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Charon pulls open the drawer with more force than necessary, assuming it would be a hard pull given how it sat crooked in the frame. Inside, a circular tin slides around and clacks against the failing wood. Charon narrows his eyes and steps back, drawing his gun. He uses the muzzle to poke the container, which is about the same shape and size as a landmine. For all he knows, it could be a rigged explosive.
At least this far back, Charon might have a chance to block his front from the blast should it detonate.
The tin does nothing, knocks hollowly as Charon prods at it. He retires his shotgun and steps closer, carefully lifting the tin from the drawer. There was once something printed on the lid, but it's long been scratched away, leaving behind faded stripes of pale yellow and pink. He turns it over to look at the bottom. Whatever is inside tumbles around dully.
Charon grunts. He rights it, unscrews the top, and blinks. There are two wedges of pre-war candy stuck together in a scattering of sugar crystals. One orange and one green, molded by machine to have the inseams of segmented fruit slices.
A memory surfaces like the waterlogged body of a roach. Charon somehow knows the flavor, the texture. Citrus and lime gumdrops, thick enough to stick between the tight cracks of your teeth.
He calls Lone in from the other room. Seldom are they separated, but Tenpenny has been scoured and secured as safe since the ghouls left.
"What are those?" Lone asks immediately.
"Pre-war candy." Charon takes a seat on the bare mattress to his left and Lone sits beside him with a childlike curiosity.
"Oh? Not one I've seen before."
Charon unsheathes his knife and picks the green wedge up. Crumbs of sugar stick to his weathered skin. "Popular during… Christmas," Charon says slowly, straining to remember correctly. He pushes the blade through the center of the jelly body until it comes apart cleanly. .
He passes one half to Lone, who inspects it. The cut side is smooth and shiny, a darker green than the outside. "You've had these in the past?"
"At some point, though I cannot recall when." Charon pops the sweet in his mouth and mashes it down like pulling taffy. It's stale, but the jelly is so thick, the center has retained its sticky softness.
Lone follows suit and gasps at the strong, foreign flavor. A sharp and artificial lime, something that has not survived in The Wastelands. "Holy shit," he exclaims. "Packs a punch for being expired by a dozen decades."
Charon nods his agreement. He halves the other and they repeat this ritual for likely the last time in their lives. It's so sweet, it's almost hard to take, a shocking orange that overpowers the previous lime with no contest.
"Thank you," Lone says softly.
Charon makes a low noise, puts an arm around the kid's shoulder. Lone tilts his head so he's resting against Charon's bicep and Charon takes the opportunity to kiss in his hair. It's rare that they get a moment like this. Safety, solitude, the luxury of food that wasn't packaged for survival, but rather, decadence.
If Charon could, he'd spoil the Vaultie with candies and drinks and whatever else he can scavenge. He's not going to admit to this, though. Verbal communication is far from his strong suit and fails even harder when it has to do with affection. Lone speaks softly enough for the both of them, The Last Best Hope for Humanity somehow still loving and attentive and genuine, despite, despite, despite.