearing a jacket this time, and her dress is long-sleeved, but her legs are still bare down to her booties. 

“Yeah.” Butch takes the lead, even though he knows no more than they do in how to get there, Adam’s almost certain. “Do you remember what number?”

Adam stops. He doesn’t remember, but Sole had sent it back to him after he had sent him his notes from philosophy. “Oh—“ He starts to shuffle the case of beer to his other hand, grappling clumsily for his phone in his pocket; Butch comes back, snatching the beer wordlessly from his grasp. Adam swallows down his embarrassment at being so useless, though by the time the words come out Butch’s back is towards him and he’s already walking down the sidewalk. “Thanks...”

Amata gives him a look, and they both follow. Adam scrolls, trying to keep up pace. “Uh—“ He glances up, “111, they live in 111.”

It’s dark on this side of campus. The street lights are dim, and none of the little town homes have porch lights on the front. But it’s a bustling sort of dark, punctuated by light peeking through the drawn blinds of windows, the flash of phone screens, bursts of noise and laughter escaping into the cold when back and front doors are briefly opened and then closed against the wind. People are wandering about in groups of friends, red cups clutched surreptitiously in their hands, moving from one house to the other. 111 is at the end of the row. All the blinds are drawn tight, though, some bent a little haphazardly at the edges, but there’s light coming from behind every window. He can see the shadows of people passing by, one after another. It looks packed.

Adam stands back. Amata has to gesture at the door twice before he takes the front steps up onto the stoop.

“You were the one invited.” Butch hisses. It feels weird seeing people walking around, openly carrying, but most of them are of legal age, and security has bigger concerns on a Friday night than trying to write up legal students for an open carry.

“I know!” Adam looks over his shoulders. From out here, he can hear the music through the door, bass thumping, the low drone of talking and occasional shouts and cheers. “But, I, uh—“

Amata is the one to lean over him, knocking on the door. A slight hush falls over the house. There’s a shout from inside, and suddenly the door is swinging open, only wide enough for a pair of eyes to peek through— and as soon as he sees its just them standing there, the door opens. The boy answering the door looks a little bored, taking a long swig of his beer in hand. Adam suddenly realizes he’s seen him around before; he’s an engineering major, Sturges, though he can’t remember his last name.

“Hi, uh.” Adam clears his throat, “We’re here for Sole’s party?”

He knows it’s dumb, but saying it gives him a little thrill. It feels like a privilege just to be standing on the doorstep to one of these senior housing dorms. He’s always been curious what they look inside, besides the promotional pictures he remembers seeing while applying, perfectly arranged rooms in the best dorms. They had their own washer and dryers in the basement that ran quarterless, which sounded especially luxurious when he doesn’t think about the housing costs he pays to the university every year.

“Yeah, sure.” Sturges gestures downward to the case of beer in Butch’s hand, “Fridge’s full, though, you can just put it on the kitchen counter, or on the back step. Five dollars each.”

Amata is opening her clutch. “I’m paying for you.” She says it in that way that Adam knows, it’s meant to be as another apology for last week, glancing up at him from underneath her falsies. “Okay?”

“For what?” Adam realizes he’s missed something. 

“Punch.” Sturges answers.

Oh, a punch bowl. Like, mixed drinks. He doesn’t know if he’s actually going to be drinking any of it, either, but Amata is already handing the money over. 

Butch scoffs, impatiently shifting the case of beer in his arms. “I ain’t drinking any punch.”

Sturges smiles at Butch, leans in nice and sweet, and shakes his head slowly. “Nah.” He says, matter-of-fact. He takes Amata’s two fives, tucking them into the front pocket of the overalls he’s wearing; they’re unbuttoned on one side, showing off the Nuka-Cola t-shirt underneath. “Ya’ll straight boys always say that, huh, then you drink half the bowl and end up barfing in our shower, and we gotta wait until Monday for maintenance to come out or I gotta run to Hardware Town. You can pay five or you can leave.”

Butch blanches, leaning back. “Uh.”

“Butch,” Amata glares at him, “Pay him.”

“He’s not wrong.” Adam mumbles; he’s almost unaware that he had said it loud enough to be heard until Sturges shoots him a lopsided smile, looking at him for a knowing beat too long. It makes Adam want to talk to him and shy away from the door at the same time. He only breaks eye contact when Butch finally shoves out a fistful of ones.

“Here.”

Sturges snatches the cash from his hand. “Anyway,” Sturges drawls the word out, stepping away from the door. “Pleased to make ya’lls acquaintance. Welcome to our little sanctuary, our home away from home.”

Butch goes first, then Amata, and then finally, Adam.

Stepping inside, the noise and heat swallows him up, the thumping base cocooning his brain inside of his skull. There’s a lot of people in here— Adam’s never felt claustrophobic in his life, but this is a lot of people, almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

The living room lights are low, illuminated by a standing light with a bent lampshade, but there’s string lights hung haphazardly around the ceiling, held up with tape and well-wishes. The house wasn’t what Adam would say was well-decorated, not in his view; but somehow, it worked, cohesive despite its packrat, slapdash application. 

Art from beer boxes stapled to the wall, a neon Nuka-Cola girl sign with the ‘k’ long since burnt out, a Vault-Tec flag taped up behind the TV. There’s cans and cups and bottles crowding most surfaces; every school-provided table, the mismatched chipped side tables, the arms of chairs, and even some on the ground next to pieces of furniture. 

“I feel overdressed...” Amata mutters under her breath. Adam immediately reaches out to squeeze her hand. 

“You look good?” Adam says, though he can’t deny that she’s dressed differently; most of the girls here look nice, but they’re still in jeans, and more weather-appropriate wear. It’s hotter in here than he thought the dorm room temperatures could usually go, and already he feels his own skin prickling with sweat.

“Let’s put the beer somewhere, first, okay?” Butch complains. He drops the twelve pack at his feet. Amata nods. 

“Do you know anybody here?”

Adam gives the crowd a cursory glance. There’s the distinct sound of a plastic cup— full, from the resultant shrieks and laughter— falling to the floor coming from the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen just beyond, though it’s impossible to see much past the crowd. 

“No, uh. Not really.”

“Me neither.” Amata glances over at Butch. 

He shakes his head. “Nope. Nobody I can see.” He leans down and tears an imprecise hole into the side of the box, passing a beer to Amata first, then Adam and himself. “Oh-“ He elbows Adam, gesturing with his chin. “Look.”

Adam tries. “Who?”

“To the left, dummy. Sole.” Butch says, “By the couches?”

Among a small group of guys, Adam immediately sees Sturges, and sitting right next to him is Sole. He thinks he can recognize some of the others on the couch too— Mel, one of Sole’s roommates, from last semester’s second-level history class. There’s Jun Long from his European History class, too, standing against the wall with his nose in his phone, furiously texting.

“Oh.” Adam’s short nails fumble over the tab of his can. “Yeah, I uh. There he is.”

“Go say hi, or something?” Picking up the beer, Butch nudges Adam with it, cardboard corner digging into his back. “We’re going to put the beer away.”

“Wait—“

Butch is already pushing past him. Amata gives him a half-shrug as she totters behind him, one hand on his shoulder as they’re slowly swallowed up into the crowd.  

Adam takes a nerves-girding gulp, his throat stuttering to work against the cold and unpleasant taste of the beer on his tongue. He nearly coughs on it, but manages to swallow it down with little more than a sputter.

By the time he walks over, the group of guys is in a spirited enough conversation that he doesn’t have the voice to even say hello. Though, if Adam was being honest with himself, nearly any conversation other than silence would have been hard for him to interrupt, standing just on the peripheral of their circle.

“—God, he’s hot, though?” Mel says, a little loud.

“Who?” Sole asks, his face twisting with disgusted incredulity, “Maxson?”

“I—“

“You see that flag in his room, because he’s from the ‘South’.” Sole does the actual finger quotes motion, eyes rolling, “He’s from southern California. That ain’t even the south! I got half a mind to beat the shit outta him—”

“And why haven’t you, tough guy?” Sturges asks, smirking behind his beer bottle.

“Because he’s trying to fuck his roommate.” Mel says, somewhat bitterly. Sole’s ears go red.

“That ain’t it.” He mutters.

“Yeah?” Mel asks. Sole says nothing. It feels like there’s a strange hush, just in this bubble of this circle, and Adam somehow feels tense, even on the outside. But then Mel rolls his eyes, suddenly standing from his seat, wiping his hands off on the front of his pants. “Whatever.” He turns for the kitchen. Sole doesn’t stop him, but he does watch him go, hiding his mouth behind his beer can, though he can still see the guilt creasing on his brow. 

Sturges shakes his head, still looking towards Mel had left, though he’s long since been swallowed up in the crowd of people towards the kitchen. “Poor Mel.”

When he looks back at Sole, somewhat pointed, Sole’s shoulders come up to his ears, his hands out defensively. “Hey! Don’t... look at me. That’s not my fault.”

“Oh? Yeah?” Sturges drawls. “You’re the one who...” He lets himself trail off. Adam senses that there are other things going on.

“What? You and Preston been rooming together since freshman year.” 

“We been dating since then, too.”

Sole turns his head. “Mel and I ain’t never dated.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Avoiding Sturges’ look, Sole finally glances over, eyes falling on Adam; there’s no recognition until he blinks twice, and suddenly he’s grinning, “Hey! Adam?” He says it with a question at the end, his voice inching a little high. Adam nods. Sole laughs, gesturing towards him. “Adam!”

“Uh.” Adam croaks. Sole waves him in, and he shifts forward, into the bubble. The others make room for him. “Hi.”

“Aw, glad you could make it. I told ya’ll ‘bout him, got his ID broken right in two?”

“Oh,” Sturges looks at Adam again, this time sizing him up. Jun barely glances up from his phone, disinterested. “This the freshman?”

“Yeah.” Sole says, suddenly leaning forward to grab Adam and pull him into a side-hug. He’s strong, dragging him in with little effort, and Adam feels frozen as he’s squeezed against his side. The warm weight of his arm around his shoulders and the smell of his aftershave is going to give him a heart attack. “I am diversifyin’ our party pools.” Sole says, matter-of-fact, “Freshmen are our future, Sturges.”

Sturges laughs. “You’re full of such shit.” He looks at Adam. “Is this meathead bothering you?” He says it with fondness.

“Uh, hah.” Adam swallows, “No, he’s, ah, c-cool.”

“See?” Sole says, exaggerating the word. “I’m cool.”

Sturges shakes his head. “Yeah, okay.”

Sole lets Adam go, and he bolts back to his own space, stiff-spined and arms pinned tight to his side. He takes another big gulp of his beer.

Adam jumps as a body presses to his side. It’s Mel again, his arms laden with cans. “Here—“ Sole’s watching him from the corner of his eye as he hands one to Sturges, another to Jun— and he gives Sole a pointed glare before twisting to stare at Adam. “You want one?”

“Uh—“ Adam says, tilting his halfway full can, but Mel just pushes the beer into his other hand. “Thank— thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Mel’s glaring entirely above Adam’s head at Sole. He opens the last can in his hands, takes a loud, pointed slurp, and then turns to storm off.

Adam stands there, double-fisting the cans like a lifeline. His grip is so hard his nearly empty one bends a little. Everyone is absolutely silent, so he finishes it off, because if he doesn’t occupy his face with something other than staring at his shoes, he might melt into the mottled carpet under their feet. 

Sole shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Look, I don’t... ya’ll seen Hancock?”

“Your ghoulfriend has been wandering around.” Sturges pipes up.

Sole rolls his eyes. “You’re cute, huh? Asshole—“ He looks down at the ground, and at the very least, has the wherewithal to look ashamed as he asks, “And, uh, you seen Danse, either?”

Sturges looks kind of sad. Maybe not for Sole. Adam doesn’t know who, or what for, but he shakes his head either way. “No. You know he don’t drink.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sole mumbles. He stands, shoving his free hand in his pocket, the other clutching a can of beer to his chest. “I’m gonna go find Hancock.” Head ducked, he turns for the stairs, slipping away deceptively fast for his bulk and size; faster than it takes for Adam to realize he’s leaving— he’s gone by the time he stumbles forward, flustered.

“Did he fuck you too?” Jun intones flatly.

 Adam whips around, his mouth opening, then closing. 

“Well, did he?” Jun scoffs from his phone, briefly darting up to stare at Adam. 

“No!” It bursts out of him a little louder than intended. His throat is suddenly very dry. “I just— I h-have to ask him something...”

Sturges holds up a hand. “Hey, s’fine.” He tries to reach out and push at Jun, but he’s just out of reach, swiping at the air. “Is there someone else you can take out your anger for Marcy on?” 

Jun tilts his phone protectively towards his chest, suddenly glaring daggers at Sturges. “We’re not fighting.”

“I’m just sayin’, you coulda fooled me—“ Sturges eyes suddenly focus past Jun, “Preston, hey!”

Jun doesn’t say anything, his attention drawing back to his phone with a frown. Whatever Adam had drank at this point wasn’t enough to smother his diffidence; he’s all-too aware, suddenly, that even though Jun hasn’t moved, the group’s disintegrated around him and he’s standing by himself. “Uhm.”

“What?” Jun drawls.

Adam boggles back at Jun, and abruptly turns towards the stairs. He curses in his head. Running right towards the stairs was probably suspicious, and just proving his point— and he has one foot on the bottom step, when he hears, “Adam!”

He pivots at the last moment. The space he had left has been swallowed up by a line of people trying to get into the kitchen, and Amata waves from the corner, standing next to a sullen looking Butch. It’s easier to turn tail into the cloistering swell of bodies instead of the stairs.

—

The mat under his boots is frayed, ‘ELCOME’ just barely hanging on in faded white block letters. Charon doesn’t bother wiping his feet at the backdoor. At someone else’s house, maybe. But he really doubts it’s clean inside, the way he can hear the music from out here, the base thumping and making the windows rattle in their frames. He knocks once, then twice. 

There’s no lighting back here, other than the residual from the street lamps a distance away, so he’s momentarily blinded when the screen door swings open. “Welcome, brother!”

The ghoul in the doorway dresses too young. Or, maybe he is young. He’s sure this schtick works for everyone else here, but Charon isn’t a college kid. He sticks out like a sore thumb in his bright red bomber jacket and his backwards hat, thin wisps of bleach blonde hair sticking out from underneath the edges. He’s also at least a foot shorter than Charon, maybe more.

“You Hancock?” Charon leans forward, bracing an arm on the doorframe. Behind the ghoul, he can see people moving around, packed with smoothskins. Just a throng of humans as far as he can see.

“Of course,” Hancock sticks out his hand. Charon looks at it as if he’s expecting him to be holding a buzzer. Hancock frowns, pushing his hand forward. “Hancock McDonough.”

Charon glances up from his hand, to Hancock’s face. He may be dressed young, but there’s— something in his face, some quiet intensity behind his teeth-baring grin. Charon finally takes his hand, shaking it. “Charon.”

Hancock’s handshake is firm, and he gives Charon’s fingers a little squeeze. Not overly so, but a reminder. Charon pulls his hand away first. “Come on in, buddy. Glad you could make it.”

Charon scoffs under his breath. ‘Make it’, as if he had willingly came here. He pulls the door closed behind him as he steps inside, into a kitchen. He’s right; he’s pretty sure, other than Hancock, that he’s the only ghoul here, especially given the way people turn to look at him as he follows Hancock deeper into the house. There’s a group of kids around a table, red cups littering the top, shouting as two people chug; he sidesteps as one of them reaches forward, slapping the cup clean off the table, the dregs of cheap beer spraying across.

“Hey, sorry—“ Glassy eyed and laughing, her voice dies in her throat when she turns. A muddled fear crosses her face, and she drops her gaze.

Charon glares. Hancock’s hand suddenly locks onto his arm, pulling him forward. “Come on, tough guy. Upstairs.” 

Hancock leads him from the kitchen through to the living room. The other arm, not in Hancock’s grasp, is in the left pocket of his jacket, gently cradling the freezer-size ziploc bag full of jet inhalers. He wishes he could just hand it over now, just passed it off before he had to take a step inside, but he does realize it’s probably better somewhere else with a little more privacy, away from any security cameras the school may have on the outside of the dorms. 

There’s music bumping from a stereo system connected to a tv, the only two things in the house that looked relatively expensive and well-cared for. Between that and the din of all of the people in here, he can feel a headache coming on. As soon as they reach the top of the stairs, Hancock takes him left and into the first room on the right, closing the door behind them. The music and voices fade to a dull rumble.

Charon clutches the bag in his pocket. “The money?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hancock smiles, gives him an easy, dismissive wave. It’s a small bedroom, barely able to fit the one bed and the dresser inside the room, sparse and completely forgettable. Hancock has to turn sideways to shimmy past towards a cheap looking ottoman. He pulls off the top, pulling out a plastic bag.

It’s filled with bank-crisp bundles of hundreds, all taped and ready to go.

He has to be ballsy or plain stupid, the amount of cash he has on him. Charon’s palm is the size of this ghoul’s skull; if he were the type, he could easily take the cash and the jet. Hancock throws the bag on top of the dresser, rummaging through it. It makes more noise than just a bag of cash.

Hancock smiles. “For you.” 

He tosses Charon a bottle. He catches it automatically. Rattling, he looks down at the small pill bottle in his hands. The label has been scraped off, but he can see the pills inside beyond the sticky film left from the label. Five buffout tablets. Shaking his head, he’s immediately moving to hand it back. “No thank you.”

“Seriously—“ Hancock stops Charon’s hand with his own, taking his fingers and curling them around the bottle. Hancock’s own lean fingers blanket his, radiation warm. “A tip. Don’t have to tell your boss about it or anything. A gift, you know? Me to you. Even if you don’t imbibe, they’re easy to offload.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Charon wants to yank his hand away. He can return them. He knows he should. But they’re also already in his hands and Hancock is patting his clenched fist once, twice, and then retracting back, taking an extra step back so they’re no longer close enough where he can surreptitiously hand back a rattling pill bottle. This is what he tells himself as he puts the bottle in his pocket. Hancock smiles. “Good, right?” He wants to please, too much, and Charon can’t tell if he likes that the ghoul wants to endear or if it’s just a little too desperate for his tastes. “Now, let me grab the money for all this, alright?”

“Fine.” Charon grunts.

The door behind them opens. Charon whips around. It’s a smoothskin, tall as him with a buzzed head and a blithely confused expression at the sight of him.

“Hancock, hey.” He pauses when he sees Charon, but then focuses back on Hancock, grin widening. “Been looking for you.”

Charon exhales noisily. The kid looks at him, his thick eyebrows shooting up. “This one of your guys?”

“Yeah,” says Hancock, as Charon says, “No.”

The kid laughs, his teeth gleaming. “Okay, okay.”

“I gotta grab his money, Sole,” Hancock says, his eyes only focused on him, nodding back towards Charon. Immediately, he can feel the energy in the room shift. Charon’s used to being ignored, but the annoyance of it when he has a schedule is making his blood pressure rise. “Help me find it?”

Find it? The bag is already there, on the dresser. “I need to head back sooner than later.” Charon grits out.

Hancock’s dark eyes narrow slightly, even as he grins. “Of course. I’ll have it for you. Just wait outside, alright?”

Sole laughs. Charon exhales through his teeth. “Yeah,” When Sole steps forward, Charon can smell the alcohol on him. “I’ll help ‘find’ it.” He flashes Hancock a boyish grin, and makes actual quotation marks in the air. 

Hancock finally deigns Charon with a look. “Give me a minute, alright? Just wait outside?”

Charon glances over the room. There’s no window, so he’s not looking to bounce. He hasn’t received the inhalers yet, anyway, still in the pocket of his jacket, so there’s no reason for him to leave him high and dry.

“Fine—“ He growls. “A minute.” 

The door closes behind Charon. He sighs, and shifts next to the door, arms crossed and shoulders against the wall. And he does what he’s good at: he waits.

—

Amata was overdressed, sure, but almost immediately a girl in combat boots and a dress and another girl with a buzzed head and cool scars had bumped into them and complimented her on her booties; and that, somehow, had turned into chatting, and more compliments, and then Amata was conscripted into their slap cup tournament team, and it all happened so fast Adam barely heard a “bye!” before she was whisked away and into the kitchen. 

So that left Adam and Butch by themselves, standing side-by-side in a corner of the living room in a tiny bubble of space. Adam hadn’t expected to be much more than a wallflower here, but it’s weird that Butch is right next to him through it, with the amount of talk he usually flung Adam’s way. He’s not the type to stand by the side; he wears leather jackets and has good hair and spoke up and joked around. He never stood silently.

Butch pushes a botttle of the Gamma Gulp into his hands, even though he still has a red cup of punch in the other. He doesn’t know why Butch took their money and bought so many, and now he's not even drinking what they brought, but he does feel a little older drinking it than the sugary stuff in Amata’s room. He abandons the cup onto the nearest empty space to clutch the bottle two-handed. “Here.” It’s ice cold against his skin. “You talked with Sole, right?”

The ID. Adam hesitates. “Yeah, but...”

“Look, he likes you, right? I bet he just didn’t want to talk about it in class.”

“He said he didn’t have a machine.” Adam runs his fingers around the mouth of the bottle, slippery with condensation. 

“Right.” Butch insists, “Because you, dumbass, asked him during class.”

Adam frowns, “But why would he have one? He’s— he’s turning twenty-one, soon, isn’t he?”

Butch shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. He grimaces, minutely, as he swallows. “I don’t know. Money?”

“Yeah.” Adam agrees, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He takes a sip and grimaces more outwardly. He still can’t believe people drink this stuff often and easily, but then again, they’ve been the only ones drinking the Ice version. 

“Yeah.” Butch tilts the bottle back. His throat works as he takes another swig, 

Adam falls silent. The song changes. He can hear a chorus of hollers from the kitchen as the tempo increases, the base rattling cups. Next to them, a girl sitting in a boy’s lap is practically shouting in his ear, half-slumped over the armrest.

“I don’t know.” Adam scuffs his shoes against the carpet. “Maybe I don’t need one.”

“I think you’re just saying that ‘cause you don’t want to try.” 

Adam swallows, looking over at Butch. He’s frowning at him, but it’s soft. “Look. Seriously. You don’t want to at least try?”

“I just... I don’t want to feel like an ass.”

Butch snorts, “Yeah, well...” He picks at the paper on the bottle, his nails having trouble catching on the edges. “I think it’d be pretty lame if you had to stay back when we went out all the time.”

“Really?” Adam’s voice kind of cracks when he says it. He even does a double-take, looking around, but Amata isn’t nearby to hear Butch actually try to include him in something. It almost feels sincere. 

Butch grins, “Yeah, really. Ugh.” He bites at his lip, hiding his laugh behind his beer bottle. “Don’t sound like that, man.”

Adam laughs, though he’s not sure exactly why, pushing a wayward curl out of his face. “Like what?”

“Like... Fuck,” He shakes his head, snorting, “Nevermind. Whatever.” Butch steels his face; not that he looks serious, because he’s Butch, and Adam has known him too long— but it’s something akin to that, even though his eyes are softly glazed with alcohol. “I’m for real, though.”

“I—“

Butch winds back his fist, and Adam doesn’t have to think about it, his arm flinching away, across his chest. But his knuckles only barely bump against his arm, uncharacteristically soft, just a playful nudge. “Come on. I’ll help you find him, if you want?”

Adam swallows. “Yeah,” He nods, “Sure.” 

Butch finishes his beer, before gesturing Adam for his— he’s just under halfway done, but he doesn’t want to disappoint, so he opens his mouth and his throat and starts to drink with a grimace. Expression pinched, he ignores the taste and chugs the rest down like medicine.

When he finally hands Butch the empty bottle with a weak, wet burp, he almost looks impressed. Or maybe, disgusted.

“Alright, Pointdexter!” He laughs, putting a finger into each bottle to hold them in one hand. “You ready to go?”

“Actually—“ Adam speaks up. Butch stops. “I think— I know where he is.” He nods, more because his head is feeling a little too light, and all that cold liquid sloshing in him is sending a freeze creeping up his spine towards his brain. “Where Sole is. I think I’m— I’m going to do it myself.”

There’s a split second of disappointment and confusion on Butch’s face, but then he grins and leans in, giving Adam a shove that straddles the border of friendly. “You found some liquid courage, huh? Wanna grab another first?”

Adam looks down at the bottles, and grimaces. “A-actually. I, uh,” He falters as Butch’s expression does, settling into something a little less eager, that usual indifference. He raises his red cup. “I’m good. I think I’ll go myself?”

”Alright, whatever.” Butch shrugs, hiding his mouth behind an errant wipe from the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Suit yourself.”

Adam slips back into the crowd before he has a chance to let any strange guilt at disappointing Butch change his mind for him, heading towards the stairs Sole had gone up some time ago. The last person he expects to see at the top is Charon. His eyelids are drooping, arms crossed tight against his chest. He looks like he’s always in that position, as if his body has locked itself into the familiar bouncer lean against the wall, and he’s holding guard like Cerberus at the gates.

Rounding the stairwell, Charon finally recognizes him, his eyes lifting a little, head tilting. All of a sudden, Adam feels very flustered. He hadn’t been expecting to see Charon at all. Out of the grimy darkness of the bar, he looks somehow taller and more real, like he did when he woke up in his apartment that morning. Something much more human— or, ghoul, Adam guesses, instead of something looming untouchable in the corner.

“Uh. Hi.” He stops in the middle of the hallway, right in front of the stairs. “I’m waiting for Sole. Sole Park?”

“Don’t know him.” Charon grunts, and Adam can explicitly feel his eyes flitting from his face down to the drink in his hand. He clutches the cup tightly. 

“I’m—“ He clears his throat. “Is that, uh.” He limply points at the door, “Is that his bedroom? Because I though I, ah, saw him walk... walk up here?”

Charon doesn’t say anything, simply blinking and holding his gaze for a beat before turning back to face the door, shoulders to the wall. Adam swallows.

“How do we keep running into each other.” Charon’s voice sounds like gravel.

Adam barks out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know.”

Charon’s eyes narrow. “Are you following me?”

“No!” Adam sputters, clutching his red solo cup to his chest, and the neon punch sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the rim. It takes him a moment— his eyes are narrowed, but Charon’s smiling, just slightly. Adam feels his face go hot. “No, I mean, uh.” He swallows. “I’m not.”

“Could have fooled me.” 

Adam looks away, down at his feet. He’s just wearing a pair of slip-on shoes. Charon still has on the same pair of boots he had seen in his foyer, coated with mud and salt. The administration was always careful to overly salt the sidewalks, even when snow was barely expected on the horizon. 

“Maybe... maybe you’re following me?”

Charon snorts. “You couldn’t pay me to be here.” He says, then immediately grimaces, like he’s eaten something sour. It’s not directed at Adam, at least.

