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Charon, in his shock, half frenzied by a spike of adrenaline, looks down at his leg and does not process what has happened for a good few seconds.
The snap of bone was audible.
So was the sharp gasp that punched out of Lone.
Lone skids across the loose rock and Charon shoots his hand out, grabs the boy by the forearm. "Not you, too. Be cautious," he growls.
"I have a brace," he sputters, dropping into a squat. "And Med-X. Stimpacks. Here. Fuck. Lift your leg."
Then Lone's hands are on Charon's midthigh, trying to crank his leg up and onto a rock. Charon moves it himself, feels his boot roll like a socket wrench. It's sickening, but no tears cloud him. He winces.
Lone gets to work. Carefully removes Charon's right boot. Touches the gnarled flesh of his foot and ankle, prods and asks how badly it hurts, what kind of pain. Charon answers, robotic.
He's not concerned in the way Lone is.
Charon is compromised. And so foolishly.
Lost balance coming down from a cluster of rocks. Was scoping out the horizon for potential threats. Didn't take a bullet. Legs weren't swiped from beneath him by a raider with a lead pipe.
Charon slipped on shale. Landed full weight on his ankle.
Lone is tightening the brace when Charon reigns his mind into focus.
"I understand if you sell my contract," he says, his voice firm.
Lone quirks his eyebrows and gives him a pitiful look, his lips plumping into a frown. "Knock it off with that shit," he mutters.
Technically, it is an order, but it contradicts every instinct Charon acts on. He sits silently and observes Lone.
He uncaps the needle and best he can, squeezes together some of the meat of Charon's lower calf. The nip is nothing, Charon hardly feels it. Lone gently rubs circles around the injection site with two fingers and Charon wants, for just a second, to relax into the touch.
"Okay. Let's try to get you up."
Charon places both his palms down flat and angles his hips up and to the left, attempting to remove pressure from his now faulty right side. Lone is still crouched down on his heels. He scrambles over and throws Charon's arm over his shoulders, tries to support him. Charon allows it and with some difficulty, he manages to his feet.
"Head back to Megaton… See what we can do there."
Charon grunts.
The walk is long and frustrating. Charon hobbles his way, Lone bracing his enormous weight under the tiny frame of his shoulders.
Charon looks ruefully down at his now useless leg. He wants, in his animal desperation, to chew it clean off with his teeth, like a feral. Like that will fix anything.
The problem is not the sitting around aspect. Charon was seated, stock still, in his corner of The Ninth Circle for longer than he will ever care to keep track of, and felt no grave issue with it. Of course, he was a snarling, snapping dog inside, but because it was commanded of him, Charon sat. No drive in him to move. No drive other than the word of his contract and the silent, withheld hatred he harbored for Ahzrukhal.
The problem with his current situation is that Charon can no longer properly fulfill what is asked of him. Not to his best ability, and that is the worst failure of all.
He's injured in such a way that he can't protect Lone. He's laid up in their shared Megaton house until the break heals.
Even with the aid of Stimpacks and Med-X, he'll likely be immobile for months. Might be stuck wearing a brace for the rest of his miserable life.
Charon imagines it: the dreadful clanking of metal and leather while he tries to sneak.
He also imagines the ache of his ankle if it doesn't heal properly. Hurt dumbly at all times, just enough that it's at the forefront of his mind. Throbbing, like a rotten tooth.
Lone comes down from his bedroom. "I think once I sell this scrap, I'll have enough to get that wheelchair from Doc Church."
Charon hardens his jaw. He's burdening this vault dweller worse than he ever could have dreamed. He's meant to be a bodyguard, not a wounded animal Lone takes pity on, wastes caps on.
Lone frowns. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, softly. "You've saved my life more than enough times. I have the caps. It's okay."
Charon grumbles to himself, mutters that this is far from "okay". He keeps his eyes locked onto his faulty ankle, staring daggers at it.
A huff. "Stay put while I'm out," Lone commands. There's an edge more authority to his voice than usual. He goes out the door and it clanks shut behind him.
With little options and unguided time, Charon sets out on the one task he always resorts to when left idle: gun maintenance. He's sitting at the kitchen table, which isn't ideal, but his shotgun is within reach and he has his backpack beside him.
He finishes cleaning and lubricating the barrel by the time Lone returns. He looks up from the mangled toothbrush he uses to detail various surfaces when the door opens, is greeted by Lone pushing a wheelchair in.
Lone beams, pleased. "Hey, good, you got your stuff out. Might need to poke at the wheels, they seem a little stiff." He maneuvers the wheelchair right up beside Charon then drops to a squat to look around at the undercarriage.