“S-so...” He ventures, “How come you are here?”

Charon doesn’t say anything, setting his jaw. His nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath, shifting where he stands. They both fall silent. Adam lets his feet move; Charon doesn’t seem to pay him any mind as he settles in next to him against the wall, still staring straight ahead.

Finally, Charon speaks up, but it’s not on Adam’s question: “That is his bedroom. But,” Charon hesitates, “He’s in there with someone.”

“Huh.” Adam sips his drink. “How long?” He asks, in more of a concerned tone, though from the wrinkle to Charon’s nose he thinks it might have sounded nosy.

“Why?”

“I-I just... I need to talk to Sole. About things.”

“Things.”

“Y-yeah, I mean...” He doesn’t want to admit that it’s about a fake ID, not after what he had told him days earlier, about staying away from the bars. “What are they even doing in there?”

Charon sniffs. “Fucking, I think.”

Adam chokes on his punch, the taste of kool-aid and nail polish remover filling his throat, but at least Charon has the decency not to look over at him as he doubles over and coughs. He feels kind of nauseous when he straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh. Uh.” His tongue suddenly feels thick, “Makes sense.” 

“Does it?” Charon mutters, though it’s more to himself. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, leaning back against the wall. If they are having sex, Adam can’t hear it over the low thump of base vibrating through the house. He leans back against the wall, next to Charon. The music is making the bones of the house jump, shivering up into his own body in an even tempo. 

So it’s not a true silence, but compared to the rest of the house, it almost feels like it— and it feels almost companionable to Adam, this not-really-silence, side-by-side with Charon. He steals a glance towards Charon’s face. 

“Hey!” The girl who bounds up the stairs, a red-head with freckles, sways where she stands at the top of the stairs. Adam nearly jumps out of his skin. She’s holding a half-empty plastic bottle of whiskey in one hand, and what looks to be a plain water bottle in the other, also half-empty. She takes her time to take a swig of the whiskey, even though she had called their attention in the first place, and then chases it with the water bottle. Adam wonders if its not just water. 

“Yes?” Charon finally prompts, unapologetically annoyed.

“You in line for the bathroom?”

Charon scoffs. Adam shakes his head. “Uh. No.” He points to the door, “Go ahead.”

She frowns, “Can you hold my bottles?”

She’s just familiar looking enough. Adam can’t exactly place her face— “Uh, yeah, sure, uh... —“

She’s halfway to handing them over when she pulls back, clutching them to her bosom like they’re her babies. “Cass.” She slurs, pointedly, face scrunching up momentarily. Adam feels his stomach drop. He doesn’t have the time to stutter out an apology before she pushes past them both into the bathroom, slamming the door loud enough that he flinches.

Charon, next to him, snorts. “Are you supposed to know her?”

“I think she’s in my classics class.” Adam mumbles.

There’s a sound of glass breaking from behind the door, and low swearing.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Charon offers, sliding just a fraction across the wall, as if he was unconsciously leaning in towards him. “She probably wont remember tomorrow.” 

Adam doesn’t know why it’s funny, but it makes him giggle openly. The corner of Charon’s lips twitch upward and his stomach flips and twists. 

It’s fifteen minutes later, and the only thing that’s interrupted their easy, hushed banter is the door beside them creaking open, just a crack. Hancock pops his head out, all smiles. “Hey, fellas.” His eyes shift from Charon, down to Adam, then back again. “He with you?”

“No.” Adam and Charon say it at the same time, exchanging looks. Hancock laughs.

“Alright, alright. Charon, then?”

He relaxes his grip on the door. Behind Hancock, Adam can see Sole approaching, sticking his head halfway out above him. It’s apparent now, too, from how wide the door as swung open that Hancock isn’t wearing a shirt, and it takes a Herculean effort not to stare. “Hey, Adam!” Sole’s all smiles, blown pupils, “What’s up, man?”

Adam blinks, “Uh.” Charon is staring at him, and Hancock is looking confused between the two, and Sole clearly isn’t paying attention to either of them. “Good?”

“Good!” Sole laughs, glancing over at Hancock, then Charon. “Hey, what?” He asks, his grin painfully wide, confusion in his voice. Had they met? Or did Sole not remember?

“Ain’t that something, our friends just finding each other.” Hancock says a little forcefully as Charon pushes towards the door. Sole stumbles out, and Adam watches Charon’s back recede as the door closes behind him.

Adam drains the rest of his drink. He can feel fuzz creeping in at the corners of his mind, his limbs loose. He feels good, but also feels like he could go to bed as well. He does a quick look around the second floor. It’s mostly just one hallway, no furniture or space to place his empty cup, but someone has started a shrine of empties and solo cups in the corner, so Adam gingerly places it there, right next to an empty bottle of whiskey.

Only after he’s straightened does he realize this is Sole’s house, and maybe he wouldn’t want him putting empty cups on the floor. “Oh, uh—“ But Sole doesn’t seemed to have noticed, looking a little far-off himself as he leans heavily against the stair bannister, foot bouncing against the crooked poles.

“So, what’s up? You’ve been havin’ a good time?” His soft accent sounds slurred in his mouth. Adam swallows drily. 

“Y-yeah, Sole. This has— this has been a lot of fun.”

“Awesome, yeah,” He laughs, “I’m so glad.”

“I-I wanted to ask— I know you said, earlier. In class. About the, well. I don’t mean to be pushy, but was just wondering—“

Sole smiles. “Hey, I wasn’t fuckin’ with you. Listen— I ain’t that kind of guy,” Sole turns his body, as if he’s going to move in close, but he stumbles a bit against the wall and instead decides to half sit, half squat against it. “I really don’t got a fake ID machine, or whatever. I, uh—“ He kind of laughs, “I can give you my old one, when I turn twenty-one in a few months, but...” He’s giggling a little to himself. Adam’s sure he can’t pass as Sole Park, buzzed and at least six feet tall, and he wishes he found it as funny as he did. His throat just feels constricted and thick with emotion.

“C’mon, aw, y’ain’t gotta look like that,” Sole’s still chuckling, wiping at the corners of his eyes. Adam shoots him a shaky smile. “Like a kicked puppy, Jesus.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ll find one.” 

“Y-yeah, I guess so. It’s not really a big deal.” And it isn’t, not really. Sole’s face scrunches in confusion.

He doesn’t have time to say anything else. The door is slamming open, loud enough to startle Adam into jumping; Sole’s reaction is delayed, his eyebrows shooting up his head after Charon had already exited.

“Sole, you still out there?” Hancock’s voice calls. He’s already moving into the bedroom. Adam stares at his feet. He thinks of Butch and Amata downstairs, and having to tell them he can’t— that he messed up, it’s all a dead end— Inexplicably, tears are prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he has to swallow them down until the threat wears off.

When he finally looks up, Charon’s staring at him.

“You alright?” He asks, seemingly against his better judgement.

“Y-yeah.” He breathes, shaking his head and rubbing his fist against his eyes, stars prickling behind his lids as he presses. “No, it’s, uh, dumb. I’m getting— I th-think I’m a little drunk, so...”

There hadn’t been any real softness in his question, but as Adam’s voice trembles Charon’s eyes narrow. “What did he do?”

Adam’s shoulders come up to his ears. “No!” He waves his hands, “He didn’t, uhm... it’s nothing like that.”

Charon softens, avoiding Adam’s face. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I just... sorry. I, uh. It kind of felt like for a second that I messed everything up, but...” He rubs at the back of his neck. “S-sorry. That sounds dumb. It’s nothing.”

Charon opens his mouth to say something else, stops. There’s a bang coming from far off. Undeniably someone knocking, and it’s not against the flimsy plywood of a bathroom door. The music is still loud, but as the knocking continues someone turns it down, and the sudden dip in noise is noticeable and shivers in waves throughout the house. From this far away, Adam can hear another pounding noise, and a muffled yell. Conversations trail off, and the music suddenly feels too loud without the sound of cups and cheering.

There’s quiet. Someone turns the music off. There’s hushed murmurs, a few uncomfortable giggles. And from downstairs, someone confirms it with a shout: “Security!!”

“Shit.” Panic shoots a bolt of consciousness through the haze of alcohol.

Charon turns to him. “Back door.”

Adam takes the lead, taking the stairs two at a time. People are starting to move now after the initial surprise; it’s a chaos of bodies, surging in every which direction. “Follow me.” Adam doesn’t know why he says it, but it’s like— with everything going on, something in him has snapped, and now there’s a calm oozing over him, moving his body. He takes the lead, holding a hand out behind him as he pushes through the throng of people. Charon takes it. He curls his fingers tight around his rough hand, pulling him forward.

Even though he’s leading, he can see people looking at Charon when they move out of the way, too drunk to hide their surprise at a ghoul head and shoulders above them making their way towards them. The backdoor is open as people flee through it; beyond, he can see the blue and yellow lights of the security cars flashing from the road. Adam lets go of Charon’s hand as soon as his feet hit the concrete of the back door.

He nearly bolts off into the night, but Charon grabs him by the arm, stopping him. Whirling, Adam feels himself tugged in from the movement. He’s— close, very close, his blue eyes wide. “Wait.” His voice is intense, something beyond the fear of getting a suspension or a fine for drinking underaged on campus. Like he could really get in trouble, and suddenly Adam is wondering why he had come here in the first place, mind racing. “Please.”

That's all he needs to say for Adam to understand. He's not going to leave him here. “Of course, o-of course,” Adam almost gasps when Charon squeezes his arm. People are running and stumbling out of the door, bumping into them as they scatter. It doesn’t matter why he came; he doesn’t go here, and he doesn’t know his way around campus. “Stay close.”

They run, Charon keeping at his heels, breathing heavily over his shoulder. 

Adam stops; somehow, Charon also stops before he barrels him over, and Adam reaches blindly behind him to grab for Charon. His fingers end up tangling in his sweater. “This way,” He hisses, tugging him off the road. He can see car lights up ahead, though they’re dimmed, and Charon follows without question as he leads them both into the large bushes that dot the road and partially cover a privacy fence. He’s small, and can easily fit in between the brambles, though they keep catching in his hair; Charon tries to contain his swearing, crawling belly down on the dirt. He pulls himself up to his knees, hunched and pressed against Adam. 

There’s a car approaching slowly, tires crunching over gravel.

Adam presses a finger to his lips, holding on tight to the edge of Charon’s sweater. It’s nearly too dark for him to see, but he can see the glint of Charon’s eyes in the low light, wide and passing over him. It’s freezing out right now in just a hoodie and a t-shirt, moreso with the new sweat wicking off his body, but he can feel the line of the ghoul’s body pressed against his side, supernaturally warm. 

The car door opens, then slams closed. Adam’s body jumps. Charon leans in, closer, pressing his weight to his side. A silent plead to keep quiet.

Vault-Tec Security walks past the bush they are hidden in. It’s two of them, from the sounds of footsteps. They don’t have flashlights. One mutters to himself, swearing under his breath. Adam can just see him through the branches and the leaves. His heart is hammering in his chest.

The walkie-talkie at his hip is buzzing. Adam’s mind is buzzing too loudly for him to parse the static. It sounds harsh in his ears, but still a dull fuzz compared to the footsteps snapping leaves nearby. Finally, the officer pulls the radio from his holster, shouting back his reply. “Christ, Edwards, what? Stop radioing me, I thought—”

The reply back is garbled. Something, something, though Adam distinctly does hear the word ghoul through the static, and next to him, Charon goes even stiller than before, his breath catching. He leans back against him.

The security guard turns, a faraway street light catching the shadow of his frown. “Alright, 10-4.” 

Shivering side-by-side, they wait for the guard to turn away, the sound of him and his partner’s footsteps receding until the car door of the patrol vehicle clicks open and slams closed. It feels like hours, crouched achingly still, waiting for him to start up the car and drive away.

They burst from the bushes as if they’re coming up for air. And maybe they are, panting and red-faced in the yellow streetlights, covered with faint angry lines from the brambles. Charon bends over, with his hands on his knees, and laughs. When he turns his face to Adam, he’s grinning, and there’s something very real and earnest about the flash of his teeth, the way he runs his hand over his face and back through the last remnants of his red hair, laughing gratefully again at the sky.

“Shit.” Charon says, and laughs again. It’s a nice sound, concrete rough, brassy wheezing. 

“Yeah.” Adam giggles, twisting around. Security is gone, and there’s nobody else on this road, just silent cars parked on the side of the road and the darkened houses of the surrounding neighborhood. 

He looks— undeniably handsome, like this, or maybe its just the moment, adrenaline pumping in his ears, having had enough to drink and with the passing of what, he had been sure, would have been his death if he had been caught by security— the air now feels refreshingly cold after the sweatbox of the house full of people. 

“I thought—“ Charon starts, and then stops, shaking his head. “I thought we were going to get caught.”

“I’m good at being quiet. I can— A lot of people don’t notice me.” He says it with a smile, but when Charon looks at him, his face falls. There’s something quiet in his expression, thoughtful, that makes him a little ashamed of his previous words. Maybe he shouldn’t be so proud of it. Adam finds himself looking back at the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets. He can feel his body start to compress in on itself again, fold back up into something small and sad. 

“Did you walk...?” He asks, scuffing his feet against the dirt.

“No. I parked on one of the side streets.”

“Students can’t park there.”

“I’m not a student,” Charon says, and Adam nods, as if suddenly remembering. 

“R-right. Sorry.”

Charon shakes his head. “No need...” He pauses, glancing around. It’s dark out here. The road leading from campus to the practical island the seniors were on was poorly lit, a stretch of houses with flickering porch lights and ill-maintained street lights. Adam gazes down the street, the swallowing, all-encompassing dark. It’s too late for the shuttles now, and he wouldn’t want to go back to the bus stop, in front of the senior housing besides.

There’s a hesitant touch on his shoulder. Adam looks up. He catches Charon chewing on his bottom lip, just slightly, noticing the way it springs back from his teeth’s grasp. “Do you have someone to walk you back?”

Adam feels his heart kind of swell, threatening to burst. “No.”

Charon watches his face. He grunts, gesturing with his head, running a hand over his mouth and rubbing at his chin. If Adam didn’t know better, he almost seemed embarrassed. “Alright. Come on. I’ll drive you back.” He starts to walk, and then stops, looking over his shoulder, back at Adam. “I’m not taking no for an answer, either.”

Adam smiles. “It’s not that dangerous, around here.” He says, but he’s trotting to catch up to Charon, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Wasn’t there someone who kept breaking into the houses over there?” He says, with a nod to the privacy fence.

“Oh, yeah. He had an axe, too. Some students live there, off-campus. The administration wouldn’t let the school newspaper write an article about it, so Piper Wright’s just been tweeting about it.” 

“Hm.”

“Isn’t that kind of, uh, expected. L-living in the city.”

When he looks over, Charon’s eyebrows have risen. “Well.” He frowns. “You’re not wrong.” He exhales.

Adam laughs, and shivers. He catches up to Charon, so they can walk side-by-side. Charon must be cold, too, because he’s shivering so hard he keeps bumping into him, all the way back to his Highwayman.

Chapter Text

Adam’s phone screen is warm against his cheek, squished between his head and the pillow on his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright. I mean, other than a light headache. I’m lucky I went out with Veronica and Christine when they went to go smoke. We saw security pull up.” Amata says, her voice dropping a little, as if guilty. Of what, Adam doesn’t know, but the idea of Amata trying a cigarette is mind boggling to him, even if it now feels so very pase. It’s more likely she just feels bad about not warning everyone else. “It was actually kinda nice, I’m glad I met them. They invited me back to their dorm and we got pizza—”

There’s a pointed pause. Amata’s voice comes through concerned on the other end of the line: “Adam, what’s wrong? Are you just playing Carly Rae on repeat?”

Adam startles upward; the phone slides down his pillow as he quickly lurches over to the laptop perched on the nearby desk from his bed, blindly slapping for the space bar before the wailing toot of saxophone in Run Away with Me gives himself fully away to Amata. He should have known better.“N-no.” He clears his throat, fumbling with the phone as he struggles to sit up in the fluff of his duvet, “No, I’m fine.”

She sounds unconvinced, but doesn’t press it. She’s known him for too long, knows “Right. Well, I’m glad you didn’t get written up, either.”

“And Butch?” He hasn’t heard from him since their talk, last night.

“Yeah.” Adam can hear Amata’s eyes roll over the phone. “He’s alright. Barely made it, apparently. I’m really surprised.”

“Me too...” He mutters. 

“Anyway, I’m glad none of us got written up. Have you heard from Sole?”

“N-no. I haven’t reached out to him, or anything, either, though.”

“I hope he’s alright. They all seem nice.” Amata says, quietly.

Adam doesn’t know offhand what kind of trouble a party of that size would land someone in. He’s sure it’s in his student handbook, somewhere, and he knows where that is in his desk, which was apparently a very lame thing to keep in the first place according to Butch.

“You never told me how you got home, though.”

“Yeah, I just. Yeah, I got out before the uh. The cops.” Adam knows he’s not sounding natural about it. He hasn’t told her about Charon. He doesn’t want to, knowing what she’ll say, the tone she’ll use. It’s not that he blames her; when Adam thinks about it from her point of view, from any other than his own, he knows how it sounds. “I just— I walked.”

“By yourself?” He shies away from his phone, pulling it away from his face to sigh and flop back onto the bed. The phone drops to the sheets, face up.

“Y-yeah.” He speaks to the ceiling, “By myself.”

“Oh, Adam.” Amata’s voice sounds small and tinny from his lap. “You should be careful.”

—

This time, Charon drops him off right in front of his dorm. He walks with him, too, which is making Adam feel strangely giddy, more-so than the three beers and half-filled cup of jungle juice ever could.

It’s cold in his dorm, and he throws it into a stark, stagnant light with a flip of the switch.

“Welcome,” He steps inside, hands shoved under his armpits. 

Charon’s eyes briefly scan over his wall of posters hung up. Adam feels anxious, and viscerally aware of how absolutely lame as a person he is overall. He knows Charon would probably not say anything, but he’s pressed with a sudden and mortifying wish to impress him. At least his room isn’t dirty—

“No roommate?” Charon asks, staring at the unmade half of the room.

“O-oh. No!” Adam shrugs. “He uh, got expelled.”

Charon arches an eyebrow.

Adam flushes, continuing to fill the silence, “Yeah, so uh. He was really quiet, and a really intense kind of guy. And was kind of weird. He was quiet. Uh, he was ROTC. H-he like...” He lets out a nervous laugh, and Charon hasn’t stopped him so his mouth keeps moving, “He would always wear this weird beret with all of these military patches and his sunglasses inside? And whenever he did talk, it was always about, uh, his girlfriend from highschool but actually she was his ex-girlfriend, and uh, left him for a rave kid who apparently wore those, uh, spirit wolf hoods, you know?” 

He pantomimes what he’s hoping Charon can gather is a fur hood, holding his fingers like two ears against the side of his head. “He uh, he always mentioned that a lot, I don’t know why— u-uh, that’s why I mentioned it, I’m not—“ He drops his arms, paces as he talks, “But anyway, I think he was straight edge, but then, anyway, the RA came into my room before the end of first semester with a bunch of Vault-Tec security and they found molerat testosterone and Buffout in his closet. And like, a lot of Dinky the dinosaur stuffed animals with holes cu—“

“Adam.” Charon says.  

Adam stops, breathes in.

“What.” Charon asks, deadpan. But Adam doesn’t really have an answer for him, either, shrugging hopelessly, his arms fidgeting and flailing.  

“H-honest! Uh. College is weird.” 

Charon hasn’t moved from the doorway. “Do you. Do you want to sleep here and l-leave in the morning?” Adam doesn’t mean anything untoward, but just saying the words makes his heart pound and he can feel heat rushing up his face. 

Charon, thankfully, doesn’t mention it, shaking his head. He’s sort of hovering in the doorway, standing with almost vampiric like rigidity out of his dorm proper. He looks out of place and keenly aware of it. “I’m fine. I didn’t have anything to drink.” He pauses, saying it slow and clear, meeting Adam’s nervous gaze. “And a car. I have a car.”

Adam is most definitely red from his collar bone on up. “Yeah. I, uh. Good idea.” Adam wanders back, presses himself to the opposite side of the doorway. They’re very close like this. He tries not to think about it, but as soon as the thought enters his mind, it expands into something monstrous and loud and pushes every other thoughts out of the way: they are close, they are so close, they are so close. “Wow, don’t know how I-I... forgot the car. Since we rode here in it, and all.” He can— smell Charon, not in a bad way, but just him as a person; deodorant and a little bit of sweat worked up from their terrifying escape that’s since evaporated in the cold night air. 

Charon’s not meeting his eyes, but he’s looking at his face. Studying his features. It takes him a moment for his eyes to flit upward. He has very handsome eyes, a startling blue flickering under a milky sheen. “I’m not sure, either.”

His tone leaves nothing to interpret, unrelentingly flat. Adam swallows. “W-well... sorry, sorry, uhm... I hope you have a good night—“

“Thank you.”

Charon lifts a hand, and it hangs for a moment before he quickly stuffs it into the pockets of his hoodie. He sighs heavily, forehead lining with gentle worry as he glances away. “I do not think I would have made it out of there without you, and— I would have gotten into a fair amount of trouble. So.” He clears his throat, nods towards Adam. There’s something almost bashful touching his features. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Adam squeaks.

Charon holds eye contact for a moment longer— and he breaks it, licks his lips, and if Adam wasn’t mistaken looked a little flushed. “I should get going.”

“Yeah... yeah.”

“Goodnight, Adam.” He rumbles from his chest, pushes off against the door frame.

“You— you remember how to get out, down the hall, take a right...?”

Charon looks over his shoulder, his lips twitching upward. “Yeah. Goodnight, Adam.”

“Good— goodnight, Charon.”

He doesn’t close the door to his room until Charon has left the hallway and he can hear the heavy security door close behind him echoing down the hall. He shuts and locks his door, his sweaty forehead pressing against it with a thump. It feels like he hasn’t taken a full breath in minutes, exhaling shakily. When had he started to sweat? It was January.

Adam undresses, and by the time he’s stumbled out of his pants its so cold he bolts towards the bed. Crawling underneath the covers, burrowing under all the layers until he’s face down against his pillows. And, because there’s not much else to do when you realize you have a crush, he screams into them.

—

It’s a week later of routine, of classes and cafeteria visits and library studying. Adam packs his backpack with his study supplies, taking one last glance at his phone for the time before he slips it into his back pocket. He locks his dorm room behind him and heads off down the hall. 

Tuesday classes were finished for the day by noon; that left plenty of time to get down into the city proper. His backpack full, he can catch the 1:25 bus— 

“Hey! Adam!”

Adam turns. It’s Sarah Lyons running toward him, her hair pulled together in a messy ponytail, and for one fearful second he’s sure Sole’s told her that he told him that she was the one who started the ID printer rumors. But she doesn’t seem mad, smiling and a little out of breath from running over.

“H-hey, Sarah,” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, fine, sorry.” She smiles and wipes a hand across her forehead, brushing blonde baby hairs away from her face. “Sorry, are you heading to class?”

“I’m actually heading, uh, to the bus stop. Going into the city.”

“Oh, cool. Can I walk with you?” 

There’s no reason she can’t, though it feels weird to be asked, even though it’s perfectly polite and courteous. “S-sure.”

Sarah smiles, falling into step next to Adam. He’s known her for awhile, since high school; she had always been nice to him, but with her being a grade above, they had never really interacted past pleasantries. She was busy in all of her clubs and extracurriculars, which hadn’t seemed to slow once she got into Vault-Tec University. Her friends had been cliqueish and standoffish, but she had never really acted the same towards him. “How’s your dad been? Him and his research?”

“Fine. I mean,” Adam shrugs. It’s an answer that makes him realize he hasn’t talked to his father in some time, and he’s not sure how he should feel about that. It’s easier to plaster an uneasy smile on his face and change the subject. “Uh, and, how’s your dad? Everything okay with, the, uh... policing?”

Sarah laughs, squinting in that amused but also slightly confused way. “He’s doing good, yeah, policing and all.”

“Th-that’s good.”

“Lot of late nights recently. Did you hear, about Sole’s party?”

That grabs his attention. Adam tries not to show it, and knows he fails when Sarah beams back at him with a smile. “No, what?”

“Well— and don’t get me wrong, Park is a friend of mine— but when his party got busted, they caught a ghou—“ She corrects herself, voice dropping to a hush, “A guy with a lot of... stuff on him.” 

“St... stuff?”

“You know.” Sarah’s eyes dart away. “Just, don’t tell anyone. I’m telling you, Adam, just because— well, you’re a good guy, and I know you wouldn’t tell anyone.” Maybe he’s reading into it, maybe misreading entirely, but he feels it unsaid behind her words: you don’t have anybody to tell, besides. She’s not wrong.

“I was at the party, you know.”

That takes her by surprise. She blinks. “You were?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Well—“

“I didn’t get caught.” Adam blurts, rushed. “And I wasn’t— I wasn’t doing stuff.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “I figured. Most of them have to go to a disciplinary hearing. Ethics council and all.”

Adam makes what he hopes is a sympathetic sounding noise. He can feel anxiety creeping up his spine; he hasn’t done anything, nothing entirely untoward other than drinking like most of his class— and yet, he’s more than sure he’s met the ghoul Sarah was talking about. Sole’s friend. He had seemed kind enough. 

Adam doesn’t even know what happens when non-students like that got caught on campus. And it was drugs, though what kinds— Adam couldn’t tell. Was he in jail right now? Did he get away before the real cops came? 

And Charon—

He’s been thinking more about him than what he had been doing there at a college party. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself; the guy didn’t strike him as the type to willingly go to any party, let alone some college kid rager. 

Sarah glances upwards, towards the open grey-blue wrought iron gates of the school. “You’re going to the bus, right?”

Adam’s pulled from his own head, left blinking in the bright winter sun. It takes him a moment to get his bearings. Sarah stares quizzically at him. “Right. I’ll— see you sometime, Sarah?”

“Yeah, see you Adam!” She says with a little wave, turning left down the path. Adam waves back and keeps walking, out the bounds of the school and towards the bus stop.

The bus is late, but that’s not new. What was is Adam coming fifteen minutes late, and it still takes fifteen more for the bus to pull up to the curb, the door hissing open to allow him on. But at least he only had to wait fifteen instead of thirty. The weight of his book bag pulls his body like a brick down into the seat, and it’s only when the bus jerks to a start that he realizes he should text Gob and let him know.

Hey I’m sorry I’m running late the bus didn’t come on time but I’m almost there.

Adam hits send, and then shoves his phone in his pocket in that hurried way he does every time he sends a text he’s not entirely confident in; this is, admittedly, the majority of his texts. Gob’s usually easy to talk to, but he feels bad that he’s running late, and it’s compounded by the fact he hasn’t sat next to him in a week. Ever since he sat down to talk to Sole, he sat there next class, before the party— and then, he thought it might be more awkward moving seats back post-party, like he hadn’t appreciated the invite, so now he sits there in the back next to Sole each class.

Sole hasn’t even talked to him much since; he wasn’t even there the first class after the party, and the second he had fallen asleep in his textbook, only waking with the screech of chair legs against flooring as everyone stood to leave. He hadn’t wanted to speak to him as exhausted as he seemed.

Ever since Adam’s changed seats, Gob’s had both of the seats on either side of  him empty. Adam isn’t always the most perceptive, but he notices things like that. How can’t he? Trying to find a seat for Intro to Philosophy is uniquely and excessively excruciating, which is a feat in itself, having always been the type of person to obsessively fret over where to sit in any situation in the first place. 

He nearly misses his stop, face in his phone, the doors squeaking shut behind him and the diesel engine sputtering thickly as it drives away. 

sorry gob, his thumbs tap quickly, im almost there—

Adam walks face first into a vey solid shoulder; his phone falls with a clatter across the sidewalk, along with a flurry of pink fliers.

“Sorry! S-sorry!” He squawks, scrambling down to retrieve his phone.

“Watch where you’re going—“

Adam stops, crouched over the concrete, and stares.

“It’s you.”

Charon holds a heavy-duty stapler in one hand, and he’s still clutching some of the fliers in the other, though the majority are fluttering around him like the cherry blossoms that bloom every spring around the mall. Less romantic, Adam supposes, as the fluorescent pink papers fall into nearby puddles of dampness and city debris, no different than any of the other litter around the block.

“How’d you get here?”

“Bus.” Adam swallows, stands and shoves his phone securely in his pocket, his text forgotten. “Let me— I can help.”

Charon grumbles as he bends over, “I’m sure you can.”

Still, Charon doesn’t stop him from grabbing the last of the papers from the ground. They're slightly scuffed, but no more worse for wear. “No, I’m. I’m serious.” He takes some of his stack from the top of the pile, straight out of Charon’s hands. Charon's arms twitch, like he’s about to grab them back from Adam, but instead he pulls a bulky roll of packing tape from his back pocket and places it on top of Adam's pile. He looks tired; there’s bags under his eyes, sunken back against the gauntness of his cheekbones. “Sorry. It’s... least I can do.”

Charon side-eyes him. “For what?” 

“You know.” Adam is concentrating on hanging up the fliers too much. He’s very particular, trying to keep each end level, smoothing out creases and wrinkles as he wraps it around the pole. “Making you drop these. And the other night. And the time before.”

Heaving out a world-weary sigh, Charon settles in next to Adam. “You helped me the other night.” 

Adam shakes his head. Does Charon know the other guy he had been talking to had been caught? He had known him. Had he— “Well, uh.” He shrugs, “Maybe we kind of saved each other.”

They both fall silent. In the time it takes Adam to tape up one, Charon can hang three.They work easily next to each other, Adam trailing a few steps behind and filling in gaps that Charon leaves between fliers, over top old lost dog signs and help wanted ads. 

When Adam finishes his pile, he waits for a pause in Charon's methodical stapling to tap him on the shoulder with the edge of the tape. Charon takes it from him. He hesitates, “I’m not paying you.”

“I never—" Adam balks, "I never expected that.”

“You already returned my jacket.” Charon's eyes narrow.

Adam shrugs. “Y-yeah, I mean...”

Charon grunts. “What are you getting out of this?”

The look Adam levels at him is positively wounded. “Nothing. I just. I’m sorry. I just thought I could help.”

Charon huffs out a grumble under his breath. Adam trails off, looking away. His gaze finally settles on one of the fliers. 

“Cat night?”

“Yeah...” Charon sighs, closed mouth, though his eyes are rolling of their own accord from disdain. “Ahzrukhal’s idea.”

Adam's heard about these before-- there used to be another bar all the under-aged Vault-Tec U students went to, until the police cracked down and it went out of the business. It was called the Brass Lantern, maybe, or the Muddy Rudder, he can't remember. He was still in high-school , and he feels no more closer to this ephemeral college experience now then he did then.

Adam is silent; probably for too long, by the way Charon is looking at him when he finally glances back over. He shrugs helplessly. “It— I’m sorry, it kind of sounds fun...”

“For you, maybe.” Charon frowns with realization, turning away from his fliers to stare squarely at Adam. He must be, what, six foot, six foot three? Towering above Adam like this. “I thought you weren’t going out anymore?”

“What...” Adam swallows. “What made you think that?”

Charon exhales through the holes of his nose. He lifts the stapler. “It’s dangerous.” He knocks it against the light pole with a satisfying thwack, and the cartridge trigger reload of a fresh staple piercing through. “It’s illegal.” Thwack. “You were almost caught less than a week ago.”

“It’s not— dangerous.” Even to his own ears, Adam's voice sounds small. “And we didn’t get caught.”

“Yeah. Not us. But others did.”

“You heard about it, too?” The words come out in a rush. 

Charon shoots a look over his shoulder, a flash of surprise he wrestles into something more neutral. “Something..." He hesitates, turning back to the light pole, "Like that. Sure.”

"Sole got in trouble. Uh— Park. The kid who was hosting. The one who..."

"With the ghoul." Charon finishes for him, "Hancock, yeah." He's suddenly as interested as Adam was in aligning the fliers perfectly before he attaches them, "Are you good friends with Sole?"

"Not really. I mean. I still feel really bad he got caught. He's still going to class— I-I, I have a philosophy class with him, that's how I know— so at least it wasn't, you know, an automatic suspension or anything. But I think he's on scholarship, so, yeah." Adam rambles, "It, uh, it really sucks. He could probably lose it, if the ethics council decides on that."

Charon's only response is a grumble. He seems preoccupied. Adam wants to ask him if Charon was friends with that ghoul— though he's not sure how rude that is, on principal, though they did sort of seem to know each other. Or why Charon was there. But he doesn't want to push it.

He also could be heading on his way, now that he's helped Charon and has nothing left to hang. But still he trails after him down the street. He only has a few fliers left as they wait at the crosswalk signal, cars going by in staggered waves odd enough to make jaywalking a nonviable option.

“Hey, uh." The light changes, and they cross, side-stepping a sedan with its nose taking up three-quarters of the box. Adam shoves his hands into his pockets, falling into step with Charon. "Would you... would you want to grab lunch, or something?”

Chancing a glance over at Charon, their eyes meet. Charon opens his mouth, slack-jawed, and then closes it. He turns away. “Hm.” The hum is a little strangled sounding. Adam wishes he would face him, so he can see his expression. He’s sure this is what death feels like. “I. Appreciate the offer.”

“Okay. I uh. It can be, uh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know— I’m not really good—“

“I have work. I have to move—” And he shuts his mouth very suddenly, like a switch being flicked, and his face goes completely neutral, turning his eyes downward. “I have work.”

“N-no, it’s okay, I don’t usually, uh—“

Adam bites his tongue fully, before he says ‘ask people on dates’, because lunch was supposed to be casual in the first place. Charon’s eyebrows raise, but Adam just shakes his head. “Never mind, sorry.”

“No, it’s... fine.” Charon clears his throat.

Adam wants to ask: do you get a lunch break? If you do, when is it? Can I bring lunch and eat it with you? I can bring you lunch and then just leave, if you’d like? Though by the time his thoughts spiral to that point, he realizes its the infatuation talking, and forcibly stomps the fire out. 

“So, I, uh—“ Adam gestures vaguely. He could keep walking with Charon, but he is already incredibly late, and he can feel his pip-boy vibrating with unanswered texts against his knuckles in his pocket. He checks the street signs, “I guess, I’m going this way, so...”

“Huh.” Charon glances up, as well, “Where are you heading, again?”

He hadn’t said it, had he? Adam rubs the back of his neck. “Carol’s Place. It’s a little place on Taylor and 14th?”

Charon’s eyes narrow.

“They— they have good crab cakes?” He supplies, as if that would be the deciding factor in Charon recognizing the restaurant. 

“Yeah,” Charon shakes his head, something frustratingly imperceptible in his tone. “I’ve heard.”  He turns, before glancing over his shoulder, throwing up his arm in a half-wave. “I would say good bye, but I’m sure I’ll see you around again, with our track record.”

Adam’s laughter trills overly nervous. “I’m n-not stalking you, you know.”

Charon’s snort is amused, and though he ducks his head, for a split second Adam catches the grin on his face, and it makes his stomach flip. “Right. I’ll see you around, Adam.”

It’s only by the time Charon’s back is fully receding from view down the block that Adam realizes he should have at least try and ask for his phone number. But the idea of that— that was braver than him, braver than anything he’s ever done before in his life. He swears under his breath, scuffing his boots against the ground. 

Carol’s Place is just two blocks away from the 9th Circle, so it doesn’t take him long to get there at all, though now that he’s checking the time on his phone, he realizes how long he took helping Charon. A text from Gob is coming in— u ok? if u cant come its ok — just as he pushes open the door. The bell rings behind him, and he tries to wipe his feet on the mat in the entry hall before pushing a second glass door into the restaurant.

It’s a small place, with an open kitchen in the back and a little dining room lined with booths and a few tables and chairs with uneven legs. Rundown, but not dirty; it had the air of a place with no frills and amazing food, and it lived up to that with every dish of Greta’s Adam’s ever eaten here. At this time on a weekday, Carol's Place is empty, save for Gob sitting with papers strewn in a booth in front of the door. "I'm sorry I'm late! The bus was kind of— and I ran into a friend—" Adam's sort of breathless from the cold, and the sudden warmth of the restaurant is making him rush to unzip his coat and slide into the bench opposite of Gob. "Just, y'know."

Gob's smile is lopsided. "It's fine. Amata?"

Adam's throat goes a little dry. "Uh, something-- well. Not exactly."

Gob's a good listener, and what with the switched seats in Philosophy class, they haven't spoken in what feels like ages. Gob's older than Amata, less fretful, but he still doesn't tell him everything; just that, well, he met this very tall ghoul that works at the nearby bars, and he has blue eyes, and, well, you know, and he tries not to let his eyes betray how much his heart is flipping in his rib cage, even though he's sure by Gob's expression that he knows. 

"What's his name?"

Adam demurs, "I'll, uh, tell you if I can get him out on a date, finally."

"C'mon, not even a hint?" Gob presses, gently, but the fact that he pushes at all is uncharacteristic enough that Adam almost does spill it.

"I think, if I tell you, isn't that bad luck?"

Gob smiles sort of sadly, chuckling strained at the textbooks spread over the table, "What, did Butch used to make fun of you for having crushes, too?"

"No," Adam frowns, "But. Well. If I had ever told him anything like that, he probably would have, y-yeah."

They spend the rest of the day studying, not that there's much daylight left this late in the year. Of course, as soon as Carol comes out from the back, he's gently cajoled into staying for dinner with them. He's sure Carol's never met a kid she hasn't wanted to feed, but she's so warm to Adam he can't help but feel special for all the kindness she doles out to him. Greta cooks in the back; she's a shade cold, even (and sometimes especially) to Gob, but Carol has enough warmth for the both of them, motherly and doting and perpetually trying to slide more food Adam's way, even when he's beyond stuffed.

"So, I overheard--" She nudges the little plastic bread basket closer towards Adam, ignoring his pitiful stare at it as she bumps it against his cleaned plate. He's already had two with the little pads of foil-wrapped butter along with a portion of meatloaf and mashed potatoes that he's sure is larger than what they usually serve off their menu, "You have a new friend? A crush?"

"Carol," Gob wheezes, placing his fork down.

"Oh, come on, tell us about him, dear." She winks, even as Adam feels the backs of his ears burn. "Or, maybe— I know how you college kids are, how expensive it is nowadays. If you need to take him out on a nice date, you can always bring him here. You know nobody makes better cream of crab then Greta. Maybe a free bowl or two for the two lovebirds—"

Adam sinks into the chair. Greta seems perpetually stuck between frowning at the situation and being flattered by her wife. "Half-priced cups."

"Free bowls," Carol corrects cheerfully, ignoring Greta's long-suffering huff. "I'll even let you use the sherry, as long as anyone isn't around." She teases mildly, and all Adam can do is warble out a weak thanks and finally take another roll.

It's dark by the time he gets on the bus and back to campus, though the bright windows of the dorms and the lampposts and dotting the grounds light his way plenty as he makes his way back to his room. Fumbling for his phone in his pocket, he almost doesn’t realize that the person down the hall is in front of his door— and it’s Butch, no less.

“Uh, hey.” 

“Hey, uh.” Butch is waffling in front of the door. He looks underdressed for the weather, like he just ran out from his building to visit, in a pair of shorts and a haphazardly thrown on leather jacket. Adam frowns.

“Is... uh. Yeah?” He almost asks, if everything is okay, but then he realizes he doesn’t want Butch to yell at him, either. Butch side steps out of the way as Adam waves his Pip-Boy over the handle to unlock his door. He steps in, but doesn’t enter fully, turning around to face Butch, unsure if he wants to let him into his room entirely.

"What’s, uh, what’s up?"

"Nothing much." Butch frowns, "Just wanted to see how you made out after Park's, and all. Amata said you didn't get caught?"

Adam’s too excited to have something interesting to say for once to even think on why Butch didn’t just text him instead of visiting unannounced: “Did you hear? About Park’s? Sole? And like— how he got busted with stuff?” He bursts. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Sarah had told him in confidence.

Butch doesn’t seem surprised, though. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I mean—" He raises his eyebrows, "Not that he had anything on him other than booze, but. That’s crazy. I thought it was just a normal party.”

"Me too."

"He's probably gonna get suspended or expelled. They've been letting him take classes, but..."

"What class do you have with him?" Adam asks.

"Oh, I don't. But I see him walking across campus and he wasn't at practice at Bateman field with everyone else on the team, so..."

"You... you think? Suspension, though?" 

Butch frowns, nodding a little too vigorously. “My only guess. We’ll see when it happens, right? Anyway—“ He reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out his beat-up leather wallet. He flips it open, pulling out a card. “Got you something, since Park’s was such a bust.”

Adam’s eyes widen. “Is that...?” He takes the card from Butch with two hands, holding it up. In the fluorescent light of the dorm, the holographic parts of the ID shine.

Butch smirks. “An ID, yeah. Uh, well, it’s on loan, from Freddie.” He explains, carding his fingers nervously through his hair as he shoves his wallet back into his back pocket. “He’s sick, he’s not going to make it. But that means you can come out with us, at least until he gets better or off his antibiotics or whatever.” 

Adam turns the card over in his hand. It looks real enough to him, though he’s never seen a Nevada ID in his life, and he looks nothing at all like Freddie Gomez. But this is nice, nicer than the one he had before.

“Yeah,” Butch continues, “we’re probably going to go back to the 9th Circle. They have a cat night on Wednesday, tomorrow.” Almost forgetfully, he adds, “You know, girls love shit like that.”

“Oh,” Adam glances up, “Yeah. I know, I saw the fliers.”

“Oh, huh.” Butch’s eyebrows raise, as if he doesn’t believe that Adam knew about it. But he shrugs either way. “Yeah, Amata’s going too. So now you can come."

Charon's words are turning over in his head. "I... I don't know, Butch. Don't you think— maybe it's kind of dumb, but going out..." He avoids Butch's eyes. "I—"

"Look," Butch shifts uncomfortably where he stands, "I know last time, we, uh, we kind of ditched you? But listen, this time it'll be fun. And, I promise,” He ducks down a little, trying to catch Adam’s downward gaze with his own. “I won’t ditch you, okay? C'mon, go out with us?"

He doesn’t know what to say, bashfully looking downward. His tone’s gentle, but there’s still a part of Adam that feels the pressing need to just agree, just in case— but Butch does seem genuine. “Butch, I—“ He chances a smile, and a sense of relief floods over him as Butch mimics it with his own. “Thanks. Really.”

“It’s nothin’.” Butch snorts, shaking his head and rolling his eyes skyward. In the dark, there's a touch of red flushing his face.

Adam swallows, and leans in and throws his arms around Butch in a hug. Under him, he goes so rigid that for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to be thrown off and pummeled on like they’re in middle school again— and then Butch’s shoulders sag, and he doesn’t exactly hug him back, but he does give his shoulder an awkward pat.

“Alright, alright, geez. Like I said, it’s nothin’.”

“I really— I’m glad. I really wanted to go, and—“ Adam pulls back, trying to contain his beaming smile.

"Oh, yeah, wanted to go? You were trying to talk yourself out of it a second ago."

"No, I mean, yeah—" Adam laughs, "Alright, yeah.” He bites his lips, grinning up at Butch, “But, I'm excited now."

Butch grins back, "Yeah, cool." He stuffs his hands back into his pockets. "I'll catch you later, then?"

“Yeah!” Adam waves with the ID in hand, then looks back at the ID. He feels a little incredulous. He’s going to go out. And maybe Charon hadn’t agreed with it, but he’s going to be there, won’t he? “Yeah, see you later, Butch.”

Butch pauses for a beat, as if he wants to say something else. Instead, he shoots Adam an uncharacteristically wobbly smile before he heads down the hall.

Chapter Text

Wednesday nights should not be this busy. It’s unnatural. Thursdays, Charon can stomach. But a Wednesday?

Ahzrukhal has him walking as security through the Ninth Circle tonight, instead of posted at the door, though describing what he’s doing now as walking is a bit of a stretch. It’s more like shuffling, as crowded with drunk college kids as it is. They're well over capacity filled to the brim with, from what Charon can tell, is entirely under twenty-one year olds, a fire marshal's dream shutdown. 

Turning sideways, he shoulders his way through a clustered group, ignoring the surprised stares and drunken grumbles. Most are dressed to the theme; not just the girls in various pieces of quasi-clubwear and cat ears, but even a large number of boys as well, wearing ironic themed t-shirts or sporting their own set of sloppily eyeliner-drawn whiskers and triangle noses.

If they're smart, they move out of the way as Charon pushes through, though he tries not to manhandle anyone more than he has to as he moves through the crowd. Someone bounces off his shoulder back into his path: "Watch where you're going," A kid in a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘I LOVE PUSSY’ slurs.

Charon whips around and practically growls. The music is too loud, as it always is, rattling his eardrums, the base thumping thickly beneath his breast bone; but the teen can hear him, all of his Bobrov's Best-bravado instantly draining away as he flinches and mumbles apologies under Charon's withering gaze. He could haul him outside, but dragging him through the throng of people, possibly inciting him to panic and struggle, would be much more trouble than it's worth, especially since there were at least twenty other look-alike intoxicated children to take his place. One more or one less in the 9th Circle wouldn't make much of a difference tonight. They've been steadily trickling in since nine o'clock.

It helps Charon that he's a head taller than most here. Makes it easier to push through the crowd. He can spy Leo at the bar across the floor, running back and forth between the fridge to grab cans of light beer, cracking them open two, three at a time and sliding them skittering across the bartop towards the demanding throng. There's enough people that when one orders, they're ordering for their friends: mixed drinks and beers and shots. He knows they'll be staying here for at least an hour after close; not just for the cleanup, but to close out and overcharge all the forgotten cards at the end of the night. Charon makes his way through, trying to find open spaces where he can, but mostly pushing. 

When he stumbles into an empty space, he’s almost surprised to see Barrett as the source of it, leaning against the wall between the cocktail-height tables that have been pushed to clear way for more floor room. Seemingly unfazed by the noise, the shifting bodies, wrist-deep in a box of Sugar Bombs. He pulls out a handful to shovel into his mouth. As soon as he spies Charon, he's shouting something, though it's lost in the din.

"What?"

Barrett raises an eyebrow. Charon has to stand closer than he likes just to even hear him, but there's an invisible space around him where none of the bar-goers seem to pass, and that is at least welcome breathing room.  

“It always like this?” Barrett yells.

“No.” Charon scoffs.

“Huh.” Barrett’s eyes wander up to the cheap set of plastic ears Charon has stuffed onto his head. They’re a size too small, one of the many reasons of his growing headache. He shoves his hand back into the box of Sugar Bombs, hiding his growing grin behind his fist. "Nice ears."

"Fuck off." Charon deadpans.

A part of him wonders what Barrett’s doing here. He hasn’t seen Murphy yet, but he’s also been so busy tonight the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He doubts he’s here for cat night. But the less he knows, the better; Charon’s not interested in having a conversation with him, or with anyone, for that matter. He leaves snickering Barrett behind to loiter. 

His boots stick from the spilt beer with each step, freshly lacquered in a new layer from this evening. Next to him, a group of girls shriek; one wobbles where she stands, barely held up in her tottering heels.

"Wait," One of them shrieks, "This is my song, this is my song!"

Charon grumbles under his breath. 

"Move out of my fucking way!" Wooz shouts, bursting from between a wall of bodies, his sweat-slicked hair curtaining the front of his face. He's just as tall as Charon is, but weighs half as much fully-soaked, though he just about looks it; recently he's been suspiciously sweaty and distracted, constantly disappearing in the back to play Tragic or huff jet, Charon doesn't know. Doesn't care, really, as long as he's quick about it and doesn't leave them alone on the floor too long. He almost looks comical hauling three thirties of Gamma Gulp Ice, using the boxes as a makeshift battering ram to push people out of the way.

"This is fucked," He shouts as he makes eye contact with Charon. He keeps futilely twitching his head in an effort to flip his long hair from out of his face. "You need to tell Beatrix we can't let anyone else in."

"Ahzrukhal will love that." Is Charon's only response. 

"Of course he will. Ahzrukhal is stupid as shit." Wooz huffs out a breath that sends a limp strand of hair barely moving, "Is he even here tonight?"

"I don't know."

"'Because I noticed..." Wooz looks pointedly over in the direction where Barrett is standing, though it's impossible to see him from over here. "And thought, maybe he's here?"

"I don't know," Charon repeats, watching as Wooz readjusts his grip on the sweating boxes, "You should get those over to Leo."

Wooz frowns and shrugs, "You should kick out some of these stupid smoothskins," He counters as he pushes by Charon, neither noticing nor caring the few glances of some of the college kids close enough to hear what he was saying.  

“That’s pretty fucked up.” A shorter man next to Charon says to his group of similarly dressed friends, leather jackets and cat t-shirts, purposefully loud enough for him to hear, “This place is shit. Why didn’t we go to Moriarity’s?”

As if Charon could give a shit where they went. Those were the funniest kids that came to the bar, though they didn’t know it. From the corner of his eye, Charon can see the throng of bodies suddenly shift, a loud shout going out over the music. People are shoving. He pushes by the kid in his leather jacket without a second glance towards the fight. 

—

Amata's hand is warm and soft in his as she leads Adam through the crowd; Adam squeezes his shoulders together, tries to fold up into himself. She's brave like that, pushing through without a care, and he just tries to slide through the path she makes before it fills up again with people. They've already lost Butch because he refused to hold Adam's hand, though Amata had agreed he would find his way back to them eventually. And if he didn't, that was okay, too; he had brought some of the boys with him, Wally and Paul.

Whatever this place had looked like when Adam came a few weeks before with Charon's jacket in hand is a distant memory; it's almost unrecognizable in the throng of sweating, loud bodies, especially with the roundabout way Amata is picking her way through the crowd. Over the music, he can hear some shouting; there's a faint ripple in the crowd. Probably a fight, but they're moving opposite of it at least. They stop so suddenly he nearly steps on Amata's heels; he bumps into her back, squished against her miniature Mr. Pebbles backpack.

"Is this the line for the bathroom?"

The girl in front of Amata stares unblinkingly at her. She takes her time to take a long sip of her drink first, the straw avoiding her mouth for a few solid seconds. "What?"

"The bathroom?" Amata repeats.

She turns around, bewildered, "Is it?"

Amata heaves out a sigh, glancing over her shoulder at Adam. "C'mon."

He squeezes her hand tighter as she starts to move. "I think it's near the back?" He stretches up on his tiptoes, trying to see over everyone's heads. The lights are too low to really make much of anything out, if there are even signs for the bathroom. He sees faint exit signs, low lights that lead to what Adam thinks is the back office and emergency exit hallway, but the bathroom—

"Left? Right?" She shouts.

"Left—" 

The music ebbs in, thumps in the back of Adam's skull. Not unpleasantly, but it feels like its taken residence there in the same way the alcohol has wormed its way through his system, something thick and physical. Not unpleasant, but not entirely his alone anymore either. The music's pushed out all of his voices of doubt in his head, leaving them to stumble and drown themselves in the vodka sodas he's been steadily sipping at throughout the night.

He pushes past Amata, still holding her hand. He takes the lead, drink-first, shouldering past people. She squeezes his hand once, twice. Adam sort of remembers the direction the bathroom was in. Even though all the tables have been pushed aside, and he keeps stepping on melting ice cubes. 

"There—" Despite the chaos, there's some semblance of what looks like a line snaking out from a small hallway. This entire night has felt like a series of lines. "Bathroom? Y-yeah, this is it."

"Finally," Amata sighs as they settle into the back of the line, "God, I gotta pee."

Adam laughs. "It's going to be so gross in there."

"I know. I'll just, you know—" He most certainly does not know. She vaguely pantomimes something that Adam can only imagine is an advanced squatting technique, especially since she's still holding a cup in her hands. "Hope for the best."

Adam shrugs, sipping at his drink. He lost the straw somewhere in the shuffle.

"You're coming with, right?" Amata clarifies, "I can touch up your whiskers."

Adam automatically touches his cheek at her words, which probably just smudges them more. He pulls his hand away at her laugh. "Alright— let me do it now, while we wait."

Amata's still look perfect. She did them herself in the mirror, along with her hair, two buns coiled and pinned to her head. She shrugs off her backpack, pulling out a stunted black pencil and holding Adam's chin to keep him steady. She's not drunk yet, he thinks, but she gets handsier when she is; hugs him and holds their hands and slings an arm around Butch's shoulders. The pencil drags against his cheek, pointy where she recently sharpened it. She goes over the old lines, and then adds a fresh layer to his nose, even as Adam squirms under her hands.

"Okay," She scoffs, "Not that bad, see?"

"It's not," Adam admits, though he can feel his hand itching to touch his face again. Instead, he wraps them around the sweating plastic cup in his hands, and takes another long sip. 

“I’m so glad you came with us,” Amata says with a smile, “This is fun, right?”

“Y-yeah,” Adam nods, “I’m just lucky Butch got that ID for me.”

Amata’s eyes roll. “Freddie, right.”

“Right,” Adam tries to change the subject. The line is moving, thankfully; sometimes they stumble out of the doors in waves that must mean they’re going at least two or three to a stall. “But uh, when we’re done, you’re done, with this, we can dance?”

“Yeah.” Amata bumps into Adam with her hip, “Of course.”