"Alright."
"Oh, and just so you know, I got a good deal. Talked Doc down from his asking."
"Charming."
Lone frowns, his mood so suddenly dampened. He gives Charon a long and silent look, his eyebrows pinched up. He reaches for the lubricant that is laid out on the table and kneels down to apply it himself.
"I could—"
"I got it," Lone snips.
Charon hushes. There's no rule in his contract on offending his employer and it leaves him lost. He feels relatively neutral towards the boy, not yet swayed with hate or tolerance in their short time as companions. Well intentioned, the boy seemed, but oftentimes naive, stupid, even. Heart too big for this world.
Charon isn't one to apologize, so he doesn't.
Lone gives the wheelchair a test push. It moves smoothly. He aligns it beside Charon, an invitation to sit, and Charon pushes up on his arms. Once again, Lone assists him with a firm but friendly grip. He eases into the chair and angles his leg so his ruined ankle rests easily on the footplate.
It's the first true opportunity he's had at mobility in hours, so Charon puts his hands to the wheels and scoots himself a few inches forwards. He moves in reverse as well. The chair creaks and strains with the movement, but is relatively sturdy.
Lone whips into a cheery smile again. "You get accustomed to the new wheels and I'll cook dinner."
The house isn't particularly large. Charon practices his turns doing laps around the couch. The metal wheels clank and clatter, squeal when he grips them to ease left or right, but Lone pays no attention. The jukebox is on and he hums along to it as he stirs the boiling pot on the stove.
When the boxed mac and cheese is finished, they sit across from each other at the table. Dogmeat gets a helping of his own on the floor, which is quickly and noisily wolfed down.
After a sip of Nuka, Lone says, "I'm gonna head out to Rivet City tomorrow."
Charon scythes his eyes bitterly. "It will be dangerous with no companions. No protection."
"I'll go through the Metro. Cleared the ferals. Get to Anacosta and back."
Charon chews and swallows. His stomach churns with unease. "Will you be taking Dogmeat?"
Lone shakes his head. "He's safer here with you."
A grunt. Charon pokes at the pasta on his plate, uninterested in it now.
"Won't take me long, I promise." Lone scoops up the last bit of mac and cheese and swallows it down, then rises. "I'd trade with Wolfgang, but he won't be back for at least a week. Just stay here and look after Dogmeat for me."
"If that is what you wish of me, I shall do as you say."
Charon sleeps on the couch. His ankle is caged by the medical brace, properly set by Doc Church, and elevated on a soiled pillow. Sleep was always an issue with him and the bulky distraction of a brace and the unfamiliarity of the couch isn't aiding him in his rest. It'd taken long enough to adjust to having his own bedroom in Megaton. He stares blankly up at the ceiling.
Having come to terms with the injury, Charon considers himself lucky. No bones broke through the skin. The risk of infection, of accelerated necrosis, would be high if he suffered any rupture. Not something standard Med-X and Stimpacks could treat. Their only bet would be returning to The Underworld, keeping Charon under the watchful ghoul eyes at the Chop Shop.
Instead, he's confined to the Megaton house. Lone's adopted hometown of the Wastes. Charon can at least maintain some of his purpose here. Tend to Dogmeat. Repair what weapons Lone keeps stored in the lockers. Ensure no one attempts to break in.
Charon closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.
Complete privacy is not something Charon has experienced. If he has, the memory is too far from him to retrieve. Wadsworth sputters about, sweeping and dusting and doing domestic chores Charon would prefer to avoid. Dogmeat sleeps soundly on a tattered couch cushion Lone designated as a dog bed.
The house being empty of Lone is strange. Charon feels like a cocked gun, unsure of what to do with himself and his time. He does what is natural: fixes his and Lone's weapons. Takes inventory. Feeds Dogmeat small scraps of cured molerat and the fat trimmings of Brahmin. Opens the door for the dog to go out, opens it again when he hears him whining to come back in.
Given idle time, Charon sits in his wheelchair and considers his next move. He's ultimately confined to the lower floor, unable to get up the stairs unless he hopped or crawled. Puts him at further risk of worsening his injury or becoming stuck on the second floor. Nothing really up there of great importance anyway.
Beside Dogmeat's bed is a partially stocked bookshelf Lone has taken to cultivating when he finds prewar hardcopies in the wild. It's been a long time since Charon has read anything other than gun manuals or medical instructions, but seeing as every weapon has been tuned to the best of his ability, Charon wheels himself to the shelf. He selects a book almost at random and thumbs through it.