He dutifully waits in line with her. It’s not— this is fun, Adam’s convinced, which isn’t that strange, because most of his life he usually has to convince himself something is fun, or that people liked him, or that he shouldn’t be feeling this way or that way. He feels like it should be fun so it is, right? Even though he can’t really hear every other word Amata says, and they’ve spent most of the night standing in line for drinks, and— no, now looking at his phone, Adam notes that they’ve now spent the majority of the night waiting in line for the bathroom.

Amata’s nudge pulls his face out of his Pip-Boy. “C’mon.” The women’s restroom door is being held open by all of the girls in line; there’s a swarm of them at the sinks, adjusting their makeup, talking. He can hear someone sobbing inside; someone else is shouting. “Will you hold my drink when I go in?”

“Yeah—“ Adam shifts forward with the line, inching closer. 

“Hey, hey guy,” Someone from the back calls, “No fucking in the bathrooms!”

Adam feels heat crawl all up his face, automatically turning. He doesn’t know who yelled it; couldn’t find them in line if his life depended on it, but as soon as he makes eye contact with two girls behind them in line with wrinkled noses, he feels embarrassment strike him so hard it feels like a fight or flight response.

“We’re not—!” Amata shouts back, her voice pitching high. “He’s—“

“I-it’s fine—“ Adam rushes to interrupt, already backing away from the door. Amata fixes him with a look. He gestures vaguely; his cup has somehow emptied itself, rattling full of ice. “Didn’t have to pee anyway, right? O-okay? Okay. I’ll meet up later—“

“Adam—“

“I’m gonna—“ He swallows, rapidly inching away from the line, “Get some air.”

—

Charon throws one of the kids from the fight out into the cold one-handed, scruffed like a disobedient kitten; he's sloppy drunk, loose-limbed from the alcohol and an errant punch to the head. There were two in the fight, obviously, but the second one slipped away by the time Charon had wrestled this one aside. He collapses heavily, no autonomous reaction to catch himself, no flinching away from the ground. The sound of his body hitting the pavement sounds too loud; though everything sounds too quiet out here, Charon's ears still ringing from the music inside. Even with the door closed, he can hear the distant thump of the blown-out base.

Beatrix's lips quirk. "The natives gettin’ restless?" Her drawl at least seems amused.

If Charon hadn't seen it so many times, he would have flinched at watching the kid's head bounce off the ground. Instead, he turns to Beatrix on her stool outside the door, and tries not to wonder if Ahzrukhal knows she’s sitting. He exhales, "We're reaching capacity."

"So," She leans back languidly, tilting onto two legs. There are still people in line, anxiously awaiting, though it's considerably smaller than it had been an hour ago. The night was starting to wind down, at least at this end. There are the distant sounds of honks, a few cars passing by. The city grew quiet in the winter, especially at this time of night. "I should start charging cover, then?"

"Ahzrukhal would have your head." He rasps. Not that he hasn’t charged cover before, but he would do worse than fire someone for enforcing one to skim off the top. It stinks of cigarettes out here from all of the smokers; Charon desperately wants to ask Beatrix for one, but he knows he can't be outside long enough to smoke it, even if she did give him one.

"I'm joking." She arches one eyebrow at him.

Charon just frowns. He knows that. “Just make sure he gets up eventually.” He adds, nodding.

“Of course.” Beatrix says, watching the kid on the ground. He’s starting to stir a little; groaning, only to roll over and retch on the pavement. Charon rolls his eyes as Beatrix cackles. A few of the people in line are watching; most are inebriated enough that their attention isn’t really held for long, past taking a photo, though a few seem to be texting and murmuring in his direction. It’s not Charon’s problem, either way. “Someone will figure out who he belongs to.” Beatrix says unperturbed, then suddenly gestures to the next in line to come forward.

“We’re at capacity.” Charon reminds with a grunt, glaring back at the student staring wide-eyed at him as she hands Beatrix her ID.

“And?” Beatrix gestures to the drunk on the ground, “You just threw someone out. One for one.” Behind him, someone pushes past Charon, letting out a warbling ”Bro...” as he dejectedly walks towards the man on the ground. Beatrix holds a manicured nail out, “Two.”

Charon heaves out a sigh. "Alright."

"Hey, also, when you can, would you bring me out some water—?"

"No." Charon answers, already opening the front door to head back inside. He's swallowed back up in the din and the darkness before he can even hear a smart-assed protest, barking at people to clear the entryway as he pushes back into the bar.

In the thick of the dance floor, Charon expects to be bumped into. It's not a heavy bump in the least, barely a jostle, though enough to bring attention to the sight of an ID skittering across the sticky floor between his feet, barely visible in the dark.

"Crap, my ID—"

A month ago, Charon could not think of a situation that he would willingly bend down to pick up some college brat's fallen fake ID from the sticky clutches of the 9th Circle's filthy floor. Unless Ahzrukhal explicitly told him to, and even then, there would be an excessive amount of resistance and grumbling—

Charon squats down briefly, snatching the ID before any errant feet could stomp on his fingers, and stands and turns around in one fluid motion.

"Freddie Gomez?" The kid in the ID is at least four shades darker than Adam, a completely different face shape and a sadly thin mustache, never-mind the fact that he already knows who Adam is.

His glassy eyes widen as he stares up at Charon. "Hi Charon! It's me." He says it, singsong, in case Charon might not realize who he is. He doesn't have a drink in hand, but his cheeks are flushed under the eyeliner smudged across them. His body is rocking just the tiniest bit, swaying with the current of the bass and the roar of people around him. His curls, which had hung loose before, are now gathered tight behind his head into a high bun, making his ears look more pronounced. Any stray hairs not gathered in the bun are pushed back by a cat ear headband; small white polyester flowers adorn the band itself between the black lace ears.

Charon hands the ID back to Adam, and his eyes don't leave his hand until he sees the card disappear safely into his wallet and then his pocket.

"You can't ever just walk up to me and say hi, can you?"

Adam turns red in the low light, says something just a little bit too quietly that sounds like, "Sorry."

Charon shakes his head. "Having fun?" He doesn't know why he says it; such a useless, filler waste of a shout. In a bar where only every other word was heard, something as inane as “how are you” was downright wasteful. 

"Yeah!" He shouts back. Behind him, a few guys push past; he stumbles forward a little, not as full-on as he had when he dropped his ID, but enough that Charon puts out an arm and glares at the guy who glances back. His eyes widen and he makes an apologetic face before moving along.

Adam says something, but it’s lost in the noise of the bar. Charon frowns. So Adam leans in, hand to his bicep, “Are, uh, you having fun?” Adam shouts into his ear.

Charon wants to laugh. "Sure. I’m fine," Charon says, and he can hear Adam shouting something, words that are blurring together with the base of the shitty speakers Ahzrukhal has mounted throughout the bar, "Can't hear—"

"What?"

Charon frowns, pulling back to stare at him, and Adam laughs, bubbly and bright; not at him, but at the frank absurdity of it all, and Charon finds his annoyance softening. 

There was once cat makeup on his face, but Adam obviously doesn't wear makeup often, because what was once whiskers are stunted and smudged. The nose is still dark and untouched. He leans forward into Charon, presses his palm flat to his chest to steady himself, "I like your ears," He shouts, lips directed towards the former shell of Charon's ear. It's normal, in this kind of loud environment, but it feels strangely intimate, the way his fingers splay out against his chest, the tips twitching in a way, almost as if he wants to curl into the cotton and down into the meat of him.

"They're not as nice as yours," Charon says simply. It's not flattery; it's true.

"What?" Adam asks.

Charon heaves out a sigh. Grabbing him by the wrist, he pulls him around the corner, towards the door leading to the back exit hallway. People part for him like oil to water, especially seeing him in his bouncer shirt dragging someone behind. It's an automatic gesture; he had only meant it as the easiest way to lead Adam somewhere they could talk. But as soon as Charon's fingers are on Adam's wrist, he realizes he’s touching him, how soft Adam’s skin is under his fingers, and he lets go with recoil as soon as they've pushed through the heavy door into the separate hallway.

Despite it still being in the same building, the wall of the hallway is pure brick; the sound is muffled, the base thumping distantly as Adam leans back against the wall.

Though it's not an explicitly employees-only area, he was always encouraged to tell people to scram if they loitered near the fire exit too long. The alarm would go off any time before one-thirty in the morning. Generally, Charon only finds people necking or worse in the corners, but it's surreptitiously devoid of anyone except them tonight. It feels at least ten degrees cooler without the press of bodies all around.

"It's... nice to finally breathe." Adam breaks the silence with another laugh. Almost nervous. The only light back here is the neon green glow of the exit sign above their heads. He looks up at Charon with hooded eyes that still seem so vast he could drown in them, smiling moonily.

"Yeah," Charon rasps. His throat feels dry and hoarse from shouting.

"What, uh. What were you saying?"

Charon swallows. He avoids eye-contact. He could lie, but he can't think of one, so it comes out: "Your... the ears. Cat ears.” He gestures up at his own, to clarify, “They're nice." He repeats it in his head, that it's not flattery, it's just a statement of fact. But it feels stupid to even mention, feels strangely soft and honest. 

And then Adam smiles like that, a big genuine flash of teeth with dimples at each corner, and Charon feels his gut clench. "Thank you!" Adam beams.  

"It's..." Charon coughs, hides his mouth behind his fist, "It's nothing."

"Well," Adam laughs self-deprecatingly, "I, uh. I appreciate it." His hand creeps up around his face, grasping air and then hanging limply by his side at the realization his hair was up. "I made it myself. You can't really see the glue strings in this light, I guess. I mean, I made— I just glued stuff," He idly twists his hands together, picks at his fingers, dissolving into a bundle of nervous energy as Charon crosses the space between them. "I didn't actually make it, make it, but I put it together. I should of, uh, I should have made you one, too, really, do you want mine—“

"Adam."

"I'm sorry—" 

Charon huffs. "What are you even sorry for?"

"For—" Adam hesitates. "For being like— l-like this. You're—" And he laughs, nervous and high, petering out quickly, "You're intimidating."

Charon can already feel his hackles rising, taking an automatic step towards him, but Adam is pushing off the wall, waving his hands apologetically, "Not like— not like that! Not the way you're thinking. I think. Not— scary intimidating. L-like you seem confident and to the point and— you’re a really interesting guy.” Charon’s frown softens. Adam’s hands are flailing, twisting, a high-pitched wetness to his words, as if on the cusp on anxious tears. They rinse over Charon in a wave that sends goosebumps across his ravaged skin. “But you're, just. You're something else, you're just— you're very kind and handsome and you're—”

Adam runs out of breath, and sucks in another, sighing, “A-and I'm really bad with words, right now, especially."

"I can tell." Charon says hoarsely.

It feels like it’s just them in a bubble, with the thumping background music of the bar muffled behind the heavy door. Adam swallows twice. Charon can hear it, a wet click. 

“I’m sorry, uhm. That you took my lunch invitation...” The words sound recited, and already they’re dying in Adam’s throat, either because he’s lost his nerve or forgotten them, Charon can’t tell. “As. Uh... asking you out.” He mutters, breath shuddering, “Fuck... I didn’t mean to. O-offend—”

“You didn’t offend me.” Charon says, “I’m gay.”

“Oh!” Adam gasps. He looks a little dizzy at the revelation, eyes shining green in the low light, relief pulling at his slumping shoulders. “Me too.”

Charon pulls his own bottom lip in between his teeth, bites down hard as Adam reaches out and presses a hand to his chest. The other just barely brushes his side, skating hot even through the layer of his tee.

Charon starts. He doesn’t think; he leans in, brings a hand to Adam’s face, cradles his cheek— and then stops. He can’t close the gap, even with Adam staring up at him with hooded eyes, arrested to the spot. Then Adam starts, moving forward an inch, stopping again, leaving them mere centimeters apart. Breathing in each other’s air. The faraway base thumping in time. All Charon would have to do is tilt Adam’s face to his, thumb against his cheekbone. He is so close to breaking.

Charon sucks in a slow breath. He can't clear his head. His hair smells faintly sweet like shampoo, faintly like the acrid tang of cheap beer. Adam looks at him expectantly. 

“You’re drunk.” 

"No. N-no." Adam corrects quickly, his voice hushed, barely a whisper, "I am, I’m a little, I'm tipsy." He says it very earnestly, a very clear distinction in his mind as he curls his fingers into the fabric of Charon’s shirt. "Because—"

Adam turns his face. Their lips brush just so, and it shocks Charon to his core, keeps him stock-still. The tip of his nose brushes against the crook of Charon’s nasal cavity, ticklish, sensitive. Adam doesn't recoil in disgust. "I-I need... A little bit of courage. To do this."

The second time Charon moves, he does not stop; he crushes their lips together, his other hand going to the nape of Adam’s neck, the hairs there soft under his fingertips. Adam makes a broken noise and Charon swallows it, greedily, pushes him back. Adam is clumsy and inexperienced, he can tell, but he clutches onto Charon like a lifeline, stepping in tune with Charon until his back hits the wall.

It is— everything he’s guiltily thought of to himself, everything he’s kept himself from having, and so much more, because it’s real and because it’s happening here, right now. Charon’s crammed Adam up into the corner against the chalky brick, their bodies pressed together, his forearms boxing him in. 

Charon halts. Adam's hands are insistent; untucking his tee from his jeans, slipping under to touch his dry skin. He doesn’t flinch at the texture. Adam’s lips are clumsy, but eager and trying to keep up pace. His hands are warm against his sides.

“Adam...” He mumbles against his lips.

“This—“ Adam starts, and then stops again, self-distracting with Charon’s lips against his own, kissing him sweet and soft, “This is a bad idea, isn’t it?”

Charon huffs in an effort to hide his smile, and feels Adam’s lips moving back against his own. “Yes.”

“Okay.” His fingers are still on his waist, though, tapping up his skin like their own language. Recognition. Okay. But they’re still moving, and Adam pushes into his embrace, kisses him again. And Charon lets him, more than lets him, their lips sliding slick against each other’s, Adam’s mouth parting. Adam moaning, quiet and shaky as Charon’s tongue dips in—

“Hey,” Adam breaks suddenly. He swallows air like he can’t breathe it properly, a fish left out on dry land. He looks up at Charon, and his eyes are bright and sort of wild, a frizzled curl having come loose and hanging in his face. Automatically, Charon brushes it out from his eyes, and the shy smile that crosses his face after makes Charon’s arm wrap around him tighter. “You— y-you want to go back to your place?”

Charon licks his lips, pulling back enough just to properly look him in the eye. Adam’s are slightly swollen, spit-slick and shining. He wants to kiss him again. 

“I can’t. I have to stay until closing.” Is what he says. Not, that he shouldn’t. Though even that branch feels heavy, because— he wouldn’t want to take Adam back, not like this. Not something slightly drunk and sloppy. Because he wants— God, he wants. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Adam breathes the words, slightly muffled under his fingers that are touching his lips, like he’s trying to press the feeling of the kiss into his skin, imprint the feel of Charon there. It’s such a tender moment, so honest, and it’s making Charon’s heart thud stupidly in his chest, the sight of him starry-eyed and bruised lipped. All of the drawn-on whiskers have rubbed off, only a slight smudge on his nose. “It’s— I understand.” He looks up at him, trying to hide his ecstatic smile and failing. “I really— I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

Charon doesn’t know what to say, shaking his head, rare embarrassment creeping up his throat and strangling him into silence. 

“I’m serious.” Adam says, slightly mystified. “I really wanted to do that for a while. And— and I did it—”

“Okay.” Charon grumbles.

“N-no, seriously, I...” He trails off. “You’re very handsome.” Is what he finally settles on.

“That’s—“ Charon’s voice is full of gravel, “Alright. I’m not a good person.”

“I don’t... think you’re bad.” Adam says, looking at his feet scuffing against the ground. 

“That’s great.” Charon replies shortly, “Not true.”

Adam looks up at him. “You...” He tilts his head, and his chest vibrates with a suppressed chuckle. “You try really hard.”

Charon feels his mouth go a little dry. 

Adam’s smile is small. “M-me too.”

Charon shakes his head with a short laugh. He’s not going to fight Adam on that. He does try; he tries hard, all the damn time. Mostly for what feels like survival, instead of— whatever Adam does, helping what seems like the greater half of DC for no discernible reason. Which is undeniably stupid, and yet somehow makes him want to kiss him again until they’re both dizzy from it.

"I, uh." Adam mumbles, "Let me—" He fumbles with his pockets, Charon stepping back to give him room, before finally pulling out his phone. He hands over one of those newer Pip-Boy 3000s, with the slide out keyboard and the touch screen. "You want, uh. My number? Or— I mean. Put your number in. If you want." Charon feels impossibly out of touch trying to maneuver his thick fingers over the keys, which feel strangely sensitive compared to his own junky cell, but he punches his number into the blank address space. “Y-you can uh— if you don’t want to, you can put in a fake number. If. If you feel threatened, uh.” Adam is speaking words, though by the looks of his face, he doesn’t seem to really believe them himself. Though the idea that Charon would be threatened by Adam, all five foot nothing of him gesticulating nervously in a set of cat ears, nearly makes him laugh, “My friend Amata does that sometimes, so guys can’t call her—“

Charon arches his brow. “It’s my real number.”

“Yeah? Y-yeah.” Adam exhales.

Charon hesitates over the name, but finally taps out 'CHARON'. Adam peers questioningly around his shoulder.

"There," He hands his phone back.

"Thanks." Adam hooks a thumbs over his shoulder, "I should— I should probably get back to Amata?"

"Of course." Charon mumbles. And he should get back to the bar and back to work, before anyone noticed his absence. 

"I'll, uh. I'll text. Or call?” 

“Text works.” Charon grumbles, “I’m not—“ he almost wants to say that old, as if he can’t text, but he’s not going to touch that, not right now. 

Adam's grin is lopsided. "Alright." He ducks his head, "A-alright. Okay."

He practically bounces down the hallway, and he spins on his heel and gives Charon a little hand-wave as a goodbye before he opens the door. The music comes thrumming back with a vengeance as he pushes back out into the bar.

And then the door slowly, slowly closes with a soft click, the music fading once more behind it, save the low bone rattling thrum of the base.

Charon exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, long and slow and impossibly loud by himself. He rubs a hand up and over his mouth— his kiss-softened lips, fuck, and the thought is simultaneously so alien and terrifying it could make his knees shake— across his face and rakes it through his hair in one long, slow motion in an effort to collect himself. 

"Fuck." He presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “Fuck.”

The door swings open.

“There you are, Charon,” Ahzrukhal rasps over the music suddenly pouring into the hallway. Something fast-paced and steady. Behind him, Murphy and Barrett walk by as he holds open the door for them. Charon knows he looks startled, even as his body snaps into its usual straight-backed pose, his face wrestled to neutral. “I trust everything is fine... down here?”

There’s an unsaid question there that Charon refuses to acknowledge. Murphy at least tilts his head in some sort of greeting, but Barrett is stony-faced and silent as they pass. Charon’s eyes are drawn to the suitcase in Barrett’s hands. “Of course.” His gaze flicks up, back to Ahzrukhal. “Will that be all?”

Ahzrukhal’s lips twitch into something of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, Charon. That will be all. So gracious of you to ask.” He half turns to Murphy, holding his arms out to guide them on. But they’ve been here so often recently, Charon doubts they need it. “Please, gentlemen. Charon, the alarm, would you mind?” He clicks his tongue to his teeth, like calling a dog, “Then back to the floor.”

“Sure, whatever.”

Ahzrukhal's lips pull over his teeth.

“There’s something on your face.”

Without another word, Charon stomps out and back down the hall, towards Ahzrukhal’s office; off-handedly, he wipes at his cheek. Black eyeliner flakes off against his knuckles. 

—

Adam doesn't look for Amata. He knows he should. But Butch is here too, with Wally and a few of the other guys from highschool. And he knows it's wrong to expect Butch to be the responsible-ish one in this. Amata usually is. But— he doesn't want to be. Not this time. And usually he gives in to that feeling, having to always help others, having to put others first before him, and—

He's not going to do it. He's decided that, egged on by the little rush of adrenaline, the feel of Charon's lips on his own. The way his head is pleasantly swimming. 

People push past Adam for the exit with little recognition of him being there; he eventually manages to squirm his way out of the front door. The night winter air hits him so hard it momentarily knocks the breath out of him. His lungs hurt when he inhales, or maybe its just the remnants of the smokers’ secondhand from outside. He can hear the music from out here, muffled in layers, thumping in a steady beat. 

The bouncer at the front, a ghoul with red lips and a cowboy hat, barks at him to move away from the door, and he does so before she can threaten to get him barred entirely, even though now that he’s outside he’s sure he’s not going back in. A part of him wants to see if he can bum a cigarette. Not because he even wants one— he tried it once, and nearly threw up from the taste— but it just seems like one of those nights. He wants to try everything. He wants to do everything. He feels unstoppable. 

“Hey!”

Adam blinks, eyes bleary, and he has to scrub a hand over his face. There’s a kid— he looks vaguely familiar, like he’s definitely a student, but he can’t place him at all. Especially as he is now, wearing a cat-themed union suit and a pair of sunglasses at night. He has a pair of cheap cat ears tucked into a slicked back black bouffant, which is so perfectly coiffed it may be a wig, though Adam can’t tell in the soft lights of the street lamps.

“You wanna hear a song?” He wiggles his ginger eyebrows upward. He’s holding a small guitar, or maybe its a ukulele, Adam can’t tell.

Adam opens his mouth to ask— a lot of things. What he was wearing, what he was doing. Did he go to their school? Does he know him?

He closes his mouth, and nods. “Yeah?” Is all he says instead.

The guy laughs, beginning to strum, “Awesome.” 

The bouncer at the front doesn’t seem to care since they’re not blocking the entryway. Maybe she’s seen weirder. Adam leans back against the brick wall, watching him. He doesn’t recognize the song, and he’s not sure if that’s because it’s being played on a ukulele by a red-nosed guy in cat footie pajamas at almost one-thirty in the morning, or if it’s because he doesn’t know the song in the first place. 

Adam finds his body swaying with the tune, grinning shyly as Ukulele starts to sway in tune with his music.  

The guy starts to sing. Adam definitely doesn’t recognize the song. But it’s upbeat, and fun, and Ukulele is surprisingly good at it, which makes sense, considering he’s apparently bringing musical instruments everywhere, like on a Wednesday night to a dive bar. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just what kind of night it is, but Adam finds himself pushing off of the wall.

Adam dances, closing his eyes as he spins. And there’s— something in the moment, being by himself, in the cold that’s slowly sapping the feeling from his fingertips. He wishes he could articulate it. But then it probably wouldn’t feel like this, magical and fragile. Voicing what was happening would shatter the illusion. Which was how this night felt. Too good to be real, like he’ll wake up tomorrow morning in his dorm, realizing he never even made it out and passed out smelling of mutfruit vodka in his bed. That it couldn’t have possibly been the real him, but a dream him that had the courage to cram himself into a taxi with Amata and Butch, to be brave enough to kiss Charon.

But he’s here now. He keeps his eyes closed and lets his arms flail, not caring how he looks dancing. 

Ukulele strums his instrument, once, twice, and Adam does one last spin. When he opens his eyes, the song ends, and the crowd of smokers and few stragglers that are trying to get back into the bar give their scattered applause, and a few people drunkenly whoop. Ukulele exaggeratedly bows first, and when he sees Adam standing there, he steps forward and hooks his arm into his, grinning. Adam smiles back, nodding, and the second time, they bow together.

Chapter Text

Butch looks positively green. “How can you eat that?”

“Eat what?” Adam asks, pausing before he takes another bite of his sloppily folded breakfast burrito.

Butch’s nose wrinkles. “That— Fuck, the smell of eggs—“ His body bobs upward with a small, closed mouth burp. He raises a hand to his mouth, breathes in deep through his nose, and lets it out in a long, pained groan. 

Adam tries to avert his eyes, if not for Butch’s pride, than for the sanctity of his own stomach. “Maybe... you’d feel better if you ate something.” He mumbles, glancing over, “The both of you.”

Amata, at least, looks a little better than Butch. That wasn’t much of a competition; Butch, slumped over the table, simultaneously sweaty-headed and dry lipped, looked closer to ghoulification than a nineteen year old in his prime. Amata at least looked a little more hydrated, but there was still mascara clinging in clumps to the corners of her eyes. She holds up her sweating glass of water to her forehead. "I... can't eat." 

The morning after (though strictly by college standards, as it was nearing one-thirty in the afternoon) was not being entirely kind to Butch or Amata. Drumlin cafeteria, though still filled with the normal sounds of pans clanging and plates being cleaned, seemed sympathetically subdued in the dining room for a Thursday. Adam felt fine. He woke up with a dry mouth, but otherwise he felt fine. Good, even.

That really had nothing to do with what he did or didn't drink, though. He had rolled over and grabbed his phone first thing— not that it was unusual in itself, but he had opened the address book and just stared at Charon's name and number in the cocoon of his blankets. (And had nearly accidentally called him in his morning fog, fat-fingering the buttons. He thinks he canceled the call before it really went through. Charon hadn’t called back, at least.)

Amata groans, “I... I stole a soap dispenser.”

Butch does a double take. “Like... a bottle?" He leans in, "A pump?”

“No.” Amata says, leaning forward. Some of the water sloshes out over the edge of the glass, down her fingers and over her chipped manicure as she cradles her head. “Just... one of the ones you find on a wall. A dispenser.” She takes in a sudden, sharp inhale, holding a hand to her chest, and then lets out the tiniest, wettest burp. Butch tries not to grimace. “Off of the wall... God, oh my God. What did we drink last night?”

“Oh, I remember that.” Adam pipes up, “You showed it to me. You put it in your cat backpack.” He lets himself finish chewing, swallowing thoughtfully. “You seemed really, uh, happy with it?”

“Because I was drunk!" Her voice rises with sudden panic, and Butch flinches. A nearby table of older kids, possibly juniors, glances over their shoulders at them. Butch and Amata don’t seem to notice. She shoots Adam a bleary glare. "You should have— what if I get in trouble?”

“I— I really don’t think you’ll get in trouble.” Adam mumbles, feeling strangely sage and sensible after last night. He feels simultaneously wise beyond his years and younger than he’s ever been. “What, uh, I mean, what are they really going to say?" He gestures with his burrito at the two of them, "These underaged kids stole my soap?”

“I think they’d get in trouble admitting you were there in the first place.” Butch agrees in a rare moment of clarity, though it's promptly ruined by another wet sounding burp. His forehead falls down to the wood veneer tabletop with a thump. Adam scoots his plate closer to himself.

Amata groans, “You’re right.” She sighs. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Do you have drunk Grognak strength?” Butch asks, voice muffled against the table, “Are those even easy to take off the wall?”

“Ugh, I don’t— I don’t know.”

“Politician’s daughter, stealing soap—“

“Don’t even joke about that.” Amata cuts him off with a hard stare to the top of his head; the force behind it is potent enough he must feel it, because he falls silent right after.

Amata suddenly looks at Adam pointedly, tired of having the focus on her. “Where did you even go last night? I lost you when you went to the bathroom.”

Adam freezes. “I... needed some air and went outside.” He’s already decided he’s not going to tell them about Charon. About the kiss, even though the thought of it makes his heart want to leap out of his chest. He shrugs, though it doesn’t move Amata’s stare at all. As tired as she is, she’s always been good at reading Adam. Though, he doesn’t think he’s very complicated in the first place. “Uh...” He gives himself a moment in finishing his burrito, “There was a guy in cat pajamas? Playing a guitar?”

That’s weird enough to pull attention away. “What?” Butch deadpans, picking up his head just enough for Adam to see his eyebrows halfway up. 

Amata winces, “A guitar?”

“I swear. W-well,” He clears his throat, “Maybe it was a ukulele. There really was, though...”

“Huh,” Butch drops his head back down against the cool table, “maybe it's the same guy Wally said he saw in a gorilla suit playing a banjo during Halloween.” Butch offers. Amata frowns. Wally was a notorious liar.

“Yeah, uh. And, after that, some people from school I kind of recognized were taking a cab back, and let me ride back with them.” Adam says, “Then I went to bed. I— I should’ve called you guys.”

“You should have called," Amata sighs, finally sagging back in her seat, "or texted...” She adds, but seems satisfied with the answer. 

—

Adam:  2:25PM

hey charon this is adam

from wednesday

Charon

From just Wednesday?

Read 2:30PM

Adam:  3:00PM

also other days

you know who this is right

Charon

Adam

Yes

Adam

Ok

ok

sorry

wednesday was fun

Read 3:05PM

Charon: 5:11PM

It was

Charon: 5:45PM

Sorry I can’t text at work.

Adam: 5:49PM

its ok

totally understandable

one hundred percent

anyway I have class

And homework and i have to study

Maybe i could see you friday?

Charon: 8:12PM

I work Friday.

Adam

All day?

Adam: 8:30PM

I mean whenever you’re free.

Sorry. I just wanted

Adam’s fingers hover over the keyboard of his pip-boy. What does he want? He wants— to take Charon out on a date. Or be taken out on a date, or— whatever, just eat a meal together. Talk together. He doesn’t know how to finish the text; the words sit uselessly in the bubble. He lets out a small wail of frustration, alone in his dorm, letting the phone plop facedown on his bed next to his spread out textbooks and notes. He follows after, pressing his face against his pillow. He wishes he wasn’t so— lame, and useless, and inexperienced.

Next to him, his phone vibrates. Adam goes still. He gives it thirty seconds before he rolls over and snatches it back off of the bed.

Charon: 8:45PM

Next Wednesday night I am free. I would like to take you out somewhere for dinner. Around six?

Adam drops his phone. He punches the air— and then does it again, whooping out a “yeah!” In the quiet of his dorm room that, if he weren’t the only one there, would have been embarrassingly loud and silly. But instead it feels good. His heart is pounding. He re-reads Charon’s text once, twice. He knows he’s grinning at nothing in particular. 

Adam: 8:47PM

What about

He backspaces. He doesn’t want to choose. Charon is taking him out. Maybe he has a restaurant in mind? He tries again:

Adam: 8:50PM

That sounds great

No, that sounds lame. That’s a lame response. Adam tries again.

Adam: 8:53PM

lol nice

Backspace, backspace.

Adam: 8:55PM

I would love nothing more than to go to dinner. We dont even have to go to dinner, we could go to your apartmen 

No. No. Backspace, backspace, backspace—

Adam: 9:00PM

I love dinner.

It’s the dumbest thing he’s typed with his own two thumbs, possibly in his entire life. But the typing bubble has popped up on Charon’s end, so Adam jams the send button with fervor and instant regret. The ellipses disappears. Adam groans, screwing his eyes shut.

“I’m— an idiot—“

His phone vibrates.

Charon: 9:00PM

Food is good.

Adam: 9:01 PM

Yeah food is great

Adam pushes enter and immediately regrets it with an exacerbated groan.

Charon: 9:05PM

Wednesday, at 6:00PM. I will pick you up.

Adam: 9:06PM

Ok hanks

Hanks? Hanks? He had meant thanks— and why did he say thanks, why thanks, has he been sending so many emails to professors—

Charon: 9:06PM

You’re elcome.

Adam huffs out a little puff of amused air at his phone screen. He presses his pip-boy to his chest, just to stare at the ceiling and let the feeling of it wash over him. 

—

Gob looks startled when Adam slides into his old seat next to him in Philosophy, but pleasantly so. It instantly assuages any guilt Adam had in abandoning him in the first place. And now, he doesn’t feel strange about abandoning his other seat next to Sole. 

Vaultie steals a glance over his shoulder. Half the row seems empty, besides. Maybe a few people had dropped out, though it seemed late in the semester to really do that.

“Hey, drunkie.”

Adam coughs out an embarrassed chuckle, tearing his attention back towards Gob. “Drunkie?!”

Gob laughs as he pulls out his textbook from his backpack. “Oh? So you didn’t go to that party?”

The panic that creeps up Adam’s throat is strangling. How do so many people know about this? “I-I mean...”

Gob flashes Adam a mirthfully apologetic smile, “Hey, I didn't mean— I'm just joking. I wasn’t invited. So, I wouldn’t know—“”

Adam tries to shrug nonchalantly. “I was there.” 

Gob’s face flashes with surprise. “You were—“

Dr. Dashwood’s shoes tapping against the linoleum are almost as loud as his greeting at the front of the class. “Hello, class,” He never wastes time getting everyone to settle down, pulling down the projector screen as he moves to his desk. He clears his throat and pitches his voice a little louder. “Good morning.”

The residual noise of chatter and students settling into their seats fade away. The words die in Gob’s mouth, though he flashes Adam a concerned look before turning towards the front of class. Gob was not the type to try and talk through a lecture, not like Park. He was attending on financial aid, hyper-aware of his grade at all times. Besides, they’re past Plato and the cave by now, onto denser materials that Adam has to concentrate on to really understand. 

Dashwood dismisses them with a few minutes left in class. On both sides, people start to gather their materials to pack up, or are already halfway out of their chairs. Gob and Adam both lean back together as a few people squeeze past.

"So you went to that party...? I was only joking, because, you know..." He tilts his head back towards the now empty seats Adam had sat at.

It takes him a minute to remember what they were talking about before an hour-long lecture on Heidegger. "Yeah," Adam hunches his shoulders. "I mean. Just for a little bit. It was— i-it was just a party."

Gob only lets out a little “huh,” as the last of the row shuffles past them. When it’s clear, Adam bends over and starts to pack his bag away. Gob stands and waits for him to finish before they exit together, falling in step into the halls.

Gob looks at his feet as they walk. Adam clears his throat.

"I didn't... get caught, or anything. I mean..” Adam tilts his head fretfully side-to-side, “I know Sole did."

"And Preston, and Sturges." 

"Them too? I guess, well. They live there.”

“Yeah, right. But they didn’t get it as much as...” Gob hesitates, glances over his shoulder at him. "You know what happened with Sole, right?"

Sometimes, Adam forgets how small this school feels. Rumors ripped through like wildfire in a matter of days. "I, uh. No." Adam frowns, "He's just going to go to the ethics council, right?"

Gob shakes his head. "I don't think so. They... there was a guy there that had a lot of stuff on him."

"Hancock." Adam says.

Gob looks warily at Adam.

"That was his name? The ghoul, right—"

"I don't know." Gob rushes. Even Adam knows he’s being avoidant. He falls silent. "All I know is that whatever Sole is in trouble for, it's not just an ethics hearing and writing an essay, y'know?" Gob mutters, "It's... apparently it's serious."

Adam's eyes go wide. "Like...?

Gob nods. "Expulsion."

"Wow, that...” Adam trails off. It’s a heavy thought that feels stranger still walking through campus in the middle of the day. He doesn’t want to think what would have happened to him if he had been caught there standing with Sole and Hancock.

And Charon. 

He hadn’t really delved into why Charon was there. He hadn’t seen the bouncer at any college parties before; he didn’t seem the type, not like some he’s heard about, that went to go get wasted for free and preyed on drunk girls. If anything, he had seemed like he wanted to be any place but there. At least until they started talking; well, Adam likes to think that. Hopes that’s true, since they’re going on a date, besides. 

“You’re pretty lucky.” Gob mentions offhandedly. 

“Yeah... yeah,” Adam agrees, half-jokingly adding, “No more parties for me. Guess— guess I’ll just stick to going out now.” 

Gob frowns, “You know, bars can get in real trouble if they get caught serving under-aged...”

“Y-yeah, but...” Adam frowns, “I'm just using it at the 9th Circle, not anywhere, y-y'know— no real bars. Wouldn’t you be happier if they got shut down anyway? It’s not—“ He laughs nervously, “it’s not like Carol’s.”

Gob sets his jaw. “It’s not.”

"Right? So—"

"So," Still looking straight ahead, Gob says, "It's just not safe. The people who work there are all— they're just a bunch of assholes.”

Adam's nervous laughter dies out quickly. "I mean. Not everyone there is bad."

"Yeah?"

"I mean— there's a, uh, bouncer there. He's really nice." Adam looks at everything but Gob as they walk, "Really nice.”

Gob’s face is scrunched up. “Bouncer?”

He likes Gob. Maybe it’s weird he trusts him sometimes more than Amata or Butch, even though he’s known him for less time. “Y-yeah,” Adam says, “The... guy I was talking about when we were studying?” Gob looks plainly confused, but Adam keeps going, “He’s one of the bouncers at the 9th Circle. His name’s Charon, and we’re going on a date on Wednesday— a real one, at a restaurant, not like the dining hall, or anything. A-and—“ He exhales shakily, shooting Gob a nervous smile. “You’re the first one I’ve told, actually. I’m, uh. Excited.”

Gob falters. “Well...” His lips quirk in a half-smile. “I’m glad for you, Adam. Really.”

“Yeah?”

Gob reaches out to pat Adam’s arm awkwardly. “Yeah.” When Adam flashes him a beaming smile, he looks away. “Real happy for you.”

—

Charon is good at making split-second decisions. The kid is clearly under-aged, highschool-age, even, with baby fat on his cheeks and no stubble to be seen. And not only that, he’s cocky, because he doesn’t even pull an ID out or wait in line. He walks right up to Charon like he owns the place.

“Back of the line.” Charon grunts, sticking his arm out to block the entryway, not bothering to look up from the ID in his hand. He finds it easiest to not even give these types the recognition of eye contact, let alone the time of day; if the kid wants to fight, he’ll want to fight, regardless of how Charon responds. But generally, ignoring and firm repetition of the rules could cower most of the simpering idiots who thought, as god's gift to man, they could simply waltz up to the door and be let in without any problem. 

“I’m not going to the back of the line,” The kid laughs, loud.

The ID in hand is from Pensylvania— with only one n, instead of two. Part of him wants to point this out to the owner of the card, but instead he hands it back to the girl, who keeps staring at the young teenager. He has to tap the knuckles of her suspended hand with the edge of the card to pull her attention back. “Go on through.”

She skitters past him to the door. The next girl looks hesitant to approach, one hand in her purse, especially with the teen still standing there. But he’ll tire eventually. Charon gestures to her to come forward.

“Will you get out of my way, zombie?”

The girl at the front freezes at the word, her ID clamped tight in her outstretched hands. The line falls silent. Charon takes the card, finally and slowly looking over to size up the teen. No, he was right. It is just a kid. He’s pallid, washed out by limp straw-colored hair, the only color on his face found in the acne dotting his forehead and his bright green eyes. “You can leave.”

The kid sneers, “I’m not fucking leaving.”

Charon hands the ID back to the girl at the start of the line. “Go in.” He hadn’t looked at the card, and she doesn’t care, either, rushing past him into the 9th Circle. He wants to snap him in two, but instead, he’s boring a hole through his head with his glare alone. He steps forward.

To his infuriating credit, he seems content to ignore Charon, turning to the next girl at the head of the line, who is wisely standing away from the two of them. “Hey, baby,” His nasal vocal fry stretches the word until it’s a purr: bay-beee. “What’s up?”

The girl frowns at him, inching away and back towards her friends behind her in line. 

Charon shifts his bulk, growling. “Get the fuck out of my line.”

“Aw, girl, come on.” The teen whines, briefly, the only one in a ten foot radius to be ignoring Charon. “I’ll see you inside?”

Charon reaches for him, and the kid steps back, suddenly, his face growing cold, hard. He holds up a finger. “Don’t touch me, shuffler.”

Charon advances. “I’m going to throw you—“

“Ahzrukhal is expecting me.”

“Yeah?” He stops, but only an inch away, towering over him. Ahzrukhal doesn't fraternize with his patrons. Most of the students who go here know the bouncers, the bartenders, but they don't know Ahzrukhal. “And who is he expecting? Some snot-nosed little punk?” Charon growls.

“Myron, baby.” 

He reaches out and actually pats Charon on the cheek. The touches are sharp and light, like he’d rather be touching anything else. It takes him by surprise, but Charon snatches his arm immediately. He can feel the bones in his wrist shift under his grasp. They’re delicate enough Charon feels he could break them with one good squeeze.

Myron’s eyes flash momentarily with fear. In the low light of the doorway and the street lamps, he can see a sheen of sweat across his upper lip, that faintest trace of barely post-pubescent hair. He licks his lips, grinning widely. “Be a good little lackey and get your boss for me, huh?”

Charon’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening. “I can’t leave the door, and you’re clearly under-aged. I suggest you leave.”

“I suggest you be careful who you’re talking to. The Mordinos wouldn’t look too kindly on something like—“ He tries to jerk his hand away suddenly, but he’s not strong enough to break Charon’s hold, and what was supposed to be a dramatic move just turns into a child’s tantrum trying to break free of an irritated parent’s steely grip, his arm flailing useless in Charon’s grasp. “This— this—!“

Charon squeezes. A flash of panic crosses the kid’s face.

“Charon!”

He doesn’t need to turn around. But he unhands Myron, watching him scrabble back a safe distance and petulantly rub at his wrists. When Ahzrukhal rounds on them, he looks subtly pleased, though he’s sure to look suitably annoyed when Myron glares over at him.

“What the hell is with your bouncers here?”

Ahzrukhal’s lips are pulled thin over his teeth, his breathing brassy in his throat. “My apologies. Charon obeys without question, and I hadn’t...” He gives Myron a once over. Charon’s been around him for too long, can see the annoyance pulling lines on his face that he’s smoothing over with honeyed words. He hadn’t been expecting a kid, either. “Well. Let’s get you inside, then, and you can talk to Uncle Ahzrukhal?”

“Uncle?” The kid cackles out a shrill laugh, but he starts to follow Ahzrukhal all the same, “Alright, friend, lead the way.”

Ahzrukhal flashes Charon an incomprehensible look as he leads Myron past Charon and through the door. Charon steps out of the way; neither of them give him a second glance, though the crowd of curious, tipsy kids in line are starting to swell with chattering noise that only gets louder when the doors close.

“I’m, uh,” A kid at the front of the line slurs questioningly, “I know Ahzrukhal too?”

If the glare that Charon bores into his head doesn’t sober him, the pocketing of his ID does, and he sputters indignantly as Charon steps forward.

“Get out of my line.” He barks. It is the beginning of a very long night.

—

Charon: 3:45AM

Sorry if this wakes you.

I have to cancel for Wednesday.

Work

Charon: 4:00AM

Sorry

—

When Charon turns around from locking the front doors of the 9th Circle, he's not exactly expecting Adam to be there. The surprise is evident enough on his face before it crumples into something guarded, neutral. But there Adam is, of course, three o’clock in the morning, bundled up and standing with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He almost feels just as surprised that Charon is there, but that's ridiculous, because he works here; he's the one that's supposed to be here, not him.

But he’s been bold lately, and maybe since that’s been working for him, he thought he’d keep up the trend. It was worth the cold fingers. He forgot gloves; it was chillier than he realized it was going to be.

Adam opens his mouth. No noise comes out, and then he says, very rushed: "Come have dinner at me," before Charon can fully turn around, and then he stutters and stumbles over the words, "With me, not at— I meant— with—" By the time he takes even a few steps out of the doorway. 

Charon's brow rises, silently questioning.

"Go to dinner... with me?" Adam repeats, a little bit more coherently. The vestigial skin still clinging to the edge of Charon’s nasal cavity flare at his sharp exhale.

"It's past four AM." He mutters.

"I know," Adam's face brightens. He takes a few steps forward. 

Charon takes a half-step back. He glances over his shoulder, towards the door of the bar. 

Adam clears his throat, "I have a friend, and, uh. Carol's Place, it's still open, right now? Just for us?" His voice cracks a little with hopeful nervousness at the end, gut clenching. “They, uh. Our own table, and everything. I mean, the whole restaurant is empty, really, but we have our own table. Just because, I know with work, how busy you are. So I thought I'd help, and work around it, and—” Adam sucks in a breath, "Take... take you out instead."

Silence stretches between them. Charon stands motionless in the doorway; his coat looks too thin for this type of cold. He grimaces. "I don't think I'm allowed in there."

Adam tilts his head. When he shakes it, his curls bounce around his face. "No, it's— it's okay. I promise."

"No," Charon says, firmer this time. He finally pushes his way out from the door frame, hands shoved into his pockets. The light on the building that illuminates the yellowed 'The 9th Circle - Bar and Grille' sign makes him look tired. "I'm not."

"I promise, you are.” He insists. Of course Carol was on-board. She couldn’t wait to meet this ‘new beau’ of his, enamored just as much as he was with the romanticism of a late-night dinner for two. “I asked Carol, she, uh— it's her place, you know, like the sign, and even Greta was okay with—"

"I beat the shit out of their son."

Adam goes quiet, so sudden he swears he can hear his teeth click together from the snap of his jaw. 

“Listen, the other night—“ Charon stops, letting the words hang. He continues on a separate, much easier to articulate point. Grounding out, as if it was painful, "I'm not a good person."

Adam sucks in a sharp breath, trying to start a sentence, but the word turns into a confused, high-pitched noise. He tries again. "That was you?"

The only reason he had met Gob was because his arm had been broken, and Adam had offered to write and share his notes with him. Adam had asked how it happened, just to make conversation: "Workplace accident," he said easily enough. Adam’s gotten into fights before. Been beaten. He’s never had anything broken before. 

Charon cringes, has at least the decency to look chagrined. "Ahzrukhal... needed him out."

"Why did you listen to him?" 

Charon sucks in the side of his cheek between his teeth, so he has something to bite down on. "... I'm not a good person." Is what he finally settles on, staring past Adam. Only when Adam takes a step forward does he flinch into action, moving backwards, yet again. Pressing himself into the door frame, which his back seems to mold to by habit. 

Adam shakes his head, looks up at the sky, just for something else to focus on. A car passes by, bumping over the salt and potholes dotting the road. How a city so full of people can feel so quiet, so small, Adam will never know. “This is, uh. Is this about your passport?”

Adam can feel Charon’s gaze on him, before he actually looks to confirm. It feels like a gunshot between his ribs. His blue eyes are all glassy and his face is contorted into something very vulnerable. 

“My what?” 

Adam knows Charon heard him. He could back off, if he was smarter, maybe, but his mouth is moving on its own in a hurried effort to explain himself, “Your passport. I overheard... “ 

Charon peels himself from the doorway, stepping back into the light, towards Adam. “Overheard from who?” His voice rises at the end.

But Adam is too far in this, now, even as Charon stalks forward, “I, uh. When I went to return your jacket. I don’t—“

Charon walks through shadows as he approaches Adam. His face flickers in each change of light slanting from the street lights, like that time Adam fell asleep against his arm in the metro. But this time, it's not in the soft, safe warmth of safety. Each change, and his face grows colder, and colder. “Is this a game to you?” Fear, anger, a snarl: “Why are you here?”

Adam shrinks. “I-it’s not. I don’t—“

“You don’t even realize how good you have it.”

“L-look, please. Listen. I’m not—“

He could bolt. That hare-sprint instinct is coursing through him, jittery adrenaline starting a patch of hot sweat prickling up his spine. But he lets Charon close in on him, with only a few intimate inches in-between. Like a mockery of the shared moment in the hallway, not touching, though Charon’s hands hover in front of his shirt, as if he wants to haul him up by the collar. “I am not here to spare your feelings.” Charon says it slowly, enunciating each word very carefully, very precisely, “The other night was a mistake. It was a mistake before you came here. There was nothing before, and there’s less than nothing now.”

“It—“ Adam hesitates, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, “No. I mean... maybe. M-maybe from your side, but, I... uh.” Adam’s voice is very small. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

"It was," Charon snaps, “Just a kiss. That’s all. And this is over.”

Adam tries one last time: “Maybe— maybe I could help.”

He doesn’t know how he would help. He couldn’t have told Charon if threatened what that help would be. It just feels natural to offer it, though in this situation it feels more like groveling than an honest gesture. Adam doesn’t mean for it to be empty; he doesn’t know how, but he’d learn.

Charon’s raw anger ebbs. It seems to drain out of him, no longer sloshing out from behind his eyes. He sighs, opaque in the cold. 

He leans away, running unsteady fingers through his patchy hair. Some parts have seemed to have grown longer, unkempt.

“Yeah, you’re a hero.” The words sound bitter in Charon’s mouth. His voice goes deadpan, “You have to leave. And I’m not fucking around this time. If I see you back here again, I’m removing you from the premises.”

Charon falls back, along with the shadow he cast over Adam. It feels colder in the light, or maybe just without another body so close; he shivers.

Shoving his hands back into his pockets, Charon tilts his chin. “Leave.”

Adam opens his mouth.

“Leave.” Charon interrupts.

Adam does.

Chapter Text

The 9th Circle isn’t known for being quiet at night, but right now it’s silent. Tuesdays had turned into their deadest night of the week; cheaper for Ahzrukhal to close up the bar entirely for the night so he wouldn’t have to pay any bartenders to come for a crowd that could barely fill out the floor.

Charon, though. Charon was worth keeping on the payroll, wasn’t he? That’s what Ahzrukhal said, his words slithering between the gaps in his teeth.

The stools and tables are all put up, the bar as clean as it's going to get. Charon wrings out the used dish rag and tosses it over the edge of the sink. There wasn’t a point in cleaning it beyond what it was. Ahzrukhal paid off the health inspectors when they rarely came and none of the patrons were ever sober enough to care in the dark how dirty it was. He keeps his tidying to a minimum, just enough to keep Ahzrukhal off his back. Charon dumps the mop bucket out into the utility sink behind the bar, some water splashing onto the floor. 

Down the hall, there’s a peal of raucous laughter, muffled by the heavy door of Ahzrukhal's office.

Charon’s boots squeak against the hurriedly mopped linoleum. He wants to leave, and he has half a mind to slip out the front door, latch the deadbolt and walk the five blocks to his car. The metro’s been long closed for the night. A slant of light peeks out from underneath the office door; something skitters by in the darkness as he approaches.

Charon raises his fist, and hesitates.

“What I’m saying is we need more people trying.” A voice wheedles behind the door— it couldn’t be anyone but Myron, whose nasally whine Charon had unfortunately become well-acquainted with. “We need to keep pushing. I mean, we gotta make sure nobody dies—“ He chortles, “not yet, at least— keep it small, of course.”

"Of course," Ahzrukhal wheezes, "But, Myron, as you know, we've had some disruptions in distribution lately. We wouldn't want to bring any untoward attention to ourselves, would we?"

Charon knocks.

Behind the door, the room falls silent. “Yes?” Ahzrukhal calls.

"I am finished for the night. I am heading out--"

"Don't shout at me through the door. Come in."

He should have known. A noticeable haze of smoke hangs around the room, sucked out through the door and towards his face as it opens. Murphy, Barrett and Myron are sitting around Ahzrukhal’s desk, though Myron’s chair seems pointedly further away from the other ghouls There’s a cigar still smoldering in the ashtray on Ahzrukhal’s desk. All four of them seem to turn towards Charon as he enters. He frowns. “All of the tables are up and the bar’s cleaned. Do you need anything else before I leave?”

Ahzrukhal folds his hands over his desk with a smile. From the corner of Charon’s eye, he can see Myron’s knee bouncing in his seat. He’s drinking something dark from a sweating glass; for all Charon knows, it’s just a glass of nuka. There’s barely a fingers amount left; Myron takes one last long sip of his drink, and before a dismissal can even leave Ahzrukhal's lips Myron's holding the glass out towards Charon.

"Here."

Charon stares at his hand with a silent grimace. He looks back up at Ahzrukhal. "May I leave?"

There's the faintest smirking twitch to the corner of Ahzrukhal's lips that he carefully hides behind the mouth of his own rocks glass. "I need you to make another delivery for me." He continues, keeping his eyes pointedly off Myron. He looks just short of laughing. 

“C’mon,” Myron whines, shaking his glass. “I need something to drink to take my pills.” He glances over at Murphy, his voice taking on an edge, “And I need my pills. We’re getting this formula perfected tonight.”

Placatingly, Murphy holds up his hands. “That’s all I want to do.”

Charon doesn’t know why, but he looks towards Barrett. There’s no empathy there; his face is schooled impassive, his attention towards Murphy. Charon scowls.

“Fine.”

He snatches the glass from Myron’s grip; his fingers recoil back when they brush.

“Tsch.” Myron snorts, “Touchy, touchy.”

Ahzrukhal scoffs. “Now, Charon, no theatrics. I don’t pay you for that.”  He flicks his hand dismissively, turning back to his business partners. “Get him a refill.”

Charon exhales noisily, closed-mouth. The glass does not crack underneath his grip, but it would not surprise him if it did. He grumbles to himself every step of the way down the hall, to the soda gun that sloshes nuka across the just-cleaned bar mat. He can feel the sticky residue against his knuckles every step of the way back down the hall. 

“—and I think we can refine it, with the high levels of glucose. I have no doubt...” Murphy's animated speaking dies off by the time Charon steps through the open doorway.

Myron looks like the cat that caught the canary, lounging back in Ahzrukhal’s overwrought office chairs that look two sizes too big for his slight, gangly frame. Myron smiles toothily at Charon's reemerging grimace. “You didn't spit in it, did you?”

“He wouldn’t.” Ahzrukhal answers for him, arms crossed over his desk, “He knows better.”

Charon hands Myron his glass, and does not let go until he’s sure the teen has a firm grip on it; he doesn’t want any spills blamed on him instead of this mentatted-up kid, sipping soft drinks with a sneer. But if he takes it as Charon being difficult, he doesn’t mind that, either.