By day three, Charon has read more than half of Lone's collection. A lot of them are historical tellings and therefore easier to get through, as Charon was firsthand or secondhand to such events. Other genres include fiction, scientific journals, and a few informational odds and ends, such as dictionaries, English to Spanish translations, dream interpretations.
No weapons need to be fixed as they've remained completely unused in Lone's absence. Dogmeat has taken to a routine, not bothering Charon unless he needs something basic: go out, eat, or drink. Most of Charon's time is spent reading.
This is sometimes interrupted by random settlers knocking on the door with small packages in honor of Lone's kindness.
"He is not able to answer to you currently," Charon says every time a set of sunken, hopeful eyes stare down at him. "But when he is made available, I will deliver your message."
He carefully avoids saying that Lone is not home. It's not uncommon for townspeople to come and go, but Charon doesn't want anyone knowing of Lone's absence or his location in Rivet City. Not as trusting as his employer, he gives vague answers and shuts the door abruptly if questions persist.
Charon brings his shotgun each and every time.
It's the first time in his life that he's felt truly short.
Even under the crooked thumb of Ahzrukhal, Charon knew of his own strength. If no contract stood between them, Charon could easily end the bastard—and once that was reality, it is exactly what he did.
In this situation, however, Charon feels powerless. His weapon holstered and visibly threatening does, unfortunately, very little in terms of compensation.
To try to diminish this, Charon takes two thick dictionaries and lifts them in paced reps over his head. Losing some strength in his legs is inevitable given the circumstances, but at least he can combat muscle decay in his arms.
He does this for hours, until his biceps clench and shake with strain. He moves like machinery, not breaking stride until he truly can't take any more.
Once there, he sets the books down. He opens one of the dictionaries and reads every entry for words synonymous with "fracture", "recovery", "solitude".
It's dark when Lone returns. Charon is reclined on the couch, his leg raised as advised. Boots make their way up the steps in metallic, echoing thumps, and Charon sits at attention, begins to maneuver himself into his chair to be ready at the door.
The lock clicks over and Charon reaches for his shotgun, positioned awkwardly, his bad ankle dangling limp. He doesn't have time to place it properly on the footplate.
The green glow of Lone's Pip-Boy illuminates the lower half of his face and Charon eases his gun down. Lone smiles, innocent and lopsided. "Just me," he says.
Charon feels his pulse quicken. With Lone returned, he will at least be given purpose once again. It makes him realize, disgustingly, that he's missed the vault dweller. Has some sort of reliance on him more than he would like to admit.
Lone relies on Charon to protect him, and in return, Charon relies on Lone to fulfill him with tasks.
Dogmeat, at hearing Lone's voice, barks excitedly, and trots over to him, starts sniffing at his ankles.
"You had many visitors."
Lone smiles wider, dropping down to a squat to give Dogmeat a hardy scritching. "Oh yeah? You and Dogmeat scare them off good?"
"They brought you caps and drinks."
Lone stands. He sets his pack down on the workbench and crosses into the little kitchen area. He says, "Have to thank them when I get the chance." He opens the fridge. "Wanted to get back early, so I walked after sundown."
"Most predators in the Wasteland are nocturnal."
Lone uncaps a water and drinks it down shamelessly. "Thought maybe you were lonely."
Charon goes silent. He watches Lone open a box of Sugar Bombs and eat them by the handful, just standing there in the relative dark.
"I got you some cigarettes. Oh, and a bandana." Lone's free hand goes to his belt and he unknots a scrap of cloth without looking, trained fingers working from muscle memory. "Thought maybe it'd uh—ha, help keep you from losing any more hair. Keep you from getting too much sun during the day."
Charon swallows. Lone is like that: thoughtful. It's a strange and foreign dynamic. Charon has no footing when it comes to someone as genuine as the Lone Wanderer. He is always waiting for a command, always waiting for the evil to froth to the surface and flow freely into him with no choice but to obey.
"Thank you," Charon says, very quietly.
"Don't gotta thank me," he replies dismissively. "I'm beat. We can unpack tomorrow."
"Of course."
And with that, Lone wishes Charon a good night, leaving the black bandana on the kitchen table, then heads up the stairs and flops loudly down on his bare mattress. Dogmeat follows after him and having missed the dog, Charon can hear him say, "Alright. Cmon, boy, up."
Charon sits in his wheelchair a moment longer. His ankle is starting to smart given the position he's left it in. He eases himself back onto the couch, setting his gun down and tucking it away.
Again, he pretends to sleep.
Lone snaps a bubble loudly with his front teeth then tucks the gum into his cheek to talk, "Got some leather armor from Bannon. Figured we could cut it and patch up yours."