“That will be all, Charon,” Ahzrukhal smiles. There's something in his idle bemusement of indulging Myron that just makes the pulsepoint behind Charon's eyes thump even harder. “Take the bag by the door on your way out, would you?” He raises his bare brow towards a backpack sitting on the floor just beside the door. "It needs to get to Moriarity’s before the morning deliveries."

Charon shuts the door too hard when he leaves Ahzrukhal’s office. He grabs his coat from behind the bar, shrugging it on angrily underneath his new backpack. He had noticed it when entering the room, but had thought it was Myron’s; a little quip on his age he never could have used even if he had thought of it sooner. It’s blisteringly cold outside at this hour; dark except for the dim streetlights, and the buzzing glow of the 9th Circle neon sign above his head that he’s now just belatedly realizing he never turned off. That vein in his forehead throbs again. He jams the key into the handle, locking the first lock, and then the padlock with a solemn thunk. There’s four of them, they can turn off the fucking sign themselves—

Whoever is approaching him isn’t trying to be sneaky about it, their booted footsteps heavy on the sidewalk.

Charon turns around. He’s getting tired of finding familiar faces standing in front of him, like the back doors of the 9th Circle have become his designated intervention zone.Charon heaves out a noisy sigh at the sight of the ghoul in front of him, turning back to the door one last time to make sure the deadbolt is secured.

“What do you want, Gob.”

Even with his back turned, Charon can hear Gob’s foot scuffing back and forth against the edge of the curb. He’s standing a pointed distance away from him; Charon notices it when he turns back around, and then tries to ignore it, because it weirdly hurts him more than he wants to admit to himself. He shoves the keys into his coat pockets, along with his numb hands.

“Hi, Charon.”

“What do you want, Gob?”

Gob frowns, “So,” The city is quieter during the winter, and Gob’s steady voice rings loud, “Are you going to leave him alone now?”

“Yeah. As soon as you...” Asked? Gob did, for all intents and purposes, ask him. He didn’t force him, didn’t blackmail Charon. He came to the bar and told him that he had to let Adam go. Though the irony that he had done so just a few hours before Adam had arrived had been an unpleasant case of cruel serendipity. “Already told him. Hasn't spoken to me since.” Charon says, trying to keep the bitter tone out of his voice, “You act as if I was planning on—“

“I don’t know what you were planning on doing.” Gob interrupts, surprisingly forceful. “But he’s— he’s a good person. He’s really nice. And he doesn’t deserve getting tangled up in—“ Gob’s hands are kind of useless, flailing as he speaks, “This.”

The bar. The sudden drug empire Ahzrukhal was now bent on running, with Murphy and Barrett and this new asshole child savant who has connections with the mob back in Reno, New Vegas, of all places. No, Charon knows, deep down, Gob was right.

He knows he's right.

He doesn’t know why he almost fought Gob on it. 

“I already told him off.” Charon reiterates, looking up at the sky. He doesn’t want to look at Gob. He knows he shouldn’t be mad at him, but he is. No matter how many times he reminds himself that he does not deserve good things, it still stings when they’re snatched away from him. Often it feels like he is begging for crumbs, and even those are being stolen from his hands by rats. “It was not difficult.”

Gob puffs out a sigh. When he looks back at him, he’s shaking his head, incredulous. “You know...” He pauses, pulling up the courage to only just meet Charon’s gaze. “You don’t have to act like a hardass.”

“Huh,” Charon prickles, “Should I leave that to you?” He tilts his head towards Gob, and his strong posture immediately crumples with surprise.

“I’m— standing up for myself, and other people. I couldn’t let you hurt him like you— like you did me, Charon. This isn’t...”

The words prickle like ice in his lungs with the incredulous snort he lets out, “Noble.” Charon spits. “Is that all? Shouldn’t you be more concerned about what’s going on at Moriarity’s? You want to tell me you square your shoulders at him when he’s throwing chairs and bottles over there?”

A muscle in Gob’s jaw twitches.

“Stahl works there, too, when Ahzrukhal won’t give him enough shifts. He knows Nova well.”

“You’re being mean.”

“Mean?”

"You're hurt. You..." Gob frowns, “Why do you have to bring her up?”

“Well,” He shrugs his shoulders exaggeratedly, the straps of the leaden backpack rising up, “I’m heading over to the bar now. I can say hello.”

Gob turns his face.

“If not, let Leo know, he’ll see her.”

“Like I don’t know that!” Gob bites, “That, and the fuckin’— the med-x, like I don’t see the marks on her arm!” His voice cracks at the end with emotion, fists clenched at his sides. “Okay? I get it, Charon! You’re the biggest and baddest out of the both of us! Why are you taking this out on me? This isn’t my fault.”

“Is it mine?” Charon’s voice raises five octaves from the beginning to the end of the three words, ragged with a snarl. Gob instantly recoils. “Huh, Gob?”

Charon doesn’t let him answer. He can’t; it just comes out, frothing, furious, "You know why I did what I did to you. I didn’t relish beating you into a pulp.” His throat feels tight, “I didn’t enjoy making you grovel on the fucking pavement. I did not ask Ahzrukhal to give me the privilege of it. You know that."

"It wasn't my fault—"

"But it was your mothers'—“ Even as the words leave Charon’s lips, it still feels wrong, not even a half-truth, bitter on his tongue. “If Greta hadn't called the cops on us so many times, this never would have happened. She almost got the bar shut down that last time. She pushed Ahzrukhal too far and got burnt. What did you expect ?"

The hurt on Gob’s face is plain; his eyes are shining strangely in the light. "Why'd you listen then, huh?" Gob's voice cracks, "And how do you know Adam won't know someone— won't just do something Ahzrukhal doesn't like, one day, and he makes you get rid of him too. And you'll listen again, won't you? You won't have a choice!"

The street feels especially empty at the end of their outburst, cold in the space between them. Charon’s breath condenses in the air. "I don't have a choice."

"Okay. Fine." Gob spits, hurt. He sounds tired, and looks moreso. "He's my friend, Charon. I couldn’t let you hurt him like you did to me.” 

Charon opens his mouth, and closes it again.

Gob’s voice grows quiet. There is something in his eyes Charon can't, won't parse out. “What is he even to you?"

The question is cruel, though knowing Gob, it's unintentional. He has never seen Gob compelled to true cruelty, despite how much it has been dealt to him all his life. He has already agreed to leave Adam alone. Whatever he was, or had been, it didn’t matter now. He does not meet his gaze. “I do not know.”

Silence hangs heavy, broken only by cars driving by on other streets, their headlights briefly flashing before turning away.  Charon taps his pockets — and then, finally, in belated remembrance, his back pants pocket, where his fingers solidly connect with the pack of cigarettes there. Gob is looking back down at his sneakers scuffing against the pavement again as he pulls it out, taps it against his wrist.

“You know...” 

“Why are you still here?” Charon mumbles around his cigarette, struggling with the lighter.

Gob’s eyes narrow, “You know,” He repeats, “If you let people in, they could help.”

Charon looks up over the hand sheltering his cigarette from the wind. He’s never understood Gob: abused, but his bruises had never curdled into a more protective shell. Suggesting acceptance after all Charon had put him through. He never knows how to react. “What a concept. Thank you, Gobtholomew.” The wildly dancing flame of his lighter finally catches the paper, and he sucks in. Gob scoffs. “If we’re done, I have to—“

“Yeah, alright, Charon.” Gob shoves his hands into his pockets, turning away. “I’m leaving.”

Charon takes in a long drag of his cigarette, fills his lungs with warm smoke that leaks in a slow dribble from the cavity of his nose. He doesn’t wait to watch Gob leave, turning down the street; after all, he has a delivery to make before daybreak.

—

Days pass in a blur. Adam knows Charon’s right. It was just a kiss. It meant nothing. Maybe he wasn’t the type for hookups— though that word feels too boastful, lewd. It had been just a kiss.

But it doesn’t hurt like that. It’s a disappointment that settles heavy in his gut. He finds himself in the common room kitchen zoning out as he stirs his microwave ramen. Staring at the fliers for ROTC and the varsity baseball schedule pinned to the community cork board. 

It’s easy to avoid others without a roommate. Weirdly easy. He's never considered dorm living to be lonely; the walls are unbearably thin, everyone's hours strange due to studying and lack of supervision. He has a few classes with Amata but they’ve been so busy with approaching midterms that she doesn’t fight him when he says he’s just going to study alone in his room. She has other friends to study with. Gob seems nervous around him in class, talking too much in response to his one-syllable answers. So maybe his sadness is too obvious, too uncomfortable. It’s easier to be alone. He figures he’ll eventually get over it, right? Crying in his room, and listening to music too loud, and studying until he falls asleep in his books.

He does need to eat something other than the ramen he’s been heating up in his microwave for every meal, though. His room doesn't have a window, all cinderblock, but the time glowing on the face of his Pip-Boy is surprisingly late. But he hasn't been keeping track of time lately, either. Adam pulls on his Vault-Tec sweatshirt, some sweats and a pair of salt-stained fuzzy boots to trek through the cold, and shoves his student ID and phone into his pockets. He hasn’t untangled his hair in a while; if it was hotter out, he’d probably put it up, but instead just lets it hang in a mess around his face as he shoulders open the door.

The door to Adam’s room has barely clicked closed and locked before Butch is practically on top of him; reflexively, Adam stumbles back against the door, pressed against the blank whiteboard hanging there. It just lets Butch crowd him even closer, just taller than him by enough that he can look down his nose at Adam.

“What’s up, nosebleed?”

Adam blinks blearily. It takes him a moment for his mind to catch up.

“Uh,” Adam starts, shrinking away as Butch leans in. “Getting food.”

“I just haven’t seen you around, is all.”

He's wearing his leather jacket and nothing heavier, but that doesn't mean anything; Butch does everything short of sleep in that thing. But he doesn't look like he was just coming in from outside. Like he'd been waiting in the hall for him.

Swallowing, Adam shrugs, “I’ve been busy.”

He feels uneasy. He shifts towards the right, the way down the hallway towards the exit. Butch stays where he is.

“Yeah, but like," Butch smiles disarmingly, "you ain’t even text or anything.”

“I, uh. I’ve been studying.”

“Yeah.” Butch says flippantly. He’s not moving. Adam hesitates.

“Do... you want to go with me to Drumlin?”

“Nah,” Butch leans an arm against the door frame, “I already ate.”

Adam stares at that arm. He wishes he could phase right through his door, back into his room, and hide in the safety of his bed and Carly Rae Jepsen on repeat. “I, uh. Alright.” He takes in a breath to steel himelf, and then moves towards Butch; he doesn't move his arm, so Adam half-pushes, mostly ducks underneath, “I’m gonna go out and... I’m, uh, hungry, Butch, s-sorry.”

Butch barely moves out of Adam’s way, but once he has, he’s following his heels. “Right, well.” Uncharacteristically, he hesitates, “Y'know, I was talking with Paul, you know. Paulie?"

Of course he knows Paulie. "Okay," Adam mumbles, still walking.

Butch does a little half-jog to get in front of Adam, a strange smile on his face. “He told me he saw you kissing someone on cat night.”

He stops. There’s something weird in Butch’s bright eyes. He feels pinned in place, his skin peeled back, Butch staring straight into his body and elbow deep in his guts. “I—“

“That ghoul bouncer?” He breathes the words out. Adam can’t figure out what he’s getting at, the tone of his voice, the wide-eyed look on his face.

“Y-yeah.” Adam says, his voice small. Traitorously cracks, and he tries not to crumple, searching for some evidence of empathy in Butch’s eyes. Because the prey-wild fear in his gut knows this is a perfect excuse for Butch and his old friends to take up the mantle of his official tormentors again. That 'ghoulfucker' is a term that will get you sent to the student council if someone really makes a fuss, but it's not one that has ever actually gotten anyone suspended or expelled. “It’s... I thought, uh. I th-think I thought it was more than it was, and it was a dumb thing. I think.”

Butch’s mouth opens, closes. He clears his throat. His eyes shift, can’t meet Adam’s. “Hey man, I’m, uh. I’m sorry.”

Adam swallows spit, over and over, throat reflexively working. Butch’s hand comes up, hovers, and rests on his arm. Squeezes, in a way that’s much too gentle and fond, his thumb rubbing against the fabric of his jacket.

Adam freezes.

He’s retracting from this. He knows that, that he’s retracting from Butch’s physical niceties, because even before he jerkily recoils, he’s pulling away as Butch leans in. As Butch closes the gap.

As Butch kisses him.

Adam’s shoulders seize up, practically to his ears. His lips are absolutely still. Butch’s are moving against his, foreign and soft and slick, in time to his heart in his ears. Time slows.

Adam shoves at Butch's shoulder, as hard as he can, making him stumble back. And when he’s reeling, Adam swings.

Knuckles connecting, he hits Butch hard enough that he staggers against the opposite wall before he can catch himself.

Butch shouts, “What the fuck?”

Adam reaches up, touches his lips with shaking hands. He doesn’t know how to punch, has never swung before in his life, and his knuckles are faintly stinging. “Why... did you think you could do that?”

Butch winces, cradling the lower half of his face, still blatantly shocked, “What the fuck .”

“I don’t— why— wh-what the fuck to you, Butch?” Adam presses himself against the opposite wall, and he can feel his voice waver already, betrayed by his emotions. He wishes anger didn’t make him cry; he wants to show that he’s mad, he wants to yell, he wants to be strong. “I don’t— what are you--? We’re not even friends .” 

Butch stares back at him, his hand still clasped across his nose, his mouth.

And Adam can’t tell if he’s overreacting, because maybe he does that now in regards to kisses— overreact. It didn’t mean anything. They don’t mean anything. But it does, it does. His voice is rising, “I-it’s not my fault, you can’t— you can’t just kiss me. We’re not even, really. W-we wouldn’t even talk, if it wasn’t for Amata, and it’s not my fault you can’t—” He throws out his arms, Butch just staring at him as he screams, “What was that!” 

In the absence of Adam’s voice, there is a silence that strikes him to his core. There is a sliver of red pooling between Butch’s tanned fingers against his face. When he pulls his hand away, there’s blood around one of his nostrils. His eyes are wide, and then a sea change comes over him, terrifyingly familiar.

Adam bolts into a full-on run towards the door at the end of the hall. He can hear Butch running after him, footsteps heavy. He doesn’t reach the door in time; Butch hits him like a ton of bricks in the back, and Adam barely manages to brace himself as he falls to the carpeted ground. He lands on his arm instead of his chin, but any pain from that is forgotten as Butch grabs him by the neck of his sweatshirt, flipping him around. The elastic tears; the lights in the ceiling are bright, shining down, as he’s suddenly yanked belly-up. 

Adam manages to get one arm up to cover his face before Butch’s fist drives it into his forearm. 

He throws his hands up, trying to push Butch off, but he only connects with his chest, barely rocking him off balance. Butch is three inches taller and he’s at least thirty pounds heavier, most of it muscle. Butch’s fists drive, again and again, and one makes it through the crossed barricade of his arms, into the bridge of his nose. Stars burst behind his eyes. Adam tries to grab him, fingers grasping the collar of his leather jacket, their arms tangling; he wrenches, hard, and pushing up, Butch rolls off of him. Adam can hear doors opening in the hallway as he scrambles back, barely registering the few faces that are peeking out, his vision tunneled.

Butch lurches over, grasping for his ankle, nails digging into his skin; Adam kicks out, trying to stumble to his feet as he is pulled over, arms falling out underneath him, jaw hitting the ground, teeth clicking.

Adam’s momentarily dazed by the impact, dragged back, feels his world spin as Butch clambers on top of him and his fingers find their way into his hair.

"Deloria!"

Adam’s scalp sings. Butch lets go, and his head falls forward. Pressing his forehead to the dirty carpet, Adam closes his eyes.

“What the hell is going on, Deloria? What are you even doing here?” Cross’ voice is loud, angry, and approaching swiftly. Adam finally gets to suck in a real breath as Butch pushes off of him, his weight mercifully leaving his back. There’s the sound of distant murmuring of all of those nosy enough to stick their heads out to see what the commotion was. He can hear O'Hanrahan from his room across the way distinctly mutter, “by golly”.

“He fuckin’— he fuckin’ started it!” Butch shouts.

"Is he dead?" Adam hears a girl worry. His head is throbbing, panting openly against the carpet. He sort of wishes he was. He needs to get up from the ground, though now the mortifying realization that nearly everyone in their hall has cracked their doors to gawp makes him want to just continue lying face down until Cross drags him to the Dean's office. 

"Yeah? How come you were on top of him?" If he was going to say anything, she cuts him off, clipped and precise: "I don't care who started it."

"But--" 

"Are you talking back, Deloria?"

He can see the shadows of her legs pass by, and Adam finally looks up to watch Cross march past. She has a finger extended out towards Butch that’s more intimidating then it has any right to be, but she’s also wearing a tank top that shows off how much work she puts into her arms at the school gym.

“I don’t care who started it.” She reiterates. Her gaze sweeps over Adam first, then narrows back on Butch, “I’m writing you up.”

It’s a struggle to get to his feet. Adam just feels tired and pitiful, and now his whole body feels sore, the shake of adrenaline leaving him emptier than he had been before. Some of the hallway doors are closing now,  not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of an incensed RA, and he can hear the starts of conversation squeaking through the stopgaps; “What the hell was that,” “I thought those two were friends—“

Cross’ gaze pins him to where he stands. “And you,” She still has that finger up, now pointing at him, and if Adam wasn’t frozen in place, he’d come clean this very instant. That he had punched Butch first. Even though he had kissed him. Kissed him . Suddenly, he feels very dizzy, swaying on his feet. “I’ll personally be letting your father know. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dragging you down to the security office. This is unacceptable.”

Dazedly, Adam nods. He looks over at Butch, who is staring at Cross with barely contained contempt. There's dried blood crusted under his nose, and the sight of it makes his stomach flip. If his mouth wasn't so dry, he would be apologizing. 

Butch sniffs loudly, rubbing one more time at his face. Cross closes the space in between them, jerking a thumb towards the exit.

"You can walk, right? Let's go."

"What?" Butch looks incredulous, staring between Cross and Adam. When their eyes meet, Adam looks to the floor. "I thought you said you were just writing us up. You said you weren't--"

"I said I wasn't dragging him down to security. Not you." Cross corrects, her chin jutting out, "Now come with me. Or if you prefer, I can call security instead and have them bring you."

Adam can feel Butch's stare on him. And he should probably say something. Offer to go down with Butch, too, wouldn't that be fair? That's the way it worked in highschool, but as Cross impatiently gestures towards the door once more, Adam stays silent.

"This is bullshit--!"

"Are you looking to just get suspended or do you want to be expelled, Deloria? Move!"

Adam stares at the water stains on his boots. He hears Butch let out a noise of frustration-- something that sounds dangerously close to almost-tears-- and can hear him stomping the opposite direction, though he still winces. 

Cross pauses as she passes by. "Go get cleaned up, Adam." She says it offhandedly: "You look like a mess."

"Of-- of course, Cross. Thanks." He mumbles. The hallway door closes and latches behind Cross automatically as she leaves. For a moment, Adam's sure his legs will give up, and he'll sink to the floor. But he can already hear voices murmuring from behind doors that are unlatching. And he can't go back into his room. 

Adam's already bundled for the cold, but it’s not until he steps outside that he realizes the elastic of his sweater has snapped; a stiff wind manages to funnel right in where it now gapes against his collar bones, sucking any heat away from his chest. 

Keeping his head low, he takes the less traveled paths through campus; he walks behind Drumlin instead of going through the cafeteria, slips through the art department instead of cutting through the busy quad. He's not hungry anymore, and he doesn't want to be seen by anyone else, not in this state. 

Vault-Tec has been Adam's university for a long time; his Dad has been a professor here ever since he closed his practice. And that happened soon after Adam was born, but more importantly, after his mother had died on the table. He had never known James as doctor in the medical practitioner sense. Teaching had been a softer alternative than having to face that table again. So he had shifted practical knowledge into writing papers and grants and even, on occasion, putting together a coherent lesson plan. 

Adam hunches his shoulders, trying to burrow deeper into his own clothes as he walks against the wind. He feels numb. He had thought finally attending Vault-Tec would have been the answer to all of the big problems that had plagued him through middle school, high school. That he was lonely, and weak, and weird. Too quick and too eager to please others. It would change once he walked through those doors not as a professor’s son, but a student of his own merit.

It’s late enough that Adam has to swipe his ID to get into the Frank Horrigan Science Building. Adam walks the halls alone. He runs his fingers along the painted brick as he moves along. It’s a familiar motion. He still has permissions from when he was a kid so he could visit his dad during the day. 

“Hey, Adam,” Jonas, a grad student and his father’s teaching assistant, is the sole person still here to greet him, and though his eyes flit up to Adam’s face, and then his shirt, he doesn’t comment on either. He puts his pen down on top of his notebook. “Looking for your dad?”

“Uh, yeah.” He stops, rubbing sheepishly at his arm. “Is he here?”

Jonas nods carefully. “Yeah, of course. Go on, he’s just grading papers.”

“Thanks, Jonas.”

He squints, pulling his eyes away from his bruises, to Adam’s face with a sad smile. “Yeah, sure thing.” 

James doesn’t look up when the door to his office opens, too engrossed in the work in front of him. His desk is always a mess; notebooks and papers strewn over, barely enough room for his keyboard and mouse to navigate.

“Dad?”

“Adam,” James looks up from his paperwork, smiling. But it only lasts a moment, until James spies the blood stains on the front of his shirt, rust-colored. “What’s wrong?” He puts down his pen, stands. “Adam, what happened?”

“Dad,” He feels his voice waver, “I-I’m fine.” He approaches, taking the time to flick the bobblehead on James' desk as he rounds it. “Really.”

James grabs his face. His fingers always press a little too hard, that physician insistence without any temperance of bedside manners, or paternal softness. “That Deloria boy, again?” James probes against the swelling knot underneath Adam’s brow, bruised and blue. It will probably mottle darker still, though already it looks stark against his skin from the glimpses Adam caught in the reflection of passing windows.

Adam nods, trying to turn his head away again. Something about being around his father always makes him feel like a child, even though he’s fully grown. He’s an adult. Though, that doesn’t feel true, either. He feels like he’s in this inbetween stage, like he’s really just two kids in a trench coat, trying to pretend he’s actually smart and responsible.

“I thought that was over with?” He frowns, “Did you provoke him?”

Adam swallows. “Yes...” It feels like the right thing to say, even though he couldn't explain why, if pressed, what he actually did. He did punch him first. He did fight back. Adam turns away now, and James does not stop him. “Kind of.”

His father has never yelled at him for fighting. Adam almost wishes he did sometimes. Turning back to his work at his desk, James’ mild disapproval feels colder. "I really thought you boys had finished with this in middle school." He chides.

“We are,” Adam insists, tries to keep the reediness from his voice. Tries not to think about how he was actually still being actively bullied in high school, too. But he had gotten better at hiding bruises by then, and his father’s work in water purification had really started to ramp up.

James doesn’t reply. He gives Adam’s face a last once-over, pulling away. His smile is brief. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah.." He clears his throat, "Uh, do you have anything I could drink? Just, water?”

James sighs, “Nothing potable.”

“R-right, of course.”

“Maybe try the vending machines. You have enough money on your dining card, right?” Distracted by a blip from his computer, James continues, “I can add more if you need it."

"Y-yeah, dad. I have enough. It’s fine."

His eyes slip over towards the clock on the wall. He’s been here barely more than a few minutes. By the time he looks back at his father, he’s already seated back at his desk, his attention turned towards his work again. It takes a few more moments for James to realize he's still here, glancing up once, than twice, putting on another beatific smile. 

“Other than this, have you been doing well in your classes? Getting good grades?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He nods, “Why don’t we pencil in a dinner sometime soon?”  James smiles, infinitely patient, " I have work now, Adam, you know that.”

“Alright, dad.”

James flashes him one last smile before turning his focus back to his computer. He looks older in the blue light of the screen, the lines around his mouth smoothing as the smile falls from his face.

Adam stands there for just a moment longer. James’ keyboard clicks quietly. Adam jams his hands into his pockets, and moves for the door.

As Adam’s hand reaches for the handle, it moves from under his grasp, swinging open. He only just manages to jump back before the door knocks him over. “Oh.” It’s that bespeckled high schooler from his Intro to Philosophy class, his lip curling in a slight sneer as he takes in all of Adam, bruised and wilted. He smells like cereal and pure condescension as he sneers, “Yeesh. Excuse you.”

“Sorry,” Adam mumbles, shying out of his way before the kid can push past. Though Jonas’ books are still spread across the

table, he’s gone from the common room. It’s for the best. He doesn’t think he can stomach another conversation, another sad look his way.

It’s a long walk back to his dorm. He’s too drained to feel self-conscious of his appearance, to notice the sidelong glances at the dried blood on his shirt, the color of his face. Automatically, his feet move forward. There’s a buzzing in his head, television static; he would have stayed on the channel longer, if not for the sight of Amata sitting in front of his door. He can’t see her face, her knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead pressed to her knees. 

“Amata?”

She looks up, “Adam!” Sniffling, she pushes herself up to her feet. “Adam—“

“Amata,” His throat feels dry, “Hey.”

She has big, unshed tears in her red-rimmed eyes as he approaches. His phone shakes in his hands; he hadn’t realized he had pulled it from his pocket. He waves his pip-boy over the handle of his door, the lock clicking open. He doesn’t need to invite her inside. She follows right behind him. 

His hands are still shaking as he pulls out his wallet, tosses his phone onto his desk.

“Adam,” Her voice is steady, “what happened?”

He doesn’t want to turn around. He stares at the grain of the fake wood of his dorm furniture, scratches at an errant mark. “I... he kissed me.”

She takes the words in such an easy stride and walks right over them that Adam almost thinks he hadn’t said them at all, “Adam, if he gets expelled… what is he going to do?” Sniffling, Amata barely stifles a hiccup, “He won’t be able to stay— ”

“Amata.” He interrupts weakly, “It’s... it’s going to be okay.”

“Why do you care? You don’t like him.” She hiccups again, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eyes, rushing out: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m— no, I’m taking this out on you, and you don’t deserve it. This isn’t your fault.”

Adam shakes his head. He can feel tears prickling hot behind his eyes, threatening to fall from the motion as he squeezes them together. “Amata. He tried...”

He can’t get it out again. 

“We’re in this together.” She insists.

Adam bites his lip, hard. But he nods, stares down at his lap as she takes his hands into hers and squeezes. “Okay? We’re in this together.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Adam awakens with a jolt.

Someone is pounding on his door. “Adam!“ It’s Amata. He’s not awake but he’s stumbling out of bed, legs still tangled in his sheets, his heart racing a mile a minute. “Adam—! Wake up!”

“What? Okay, okay—”

As soon as he opens the door, she's pushing her way inside, slamming it closed behind her. He can hear the whiteboard on his door fall off from the force of it. “Why didn’t you answer your phone—“

“It’s,” He scrambles for his pip-boy charging on his desk. He rubs fitfully at his face. “7:30? It’s Saturday.” He blinks, “I put it— I put it on sleep mode—“

“God damnit, Adam,” She half-sobs. It's only then that Adam notices the tears in her eyes, the red blotchiness to her face. She looks rushed, her hair messily put up, barefaced. 

Adam’s heart stops. “Amata?”

“My dad—“

“Your dad’s here?”

“Adam, I don’t know. I don’t know why, this is—” She’s talking fast. He’s never seen her like this, on the edge of frenzied, when usually she’s the calmest out of all of them, her voice hitching with unshed tears. “There’s something wrong, there’s something happening. He was saying— you know he has a lot of donations in this school. My dad was saying— Your dad, whatever he was doing with that water filtration, the purifier, a lot of people are interested in it—” 

His stomach plummets. Any last vestiges of sleep clinging to him have left, leaving just a cold confusion in its wake. "Amata, I— what? What’s going on?"

"Your dad's gone." Amata blurts, "And they're looking for him. Everyone is."

Adam looks around, as if his dad was somehow hanging out in the corner of his room, sitting on the bare mattress his expelled roommate once occupied. But it's empty. He unlocks his phone, taking it back to his bed to sit down. He can feel Amata's expectant gaze as he scrolls through his notifications, but it's just texts and calls from Amata, useless social media notifications, calendar reminders. 

"I'll just," He doesn't know why his fingers are shaking, "It's, it's no big deal, I'll just call him." Adam mutters, pulling up James in his address book. (Dad: home, cell, and office. He chooses cell.) Amata nods, sniffling. He hits send. It rings once.

"Hello, this is Doctor James Ostrowski. I'm unable to make it to the phone right now, so if you could please leave your name, number—"

Adam hangs up before the voicemail carries him to the beep. Amata sits quietly next to him on the edge of his bed.

"They've... my dad says they're at your house right now, and he's not there, either."

Adam stares at his phone. At his home, though that feels so far away, further now since he's been living by himself in the dorms. He tries again. He doesn’t have to lift his pip-boy to his ear to hear it ring once and then dump him right back over to voicemail, James voice sounding small and far away. Fear is starting to creep in now around the edges. He holds onto his own fingers to keep them steady. "What are— what are you trying to say? Maybe he's just, he went out for something, and turned off his phone?" Adam swallows. “They’re... who’s they? At my house? Who’s everyone?”

“Well...” Amata hesitates, pulling out her own pip-boy. “Yeah. At least, ten minutes ago.” She wipes at her red eyes with the back of her hand, glancing over at Adam. “The police.”

Adam's throat feels tight. "Why... the police?" He stands, though his legs feel weak. "Can your dad... Can Mr. Almodovar do something...?"

“No. Adam, your dad’s in trouble. He… it’s not good.”

“It’s just water purification.”

“My dad said it was something, uhm.” She hesitates, “Drug related. I don’t know. He didn’t tell me everything. I’m not even supposed to be here, I could get in a lot of trouble, too, just by telling you.”

Adam doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does. It just bubbles up out of him at how ludicrous it all sounds. Amata isn’t meeting his eyes. “But. Your dad knows, your dad knows my dad— I mean, this is all. That doesn’t even make sense. It’s all just a big misunderstanding. He knows that, right? You told him?”

Her mom had divorced her dad years ago; Adam had thought Amata was going to leave with her when it happened, way back in elementary school. But when her mom left, she went across the entire country, somewhere near San Francisco. Already had another man waiting for her, and possibly a kid on the way, too. Amata told him that she didn’t want to go with her mom, and that was that. But years later, the way his father would explain it, the hardness in Mr. Almodovar’s eyes when someone would mention her, he knew it was more because she didn’t want to go, and find out that she had never been wanted. If Amata was ever even asked to come in the first place.

Almodovar was distant, but he tried; he still wanted Amata, at least. Adam gets it. He knows, if his father had ever asked him to go, he would choose him over anyone else in this world, too. But he’s never asked.

“You can turn yourself in,” She offers, “If you know...?”

“I don’t!” Panic rises wetly in his throat. “Turn myself in? I haven’t done anything! I don’t even know— I don’t know anything.”

“Of course.” She says, but the trust doesn’t reach her eyes, and it feels like she’s pulling away from Adam in slow motion, disentangling herself from him.

“Amata—“ He reaches for her hands.

It’s such a fluid motion, her sliding off the edge of his bed, out of his reach, shaking her head. It’s funny, but he’s never noticed how much she looks like her father before, her mouth set in a grim line. Adam wonders how much he’s a spitting image of his own. 

“You d-don’t..?” His voice cracks. “You don’t believe me?”

"I do," She soothes, "I do." Her eyes shift. "But… Adam, they already arrested Jonas.”

Fear sluices icy cold down his spine, freezing him to the spot. 

“They’re going to come here next. They’re coming for you. You’ve got to get out of here."

He shouldn’t ask. He knows the answer already. "Are you coming with me?”

Amata smiles, small and sad.

Cold, hastily packed, Adam bursts out of his dorm room, expecting— shouting, Vault-tec security swarming in, a red dot on his forehead. He expects a manhunt, somehow, alarms going off and a warning blaring over the speakers that they were looking for Adam, and James, and that they’d take either dead or alive.

But there’s nobody waiting for him outside. It’s still early in the morning, and the campus is relatively dead. There’s fresh snow on the ground, the first of the season. Adam looks up at the sky as his throat continuously swallows, again and again, a lump in his throat that bobs on the surface but refuses to go down. Thick flakes are slowly falling, covering the ground, the walkways.

Adam walks out of Vault-Tec University's round gates alone.

—

“All I’m saying,” Willow says, slinging an arm around the back of the couch, gesturing towards the television in front of them, “is the Senators are having a horrible season this year.”

If Tulip minds that arm around the back of the couch, almost encroaching on her personal space, she doesn’t show it. “They’re not that bad.”

Besides, they’re sort of all squished in together, given Fawkes takes up more than half of their little futon couch on their own. Their knees knock into Tulip’s. Between them and Willow’s wide-legged lounging, she’s firmly wedged in between.

“Is it not a good thing they’re doing so poorly this year?” Fawkes asks, “The tickets are cheaper.”

“That’s true!” Tulip chirps. “We should all get nosebleeds and sneak in mole rat dogs.”

“And beers.” Willow adds with a grin, nudging Tulip’s side. She flushes. "We can wait until all the tourists leave and sneak down to the lower levels, too."

The three of them continue to chat between the noise of the game as Charon walks past them behind the couch. Charon has been particularly prickly lately. Not that Charon's default was anything other than prickly, but it was something sharper than his usual; sadder, maybe. She had offered for him to join in watching the game with her and her friends, and he declined, per usual, but he hadn’t even made an attempt to show his face and make awkward small talk until now.

Now, his bare feet are stomping like boots across the floor to the kitchen.

He throws the fridge open, hard enough that Willow flinches at the sound of it smacking the opposite wall. Fawkes glances over, towards the direction of the kitchenette, with some hesitation.

“And now, please stand for our extended national anthem, dedicated to all of those currently serving on the front lines in Canada and China…” The announcer drones over the television. The fridge door slams shut with such force Willow can hear the sound of the glass condiment bottles rattling.

Willow plasters a smile onto her face. “Be right back, one moment,” She says, her tone lowered and conversational as she pushes herself off the couch to her feet. Tulip and Fawkes just give her understanding smiles and nods. 

She catches Charon still in the kitchen as he turns away from the fridge, beer in hand. It’s only ten; she’s not one to judge, considering she also works weird hours, and has had the occasional day drink, but this is strange for Charon. He doesn’t even glance over, not even a flicker, brushing past and down towards the hallway. Willow follows.

“Charon.” She sort of whisper-shouts it, even though this apartment is too small not to hear everything at all times.

He’s not rude, not like that, not enough to keep walking. He’s always been grouchy, but never a true asshole. Charon stops and turns, holding the beer bottle to his chest. “What?” His tone is flat, but lowered.

“What’s up, big guy? What’s happening?” She asks, trying to keep the accusatory tone from her voice, so she diverts to humor: “You know, you break that fridge door, and we’ll never get a new one. Remember waiting for Marco to send someone out for the toilet? And we had to poop at the laundromat for a week?” Her brows raise higher on her face. “And then he sent that repairman with no tongue over with a key who’s like,” She puts on an accent of someone with no tongue, which is harder than it seemed: “I’m da plubber from Free-si-be Plubbing“, She throws her hands up, “and he just let himself in and I almost got into a fist fight with a seven foot tall super mutant?”

Charon huffs. “Yes, I do," The edge of it sounds amused, very slightly, despite himself. "You would have won.”

“I mean, yes. That’s not the point.” Willow says a little smugly, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s not as strong as Charon, who hauls people around like a rag doll every other night, but she knows how to take care of herself, “He was innocent in all of this. I wouldn’t have wanted to beat him up, even though I definitely could have, and also won. But the point is...” There isn’t one, actually. She shrugs. “You know. What’s going on? What's up?”

The curtain is drawn over Charon’s features again. “Nothing.” 

He’s already starting to turn away, raising his beer bottle towards his lips. Willow grabs his arm.

“No, c’mon. Seriously.” Her eyes flit downward, to the sweating beer in Charon’s hands. “You want to talk?”

“It’s five o’clock my time.” Charon grumbles defensively.

“Sure.” Willow reassures, half-assed. Charon scowls. “Alright, okay, Mr. Atomic Cocktailville. But recently...” 

She lets go to wave her hand around. Charon doesn’t fill in the blanks for her, but at least, he doesn’t take a sip. Willow sighs. “You’ve been weird lately. More than normal. I like normally weird Charon. This is kind of a dark, weird Charon.”

"Are you done insulting me?" He quips.

"I'm not insulting you. I care for you, idi—“ She stops herself, corrects, "Dear friend."

Charon snorts. Willow's smile is lopsided, though her eyes have a sort of sad concern. 

“Seriously, Charon…”

“Willow,” Charon grates. What can he say? He’s purposefully not been telling Willow anything for a while, now. He couldn’t have her get mixed up in anything Ahzrukhal has been doing lately. Though, this recent bleak mood has less to do with him, more with his own frustration and wallowing in heaps of self-pity and inability to stop thinking about the way Adam’s face broke when he turned away from him at the 9th Circle, the words he said in anger to Gob not long after. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

There’s a knock at the door. Willow and Charon turn simultaneously.

“You have more friends coming over?”

“No,” Willow draws the word out slowly, shooting Charon a look, “Not me.”

They didn’t usually have solicitors; their front door was awkward to get to, having to walk around the back alley and take stairs up. Occasionally they got people looking for someone from the laundromat they lived above, thinking maybe it was a back office of some sort, but that was exceptionally rare. 

“I don’t think it’s me.” Charon mumbles.

Willow slugs him half-heartedly in the arm, giving him a sad little smirk. “I figured, big guy. Let me ask—“

There’s another rapid knock on the door. Urgent. She hesitates.

“Did you drop off rent last week?”

“Yes,” Charon grumbles, “I’ll get the door.”

Willow filters back into the living room after Charon, settling back into her space on the couch as he walks for the door. He slides the beer bottle still full back onto the counter, and can feel her and her friends’ eyes against his back, watching him go until the hallway wall blocks their line of vision. Willow murmurs something lowly to them that Charon can’t quite hear; at least, she hasn’t turned down the television yet to properly snoop. There’s another series of knocks, sharp and hurried.

“Alright, I’m coming—“ He grumbles, a little louder to be heard through the door. He has to unlatch the chain and open the locks before the door swings open. 

Charon sucks in a sharp breath.

Adam’s eyes are really the only thing he sees, wet and wide, his right one framed in the purple and yellow watercolor of a developing bruise. “I’m sorry—“ He’s speaking before the door even bangs open entirely against the opposite wall. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I'm sorry—”

Charon swallows. It takes him digging his fingernails into the wood of the door to not reach out. “Why are you here?” He feels numb at the sight of him, of his eye. He’s heavily bundled for the cold, a jacket over a windbreaker over a sweater just peaking out from the collar, a backpack slung over his shoulder. A pair of socks are sticking out from where he’s haphazardly zipped it near the bottom.

“I—“ He swallows a hiccup. “I think I’m in trouble. I d-didn’t— my dad did something— I think I’m expelled.”

He looks up at Charon, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. His resolve crumbles instantaneously. “Can I come in? It’s— it’s cold out.”

Charon moves out of the doorway as his only answer. When Adam brushes past him, he doesn’t move his hand away, even when it skims his side.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go. I’ve been riding the bus for hours.” Adam bumbles forward and Charon boxes him in with his body in the entryway, bracing a hand against the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice, still staring at his twisting hands. “And I know you said... I know. This is— really selfish of me—“

The words echo Charon’s own thoughts like a knife between his ribs, and he grimaces. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t—“ He gulps, “I should have just g-gone to Carol’s Place, I panicked—“ He buries his head in his hands— and flinches with a pained hiss when his palm touches his socket.

Charon sucks in an empathetic breath. “Hey...” He murmurs.

He raises his hand. It’s a gut reaction, to reach out and cradle his face. but then lets it fall limply before he can give in to the urge. There’s a fresh wetness to Adam’s eyes now, red-rimmed and puffy. He doesn’t even seem to notice. 

Adam touches against the opposite wall, angling towards the door. “Here,” He croaks, “I’ll just go. I didn't mean to make a, uh, scene. Th-thanks... sorry—“

“Wait," Charon's voice is surprisingly soft to his own ears, "Who did this?” He can’t let him go back out there like this. For one wild moment, Charon almost imagines Adam will say Ahzrukhal. He doesn’t know what emotion would come after that, what action— 

“Butch.”

Charon stiffens. “Your 'friend'?” 

“Yeah, I mean—“ He hesitates, “Someone told him that...” He looks at his feet, mutters, “That I was, uh, kissing someone—“ His gaze flits up to Charon, nervous. Like he's afraid he's going to get hit again. “At the 9th Circle.”

Charon exhales out a terse breath, crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I didn’t mention you. Your name. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.” Charon replies shortly. He never figured Adam the type to run off like the mouth like that, and especially after Charon had so viciously cut it down so soon after. It had been easier to let Adam believed he was ashamed of him and not himself. (And as an aside, he could easily fight off Butch. He weighed at least fifty pounds less than him soaking wet.)

“And, uh. Well, also. I-I’ve been kicked out of the dorm, I think.” 

Charon frowns, “You’ve been expelled and kicked out? Because of the fight?”

"It's— no. It’s a long story." Adam groans. He presses his hands to his face again, careful this time to avoid his eye. His fingers find his hair, twisting enough that it had to be painful.

Charon sighs. Gingerly, he brushes his thumb against the swell under Adam’s eye, the mottled yellow, a sympathetic noise leaving him at Adam’s flinch.

“I guess I don’t need to ask...”

 “Y-you can.” Adam mumbles. 

Charon snorts, briefly rolling his eyes. “Fine.” When his gaze does settle, it’s to Adam’s own. He can feel something soft unfurl in his chest. The thumb just barely hovering over his face turns into a hand next to his cheek, and Adam easily turns into it, soft skin warm against his palm. His voice drops, hushed and scratching, “Does it hurt?”

Adam’s only response is to lean in. Charon cradles his face as Adam closes the gap. He doesn’t pull back, he doesn’t pull away; how could he? His lips are chapped from the winter air, but warm against his, kissing him soft and sweet. Adam shifts closer. Their hips bump.

When they part, Adam lets out a ragged little exhale that just makes Charon want to lean in again— “Yeah.” He says, hushed, “It does hurt a little.”

Unconsciously, Charon licks his lips. 

Adam surges forward, and Charon stumbles back. He bumps into the wobbly entryway table behind him, clambering for the mail basket before it can fall with a loud and obvious clatter to the floor. 

“Shit—“ He hisses.

“I’m sorry,” Adam gasps. His eyes are shining again. “I’m sorry. It’s just—“

He stops himself, wrestling with something internal. “Sorry... this is crazy, right? This is weird? You— you definitely broke— well. Hah,” Adam doesn’t actually chuckle so much as force out the word like a bark, “Not that— wow. Not that I assumed th-that far— break up, yikes— and then here I am, doing this, when you set boundaries, after Butch tried to kiss me—“

“What?” Charon bristles, a little too loudly, still trying to shove junk mail and keys back on top of the particle board table.

“W-well.” Adam cringes, “He tried— and did.”

Charon inhales sharply. It's not that he knows the people Adam hangs out with well, other than Gob, but the annoying punk hadn't given off the feeling that he was interested in men, not to mention Adam. “I didn’t...”

“I didn’t either.” Adam rushes to say, though he mumbles all the words together, pressing his knuckles to his mouth. His lips are white underneath from the pressure. The worried guilt is evident in his straying look. “I...”

Charon’s not good at this. The comforting, sure, but the emoting as well. "And that's why he hit you...? Because..." He is trying to find the right words, and all the ones he can think to say are not in a language Adam would understand, "You didn't reciprocate?"

“I hit him first. I mean, first, being after the kiss.” Adam says guiltily. "I don't—" He shakes his head, "I guess. I don't know. It's complicated. Butch has never needed a, uh, a good reason, or any reason, to punch me. It's just. Been a while. I’m not used to it anymore."

Charon exhales out his frustration. Not frustrated with Adam, but the concept-- that he had been used to being hit in any capacity. “That’s—” Instead of speaking, he just grumbles heavily, scraping his hand across the front of his face. He reaches out again, and then stops. "Can I...?"

Adam looks up in confusion. "Sure."

Charon feels stupid asking when he looks at him like that, as if Adam's lips hadn't been on his moments before. He touches his face once more, looking him over in earnest. He’s seen his fair share of black eyes, and experienced them himself. Adam’s eye itself looks like it’s going to be fine, the socket intact. He tries to keep it clinical; tries not to think about his long lashes. The way he leans into his touch in a way that Charon can tell he’s trying and failing to be subtle.

He pulls his hand away. “It’s…” He feels awkward . “It will heal.”

"Can... can I hug you?" Adam mumbles lamely to the floor.

"Yeah," Charon croaks, "Of course."

Almost immediately, Adam wraps his arms around him. The hug is too stiff. And even though Charon is no professional at familiar touching, he tries to force himself to relax. To go with what he wants. So Charon pulls him in a little closer. It does not take much coaxing for Adam to bury his face against his chest, to press into him. Charon hesitates before letting his face fall against his curls; his hair smells clean and sweet.

"You know," He murmurs into his scalp, "it's not your fault."

Very minutely, Adam nods. He feels strangely natural in his arms, and even though he keeps second-guessing every one of his actions, all of his gut instincts are guiding him well. Like he can read Adam's body expressions already, from the tense way his fingers are bunched in his shirt on his back, to the slow expand of his ribs as he breathes.

Charon closes his eyes. He takes one more deep breath in, presses his lips to the top of his head. He’s easy to hold. When they do pull apart, they separate slowly, and at least some of the redness has faded from Adam’s eyes.

“Here. Come on. You want some ice for that?” Charon ushers him through the hallway. He feels like he should be less surprised than he is that all three of them have their attention turned away from the game and towards them when they finally leave the hall, considering how much noise they had been accidentally making Tulip’s eyes widen in silent shock, benign compared to Willow jumping to her feet as if she’d seen a radroach.

“Oh my God. Did Charon do this to you?”

Charon points at her with his whole hand. “Willow,” He deadpans, “what.”

“Is this the college kid you made out with?” She stage whispers.

Tulip does a poor job at covering a small gasp.

Adam’s beet red. “Yes?” He squawks, just as Charon simultaneously barks out: “No.”

Tulip and Fawkes have given up on pretending not to listen in on the situation, their varied judgements plain enough that Charon can read them, as emotionally obstructed as he was. Willow stares accusingly between the two of them, her sparse brows quirking higher with each time she stares shift from Adam to Charon. The silence is damning, and Adam has rooted himself stiff to the floor, dear in the headlights.

Charon heaves out a groan. “Fine,” He snarls, “Yes.”

Willow narrows her eyes. She looks at Charon again, then back to Adam. “Did...” Her gaze shifts, and she gestures around her face, “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He can feel Adam squirm uncomfortably next to him. “Yeah, th-this— it was someone from school.” Adam croaks, "He's never, uh, laid a hand on me. Like that. In that way. I mean, he hasn't, we haven't. Touched. I mean. Touched any..." Adam doesn't end his sentence with a period, so much as let his voice get higher and higher until it came to a squeaking, unintelligible noise, like a balloon floating away. Charon groans again, grasping at his patchy hair.

“Alright, this is fun,” Charon interrupts, “We are... give us a moment.”

He turns, and reaches for Adam, but never settles his hand against his arm. It hovers. It doesn’t take Charon much gesturing with his head to corral him towards the bathroom where they kept their first aid supplies. It’s too small of a space for two people, but it was the only private space with a door in the apartment. Other than, well, his bedroom, and that felt unseemly.

Not that Adam hasn’t been there. Seen it, slept in it.

Charon tries not to think of that, clearing his throat as he shuts the bathroom door behind them. "Let me see if I have a stimpack."

"You don’t have to waste a stimpack on a black eye..." Adam mutters, sitting down heavily on the toilet lid.

The bathroom is a small, greige space, just enough room that Adam’s knees keep knocking into the back of Charon’s. It’s galley style, the fixtures flush to each other.

Charon just manages to squeeze by, kneeling in front of the sink cabinet. The threadbare IKEA rug under his knees does nothing to soften the linoleum underneath. He doesn’t know why he thought he had a stimpack to give. They barely have an in-tact first aid kit in here. It’s mostly free-floating bandages and useless tongue depressors. 

“Maybe, uh. Maybe I should go. I didn’t realize you had people over.”

“It’s fine. They’re Willow’s guests.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” 

“I—” Adam sighs, “Why do you care?”

Charon’s rummaging through the bathroom cabinet slowly comes to a stop. “I care about you, Adam.”

“This... sounds like a mistake.” Adam parrots.  If it’s throwing the words back in his face, his words are too small and sad to land; it more falls to his feet.

Charon sighs, “Look," He grinds out, "I thought I was doing what was best. And it was a favor to an old friend.”

“To not see me? What kind of friend—“ He lowers his voice, “Was that Willow?”

Charon scoffs. “No.”

“Then?”

Charon hesitates. “He was right, though. It is best not to get involved in my life at the moment.”

“So it’s a he—“

Charon fully turns away from the cabinet towards Adam. “Who do we both know?” Charon interrupts. His face twists with realization, and Charon admits before he can voice it: “...It was Gob.”

Adam's face sours. Charon shouldn't have told him. He doesn't want to come in between them. Even though whatever they had could probably never be fixed, it wasn't right to trash Adam and Gob's friendship.

“Don’t be upset. He’s right. I am not someone you want to get…” Charon wrestles to find the right word. “Mixed up with.”

Adam seems to deflate. “I’m not. I’m not mad at him. I just wish he’d of asked me first...”

Charon snorts. "And if he did?"

"Did what?"

"Ask you to stop seeing me." He says carefully. "What would you have said?"

Adam looks at his feet. Charon finally finds a forgotten stimpak behind a box of tampons. He hadn’t thought he had any left since his paychecks from Ahzrukhal had been steadily decreasing. 

Adam’s still fidgeting with his hands as he stands and shuts the cabinet. “Well.” He watches Charon as he straightens to his full height. "I might of. Uh. Considered it. A-as a friend." Adam tries, unconvincingly.

Charon tries not to smirk. "Yeah?"

When Adam glances up, a slight smile curls at the corner of his mouth. "Probably not."

"That's why he did it."

Seating himself on the edge of the bathtub, Charon is just barely able to fit his six foot eight frame in the narrow space. Adam has to shuffle his knees around just so, and between the tub and the toilet and the wall, there’s nothing Charon can do about his legs pressing against the length of Adam’s, a knee in between his, touching the inside of the opposite thigh.

He gestures. “Take off your sweater.”

“What.” Adam blanches.

“I need access to your arm.”

Adam freezes. Charon frowns. He suddenly scrambles to yank it off, and in his haste his shirt is caught in the pull as well.

Charon averts his eyes from the patch of skin from his belly bared, but not before noticing a trail of dark hair from his navel down. 

Adam finally tugs down his t-shirt, and strips the sweater off over his head. Charon takes his now bare arm in his hand, rubs his thumb over the skin.

He pricks him in a fleshy part of his arm; still, Adam hisses, and they’re close enough Charon can feel his breath across his neck. The black eye should fade in a few hours, instead of a week. Admittedly it’s a waste of a stimpack, but it’s not a waste he minds.

Charon pats his arm. Finished . Adam flashes him a small smile, puts some space in between them.

He rubs sorely over the spot. “Not too bad…” Adam smiles shakily. “Better bedside manners then my dad, at least.”

Charon frowns, capping the used stimpack before throwing it into the trash bin. “Is your dad a medical doctor, or a teaching doctor?”

“Complicated. He was. Well. He teaches now. Mostly research.” Adam wraps his arms around his body. “I don’t know. Apparently he’s discovered something. I don’t know why else he’d be— accused of something else. My dad’s been researching water purification as it pertains to radiation," Adam says it, clipped and concise, in a way Charon knows he's probably been describing it to others for years now. The easiest way to explain why his father wasn't around, why he'd miss another parent-teacher conference, another dinner. "He's been researching this for a while, and— somehow, some reason, he just. Took everything and made a run for it.”

He had thought Adam had been the child of a doctor in the medical sense, but of course it was something much more niche than that. He could not imagine the pressure of being raised by someone intelligent enough to perform medicine and study nuclear radiation.

“Amata said, they, uh. It might possibly be drug related.”

Adam keeps talking, haltingly, about how strange and silly the allegations are. The words are not registering. Charon cannot focus on them. Dread falls like a bucket of ice water over his head, soaks him thoroughly and instantly.

The sugar bombs, and their trace amounts of radiation (“Nuclear radiation! Part of a complete balanced breakfast!” The jingles went,) that lent itself to the novelty of children’s breakfast cereal turning your tongue temporarily glowing green, and more importantly, jet into ultra jet. It’s not his paranoia. It’s not just his training.

“You need to leave.”

“And she thinks— Wh-what.”

Gob was right. Charon grabs Adam’s shoulder. He’s not bodily trying to drag him towards the door. But there’s the suggestion of it in the curl of his fingers against Adam’s scapula. “It’s not safe here.“

“Charon—!“ Adam protests, even as he stands.

"No," Charon growls,“I’m serious. This isn’t a game. Go turn yourself into your university, go back to Vault-Tec. They can protect you. That’s probably why they’re looking for you.” 

Adam spins around, stopping in his tracks in front of Charon. He stumbles, halts, as if held back taut by a string from colliding into Adam.  

“You’re not safe here,” Charon pleads. Adam’s face scrunches. “I can’t protect you.”

“What’s going on?”

“What kind of research is your father doing?”

“I— I already told you. Water purification. I— I don’t know as much about it as I should— it deals with, uh. Radiation and stuff like that.”

“Can they?”

“Can they what?”

Charon nearly growls in frustration, “Purify radiation from water!”

"I don't—" Adam shrugs, helpless. "I don’t know! They should have by now!. They've— him, and Doctor Li, and a few of the others, they've been working on it for a while. Since before my mom died, even. S-so, I guess, I hope they have, at this point."

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. They both turn. 

“You guys…?”

It’s Willow. Charon huffs in a deep breath. They’d just been shouting; the entire living room must have heard them.Charon reaches forward and opens the door to avoid the embarrassment of Willow herself having to. Still, she looks apprehensive when it opens.

“Hey, uh, Charon,” Willow looks to Adam, “Charon’s child bride.”

“Jesus Christ, Willow. He’s—” It comes out haltingly, because he knows how it sounds, especially compared to his twenty-six years. “Nineteen.” 

She levels him a look. “Teenaged bride.”

“Look, this is— nothing is—” He is dissolving into a fitful of grumbles, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say, and anything he can think of he knows Willow will shoot down with deadly precision, “You are incredibly difficult.”

“I’m right here,” Adam says, “Right. Right here. Standing right here.” And he gives Willow a little wave, “My name’s Adam?”

“Nice to meet you, Adam, Charon’s mature-for-his-age teenaged bride.”

Charon covers his entire face with both his hands and grumbles something that could only be onomatopoeiaed to be hhrgghhrgghghrg.

“Well,” Willow continues, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but another one of your friends has stopped by,” Willow frowns, “A ghoul from work? Not Ahzrukhal.”

Charon frowns. Why would Wooz visit him? He didn’t think he knew where he lived, let alone cared.

Willow steps out from the bathroom. It doesn’t take long for Charon to follow, Adam at his heel. And as soon as he steps out of the hallway, he throws an arm out, stopping Adam in his tracks behind him.

Barrett stands stone-faced in his living room, arms crossed over his chest. “Hello Charon.” He says, but his eyes are focused squarely behind him on Adam.

Chapter Text

“Barrett,” Charon grinds out, “Didn’t realize you knew where I lived.”

“Surprise.” Barrett drawls. He’s still wearing his winter coat, a brown work jacket buttoned to the collar; he hadn’t planned on staying long. His eyes are focused on Adam. “Didn’t know you knew the professor’s kid.”

Adam bristles. Stepping forward, his chest presses right against the barrier that is Charon’s outstretched arm. “Where’s my dad?”

“I don’t think we have time for questions right now, smoothskin.” Barrett snarls.

Charon has never heard Barrett speak with such ill-concealed contempt before; but then again, as he notices the hardness in his eyes, he’s realizing he’s never seen him speak directly with a human before, either. He finds himself unsurprised. The few times he was at the 9th Circle when there were patrons, they always gave him a wide berth. 

“How did you know I was here?” Adam blurts out.

“You’re not hard to follow.” Barrett says condescendingly, taking a step forward. He turns his gaze up to Charon’s hard, vacant stare.

“I was told to fetch him, but I’m guessing Ahzrukhal told you too.”

Charon stills. 

He says it so easily, so plainly, and it dawns on Charon that Barrett has no idea. His face, when turned to him, is genial the way it always had been, two colleagues on the clock discussing all the banalities of work and deliveries. If anything, he may suspect that the way he’s keeping Adam back has more to do with wanting the credit himself then protecting him. 

And Charon wishes the realization of this made him feel victorious. Of course, Barett does not suspect any wavering allegiances. 

He could take him back. It’s what was expected of him.

Adam steps back, the weight of his body no longer pressed against his arm. Charon glances over his shoulder; and there’s legitimate hesitance there in his eyes. Fear. 

Barrett lets out an amused tch , rounding the two of them. Adam takes a half step away from them both. “Let’s go, then. C’mon, smoothskin.”

If Ahzrukhal wants him, and he keeps Barrett from taking him, there will be hell to pay. But he does not want to hand Adam to Barrett and his hateful eyes. He doesn’t even want to chance it. If Barrett tries him, if he lays a hand on Adam, he will split him in two. 

Slowly, Charon says, “I was not given those orders.” 

“Well,” Taken aback, Barrett frowns. “I was. They need the kid.”

“Ahzrukhal told you?”

“No. Murphy.”

The name saps any of the anxiety of being punished right out of him. Charon can rationalize that. It was not Ahzurkhal who ordered this. He draws himself up to his full height. “I think you should leave.”

A hush has fallen over the room. Charon is entirely focused on Barrett, but he can see beyond him, Willow and Tulip and Fawkes, stock still and watching. 

Barrett’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing? Why?” 

“I do not take orders from Murphy.”

“And I do.” Barrett takes a step forward, rolling his shoulders back. 

Charon almost mimics Barrett’s step with his own, until he feels it: fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist, just above where his fists are clenched tight with jutting knuckles.

Almost holding hands, but not quite, Charon’s elbow settles warm in the crook of Adam’s so easily. Cradled there in a touch somehow so familiar it makes him ache from it. The explicit show of trust, with Adam at his side. 

“Huh.” Barrett’s eyes slice downward like a knife. The look of disgust is automatic, visceral in the wrinkled skin around his nasal cavity. Adam’s hands jolt away from his touch. “Alright, that’s enough. I’m done with this.”

“Charon!” Willow calls.

Tulip lets out a high-pitched shriek as Barrett throws himself at Charon; he catches one arm, the other just scraping the edge of his jaw, throwing them both off balance. There’s no time for him to catch himself before he falls, dragging Barrett down with him to crash right through the particle board coffee table. 

“Oh my God!”

“Watch out!”

The remote is somewhere in his lower back, and the sudden weight of Barrett landing on top of him knocks the breath out of Charon. It’s a strange relief to see Adam’s boots still standing and relatively out of harm's way out of the corner of his eyes, which very nearly overwhelms the dizzying sense of suddenly being horizontal on the ground to notice these sorts of details. 

Barrett is nearly the same size as him, in both height and muscle, and knows how to throw his weight around. He’s no stranger to fights, no drunk kid throwing liqueur-slick punches five seconds too late. Charon bucks to get him off, but Barrett feels leaden on top of Charon, a knee digging painfully into his side. He throws another punch, and Charon catches this one with his arm, though it drives his forearm into his chin. 

He can see nothing beyond Barrett’s looming grimace. His fingers wrench the fabric of his shirt, and stupidly, Charon moves his arms to grab Barrett’s. He sees him cock his arm back, watches the straightforward, inevitable plow of his fist forward. This one connects with his face; pain radiates jagged across his cheekbones, and he only just manages to put up his arms to deflect the second, the third blow.

It was a mistake to ever let him get on top of him, Charon knows that. Barrett is not leaving any openings. Everyone is still shouting, still screaming, and Charon desperately throws up his hands, tries to writhe his body away from the blows.

There is a solid, cracking sound above him, and Charon flinches as small shards of glass and a sticky spray of light beer rains down against his forearms, mostly blocked by Barrett; specifically, Barrett’s head.

He instantly folds. Willow stands behind him, the jagged top half of a beer bottle still clutched in hand.

“Hope you weren’t still drinking that.”

Barrett’s face is nestled beside his, slack jawed. “I wish...” Charon grunts, pushing Barrett off of him; he slumps onto the ground, knocked out cold. “You would not say one-liners right now.”

Charon checks the back of his skull quickly for glass; nothing seems to have embedded itself into his head, and there is no blood under his fingers. The second thing he checks is his pockets, methodical and brusque: he pulls out his phone, password locked, a slim, well-worn wallet and finally a large pocket knife.

“I think I have the right to, actually, since I just saved everyone’s life.”

The knife and the phone Charon pockets. He can’t get into it himself, but he’d rather have it than Barrett, who once awake will no doubt try and alert Murphy and Ahzrukhal. He rifles through his wallet. Two twenty dollar bills, a driver’s license. Usually he is doing this to smoothskin college kids knocked out over drunken fights, or too sloppy to do much more than sit with spittle down the front of their shirts outside of the 9th Circle. It’s strange to see another ghouls face staring blankly back at him, the prominent red “M” for mutant and other irradiated persons designation in the corner. 

He tosses the wallet back onto Barrett’s limp body. With a reedy wheeze, Charon pulls himself to his feet with the help of Willow’s outstretched arm. He can feel something in his back pop. “Life is an exaggeration.” Charon grumbles. Still, he clutches Willow’s arm tightly. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no sweat.” She says, though her voice is skewing higher pitched than normal. She glances around. “Everyone else okay?”

Fawkes’ grimace seems as calm as it can get for a super mutant. “We’re fine,” They say, gesturing at themselves and Tulip, who looks like she’s about to rattle herself to pieces from the shock.

Charon turns. Adam is still standing there dumbstruck, wide-eyed and staring straight at Charon.

“You good?” Willow asks again.

Adam nods, lips pressed in a firm line. His eyebrows look as if they’re trying to escape his forehead.

“We need to go.” Charon grinds out.

“Yes, you do,” Willow says, trying to keep her voice even, and desperately failing as she continues, “However, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this, huh?” She gestures to the mess formerly known as the living room. 

“Bread… bread works, for the uh. The glass.” Adam pipes up meekly. He is subsequently ignored.

“We can buy a new table?” Charon offers.

“Barrett, Charon, Barrett, I’m talking about this three hundred pound meathead you let through the door!”

“Actually,” Charon deadpans, “You’re the one who let him in.”

Willow throws up her hands. “I thought you made a friend, Charon!” 

Charon frowns. “That is entirely on you.”

Willow sighs. “No, no. You’re right.” She presses her thumb to the top of her nasal cavity, where the bridge of her nose had been at one point. “That is on me. My bad. Too optimistic on my part.”

“As long as you accept all the blame.”

Charon holds up his hands in a mock-shrug, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face that somehow also finds its way on to Willow’s, too, as exhausted as she looks.

It is Fawkes who offers a suggestion, said so blithely that only later does Charon wonder with sudden alarm what kind of person Fawkes is: they have just enough time before Barrett should wake up to bind his wrists with plastic ties. They can lug him over to the bathroom and throw him into the tub, and by then, he should awaken as soon as he hits the porcelain. Bathrooms had fans and pipes that could drown out any shouting. And, if he does not wake up at that time, then they have much more time to worry about ways to hide a body properly. 

Charon offers to help him move Barrett, even though something is still currently twinging in his lower back from the fall. Fawkes shakes his head. “Time is of the essence. You two should leave.” He smiles at them both around the straps in his mouth. “We all have our own destinies, and yours does not culminate here. I would not rob you of that.”

“What.” Charon rasps.

Fawkes laughs, but not unkindly. 

Even bundled in his leather jacket and a beanie, the cold hits Charon sharply once they open the door. The metal steps that lead up to their door from the back of the laundromat are slick with the freshly fallen snow. Some of it has already started to melt as the morning sun has risen, sure to freeze once more when it sets. He’ll end up falling back up the stairs tonight, if he makes it back.

Adam keeps pace with him. There’s something leaden in Charon’s stomach. His father, the doctor, the scientist with knowledge of nuclear radiation theory and water purification, does not sound like someone who would willingly get involved with the ilk of Ahzrukhal and company. 

They walk in silence two blocks away to where Charon’s car is street parked. The spindly tree in the mulch pit had shielded his windshield from the bulk of the falling snow, and he uses the arm of his jacket to push off the remaining onto to the ground.

“Wow,” Adam says, practically vibrating his way into the passenger seat of Charon’s Chryslus, either from the nerves or the cold. The freezing metal of the seatbelt bites through the calluses of Charon’s palms. Only now does Charon realize it’s the first thing he’s said in over fifteen minutes. “That was.  That was crazy, huh.” 

“Which part?”

“The…” Adam leans his cheek against the window. “...All of it, actually.”

Charon huffs. His car putters up to a red light. His eyes shift over. “So.”

He can’t drive unless he knows where they’re going. And he’s not going to take Adam to the 9th Circle unless he asks. 

“I guess…” Adam hesitates, and as if on cue says, “we go to the 9th Circle. And uh. See if my dad is there.”

The leather of the wheel is flaking under Charon’s twisting hands. “I will not take you to Ahzrukhal unless you want me to. It may be dangerous. Your father may be in actual trouble.”

Adam seems to be watching the cars go by. Though he had held his hand back there, before the fight, Charon had seen the split second of fear. Of reluctance. “Well…” He trails off. Charon takes a right, and then takes another. His wheel skirts against the edge of a pothole, making the entire car dip. They finally hit another light. Charon flicks on his blinker. He’ll go in circles until he’s out of gas, if he needs to.

Adam sits up, twisting under his seatbelt. “Wait. Wait. We’re not going to Ahzrukhal’s.” The light turns green. His phone lights up in his lap. Adam cranes his neck. “Turn here. I want to take a detour first.”

--

“Gob!” Adam could almost burst into tears at the sight of him. He looks miserable sitting at a well-worn booth in Carol’s restaurant all by himself, barely perking when he walks through the door. He stands as soon as Adam crosses the threshold, and flinches as he approaches, but Adam pushes right through, throwing his arms around his neck in a hug.

“Adam?”

“I’m sorry,” He breathes, “I’m sorry, and— Gob, you’re, y-you’re my best friend, okay?” Gob sucks in a shocked little inhale, Adam can feel it under his embrace, “And I’m sorry things have been weird lately, and stupid, and I’m stupid—”

“Adam,” Gob squeaks out, a little strangled by his grip. He finally pulls back. “Your eye?”

“Oh.” He keeps forgetting about it, as long as he doesn’t touch his face. “Butch. It’s, it’s a long story. But we got into a fight.” 

“I’m so sorry, Adam, did you get my text—“

“And he kissed me,” Adam keeps talking, because telling Gob somehow doesn’t feel half as easy as it did to tell Charon, and if he stops he’s afraid he won’t start again. “It’s okay. I mean—” Gob’s shocked what! Is bulldozed right over, “But that’s not the most important thing going on right now, actually. I, I think I need your help.”

“Wait— okay.” Gob takes a step back, running a hand over the sparse remains of his brown hair. “Okay, this is a lot. But, before you ask, though. I might not be… the one you want helping you anymore. I…”

The bell at the front door rings, along with a strong gust of air. Gob trails off as Charon steps into Carol’s Place behind Adam, his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes downcast. He had said he had needed a moment before he stepped in himself.

The air is suddenly so palpable Adam could choke on it. “I know already.” Adam blurts out.

Shock thunders over Gob’s face. But it’s not towards Adam. “You told him?” He asks Charon, accusatory.

“Gob, no—” Adam shifts his body, stepping into Gob’s line of sight, “I mean, yes, but. Look, he didn’t reach out to me. I went to him. And— I get it. I… I know why you did it. You were just trying to help.” 

For a moment, he’s afraid Gob will be mad at Charon. He’s afraid Gob will be mad at him . But instead, he sighs, deflating. “No, I’m… I should have told you, face-to-face, instead. It’s just…” He glances towards Charon over his shoulder, his face unreadable, “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in that. And I know how it is, when you’re not thinking straight, because you li–” 

Adam barks out a laugh so loud and sudden it almost sounds like a scream. “Right! Right?” Adam lets out another anxious giggle, though this time at a more indoor appropriate sound level. Gob seems to take the hint. Adam knows he just had his tongue halfway down Charon’s throat in the last hour, but the idea of him knowing he’d talked to others about liking, like like-like kind of liking Charon makes him want to throw himself into the Potomac. “Who knew my dad w-would, uh, still pull me into it all, though. I-I mean, really.”

“What?”

“My dad, he…” Adam shakes his head, curls bouncing. “I don’t know exactly. But he’s missing, and the police are looking for him.”

“And so is Ahzrukhal.” Charon finally speaks up.

Gob frowns, eyes narrowing. “And you’re not…?”

Adam looks back. Charon shakes his head.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Gob bites, “You could… you could be waiting for him to finish here and then drag him right over.”

“I’m not.” Charon’s grim expression flickers. “I’m here. For good or for ill.”

“Listen,” Adam tries to drag Gob’s attention back. “I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

Gob sighs. “Adam, I don’t know…”

“You!”

Not in a million years would Adam ever imagine Carol could speak like that, somehow looking like judge, jury and executioner in a seafoam green paisley print circle dress. But she sounds like thunder and moves twice as fast as an August storm across the restaurant, fire in her eyes. 

“Fuck.” Charon deadpans. 

“You, what are you doing here, you delinquent jackass–”

“Carol, wait, wait!”

It takes a moment before Gob and Adam can calm Carol down; she’s surprisingly stronger than she looks, and though Charon does his best to shrink away from her blows, she’s tenacious even with both of her adopted sons trying to calm her down. 

But Carol mellows, with Charon only slightly more bruised than before, and Greta soon follows from the back kitchen with a scowl on her face and a lowered skillet in hand. Adam is the one to explain everything, with a few interruptions from Gob, and even Charon, though he seems hesitant to speak up in front of them all.  

By the time they’ve finished, somehow Adam is sitting in a much too small seat sandwiched between Charon and Gob, with too much food for four people to eat in front of them. Carol sits by herself in the opposite booth; Greta is too agitated to sit, throwing every plate Carol requests onto the table with a clatter.

“And your plan is to go there?” Carol’s forehead creases with worry, “To… the people who tried to kidnap you?”

“No…” Adam pushes a tater tot around his plate. Everything looks as delicious as always, but he doesn’t have the stomach for it. He’s barely choked down half a cup of coffee. Charon is inhaling a sandwich at an almost repulsive speed. “We’re… we’re going to go find my dad.”

“I think we should call the police.” Carol gently insists.

“No.” Charon says, mid-bite. There’s a piece of lettuce on his lip. “That would be unwise.”

“Of course you’d say no.” Gob mutters, crossing his arms. His elbows are somewhere in Adam’s ribs.

Charon drops the sandwich. “Gob,” His frustration is evident. “I do not think you understand what’s happening here.”

“G-guys, please…” With Gob to his right and Charon to his left, Adam’s gaze has nowhere to go but up. It’s much easier to focus very hard on a water stain on one of the many ceiling tiles above then to make eye contact with anyone. “I think Charon is right. We should figure this out on our own.” 

“This is more than Ahzrukhal.” Charon says.

“Exactly.” Gob protests, “Which is why you should call the cops.”

“If they find out, they will kill him.”

“Is that who you’re concerned about? His dad? Or yourself?”

“Please.” Carol’s voice is sweet, but it shushes them both immediately. She reaches across the table, pushing Adam’s ignored plate out of the way to take his hand. Her hands are about the same size as his, ghoulified skin rough against his knuckles as she soothes over them. 

“Adam,” She asks carefully, trying to catch his gaze, “What do you want to do?”

His chin drops to his chest. “I want to go home and take a nap.” He mumbles miserably.

“That’s not an option at this point.” Charon sighs.

“What’s your idea, then?” Gob asks.

Charon frowns. “I already said. But...  I think I should play into what Barrett thought–” He turns to look at Adam, “That I was the one trying to take the credit, but that I had found you to bring back to Ahzrukhal.”

He sits up a little straighter. “You… you could pretend you’re taking me there. Have them take me to my dad.”

“That’s a stupid idea.” Greta calls from the kitchen.

“Hon,” Carol calls back, chagrined, dropping Adam’s hand. She frowns. “She is right, though.”

“What other options do we have?” Adam mumbles.

“We don’t.” Charon speaks up with enough assertion that everyone else falls quiet. With all eyes on him, he hesitates for a moment. “But… I believe this is your best option.” His eyes shift, and catch Adam’s gaze. “I’ll call him first. Let him know I’ve taken over for Barrett. If he says something that implies you’re in danger, we…” Charon exhales, closed-mouth, “We can call the police.”

Adam nods. 

A hush falls over the table. Charon pulls his phone from his pocket. It’s small in his hands, smaller looking still the way he holds it cradled in his hands with most of the screen shielded. Adam only just makes out from the corner of his eye the words ‘AHZRUKHAL EMPLOYER’ as he scrolls through his address book. 

His thumb hovers. He gives Adam one last glance of confirmation. Adam smiles. 

He hits send.

It rings twice before picking up. “Hello?” Ahzrukhal’s brassy voice rumbles over the speaker. There’s a seachange over Charon’s face; sudden in the way the smile lines at the corner of his mouth smooth over, the dullness that glosses over his eyes.

“I have him.”

Ahzrukhal takes a breathy pause. “... who?”

It’s like ice water being dumped over his head, his entire hostage charade in a puddle under his feet. Charon sucks in a sharp breath. Everyone stares at him in waiting silence. 

“Who do you have, Charon?” Ahzrukhal wheezes testily over the line, “Because we already have the man who will be running our purification process. Though I don’t think I had made you privy to that knowledge...” He rumbles out his displeasure.

Charon’s tongue is thick in his mouth. He is not a particularly good liar, and he is not a fast one: “I apologize. Wrong number.” He’s already wincing as he says it, but he flips his phone closed all the same to hang up. Charon closes his eyes, his head bowed until he’s pressing his cellphone to his forehead. The noise that escapes him can only be described as hrggrgl .

Greta wanders back over to the booth, grabbing one of the empty plates from the table. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Greta grouses.

Carol swats at her arm. “Well? Charon?”

“Ahzrukhal… had no idea what I was talking about.” 

Adam doesn’t even try to keep his panic under wraps. “H-he sure didn’t!”

Charon holds up a hand, still slowly making an imprint of his cellphone into his forehead. “Okay— All we know now is that Murphy and Barrett were acting independently. Possibly no longer working with Ahzrukhal. Though he may not know that.” He pauses, “Barrett wouldn’t do something without Murphy’s say.”

“Right.” Gob mutters, suddenly scooting out from his seat. “You guys won’t do anything unless someone else tells you to.”

“Gob…” Carol calls. He doesn’t look back, the employees’ only door back into the kitchen swinging from the force of him going through it. 

Adam lets out a frustrated groan, slumping over the table and into the dark of his curled arms.

He can hear the vinyl seat squeak as Carol leaves the booth, the clatter of moving plates and Greta and Carol’s hushed voices floating in and out. Adam is failing at trying not to sniff too loudly. This all feels hopeless.

Something is touching his hair. He jumps up, flinches back.

Charon retracts his hand as if he has been burnt. “Sorry.” He practically croaks. “I…”

Adam opens his mouth to say something. Nothing comes out. Instead, Charon reaches forward again. He has big, clumsy fingers, smearing the wetness of his tears over his cheeks. Very much not his hands, yet handling his face as delicately as he can, as if Adam will break under him. Heat blooms from the point of contact, crawls across Adam’s face. The edge of Charon’s thumb catches the tip of Adam’s Cupid’s bow, so slight he pretends not to have noticed, though it makes his heart jump into his throat. Charon looks away.

“Didn’t mean to surprise you. Just wanted to…” He trails off; words keep failing him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He mumbles. When he blinks, he can see the unshed tears caught in his lashes. Adam scrubs a hand across his face.

“You want…” Adam clears his throat, tries again: “You want to get out of here?”

Charon stares. “Where do you want to go?”

“The 9th Circle. I-I want you to take me there.” He tries to say it with conviction, like a command. Adam feels brave around Charon. Like he can take on the world. It feels stupid to admit it, even if only to himself.

But Charon nods, not quite smiles, but almost: “As you wish.”

—

The snow’s still falling by the time they leave the booth and the warmth of Carol’s Place. Outside is the kind of cold you have to just plunge into, and an hour later still feel in your legs. The snow is even managing to collect on the sidewalk, strangely white and plump along the tree beds. It will be grey by tomorrow, after the city has had its way with it.

Charon went to go grab his car from the few blocks away where they parked. Adam’s just waiting here, stamping his feet, exhaling into his palms. He almost wishes he had just made the trek with him, instead of standing here and letting the cold seep in. 

He beams as the car pulls around. Charon pulls up to the curb and throws on his hazards, stepping out.

“If you’re ready.”

“Yeah…” Adam watches with some confusion as Charon steps around the hood. It takes him a moment more to realize what he’s doing, shuffling awkwardly out of the way when he opens up the passenger side door. The heat is sputtering weakly from the vents, in time with the loud putter of the engine. Is he supposed to drive? But then Adam realizes— a moment too late, because Charon is staring awkwardly at him— that he’s simply gotten out to open the door for him.

If he didn’t know any better, if it wasn’t so cold out, Charon was actually flushed. He gestures clumsily at the seat. “I thought…”

“O-oh! Yeah.” Adam can’t keep the smile off his face. “Yeah, of course.”

Away from the street, Adam hears the bell of Carol’s Place’s door. They turn.

“Adam–” Gob jogs the short distance, calling as he catches up, “Adam, wait. Just a second.”

Gob stops in front of them. Charon flashes him a questioning look, but says nothing, closing the door; he walks back around and gets back into the driver’s seat. Gob stares at the Chryslus for a beat, as if expecting him to roll down the windows, but he’s pointedly staring straight ahead, his hands at ten and two on the wheel.

Gob sighs, turning his attention back to Adam. “Listen— I know…” He fidgets. “I know you like him a lot, alright? But.” He hesitates, staring down at the cracks in the sidewalk. “I… liked Charon a lot too, at one point. And that didn’t stop him from doing shit when it came to Ahzrukhal. Push comes to shove... he could do it again.”

Adam likes to think he knows Charon. But he figures Gob thought the same; and Charon would never be able to take that back, not fully, not really. Adam won’t protest. He knows Gob has a point. He knows, he knows.

“You’re right.” He admits, “But… Gob, I have to go. For my dad, at least.” 

Gob nods, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “Just… please be careful.”

Adam’s throat tightens. He throws another hug around Gob’s neck that nearly bowls them both over.

Gob watches Adam get in and Charon pull his Highwayman away from the curb; he’s still watching them as Adam turns around and waves from the passenger seat, until they turn a few streets down, and he loses sight of him.

“He’s right.”

Charon’s voice is like gravel. Adam turns around and settles back into the seat.

“We need to be careful.”

“I will.” Adam lies, “I am.”

—

VAULT-TEC UNIVERSITY ALERT!  PLEASE BE ADVISED THERE IS CURRENTLY A SHELTER IN PLACE. ALL STUDENTS MUST STAY IN THEIR DORM ROOMS. ALL CLASSES HAVE BEEN CANCELED FOR TODAY.