Charon nods.
Lone sets the folded clothing aside. "Tons of bullets. For obvious reasons." He grabs several boxes of shotgun shells and pushes their paper bodies over to Charon's half of the table. "Wonderglue. Oh, more cups and plates since—because we'll likely be spending a lot of time around the house."
Charon grunts, his hairless brow clenching with displeasure.
Lone ticks off some other items and bits. Scissors in better condition than his other pair, empty syringes to keep handy, an ashtray for Charon to place by the couch.
"And these?" Charon gestures to the baseball and teddy bear Lone set on the table, but had yet to explain.
"Oh," Lone laughs. "The bear is for Dogmeat." With that, Lone grabs the stuffed animal and, shaking it a bit to ensure Dogmeat is at attention from his spot on the floor, gives it a good toss.
Dogmeat snaps his jaws and immediately whips his head side to side. He retreats to his couch cushion to further inspect his new toy, happily biting into the soft, round stomach.
"This is for you." Lone rolls the baseball across to Charon who hesitates.
He picks it up with a blank expression.
"I know idling isn't your favorite. Can at least toss it around."
"Mm."
Lone waits a beat then realizes there's not going to be a thank you or any further questions, so he clears his throat and moves on. "Now uh, the groceries."
Lone opens the secondary compartment to his pack and begins unloading: Cram, Fancy Lads, Sugar Bombs, cured brahmin and molerat, Deviled Eggs, Mutfruit, Instamash, and other various boxed and canned goods.
A far larger assortment than anything Charon was ever allowed while under employ at the Ninth. Often he was given Instamash and molerat meat, both relatively inexpensive, and dirty water. On occasion, Ahzrukahl would pass him a bottle or a shot, if Charon had done particularly good that day. Mostly drinks were saved for when chem dealers were around. Ahzrukahl was always on the generous side in front of valuable guests; not wanting to look like a tyrannical slave owner under the scrutiny of special visitors.
Charon starts stacking the boxes in his lap.
"Oh, you don't have to—Well, thank you, Charon."
Charon says nothing, just rolls himself over to the shelf and begins putting things away.
"Up," Lone says.
It's technically a command, so Charon obeys. He places both hands to his own thigh and lifts his leg, sets his faulty ankle in Lone's lap.
"Gonna try one and we'll see from there." Lone uncaps a Med-X, flicks the base to ease the air bubbles out. "Doc Church said a big bastard like you could take two, three at max."
"Five is the lethal dosage for the average man."
A smile threatens to break through, but Lone's eyes cut down with focus as he rolls Charon's pant leg back. "Yes, but I'd argue that you're not the average man."
"I'm flattered," Charon deadpans.
Lone taps his forefinger over the spot he intends to inject before he actually does it; Charon takes special note of this, another small gesture of concern that wouldn't be found elsewhere in the Capital Wasteland. What a strange thing, to care so much about the small insect bite of a sharp…
Using the pads of his fingers, Lone rubs circles into the leathery flesh he's treated.
Charon breaks the silence with a brave question: "What made you buy my contract?"
Lone blinks, surprised. He continues his little massage on Charon's ankle. His eyes trail away. "Well… I dunno. Ahzrukahl rubbed me the wrong way the first time I saw him. And you, you looked goddamn miserable."
"You did not need a bodyguard."
Lone made it through the metro to The Underworld without Charon to protect him. Found his father and purified water and a million other things Charon has caught word of from the radio. He traveled to Rivet City and returned unscathed.
A breathy laugh rattles out of the boy. He rolls Charon's sleep pants back down and lifts his leg up, returns it gently to the couch. "No, not really. I got along alright without you. I mean, you definitely help, but no… I guess I just wanted to… God, it's stupid. Set you free. Get you out of there."
Charon furrows his nonexistent brow. "My contract does not allow for—"
"I know, I know. I can't just burn it or rip it to bits. I didn't know the fine print until I'd already paid the caps." Lone puts the empty Med-X syringe into the first aid kit he has open on the coffee table. The lid of the kit serves to hold dirty sharps until they can be cleaned and reused; the actual stomach of it contains all sorts of chems and supplies. "I wouldn't say I'm stuck with you…," he continues, softly. "But the terms and conditions threw a wrench in my plans. I could give you over to someone else… but no one comes to mind."
Wadsworth sputters about upstairs. The snap of cleaned bedsheets sounds, the groan of springs as the robot begins to make Lone's bed.
"Barrows, maybe, but knowing him, he'd put you in isolation and blast you with rads."
Something tickles inside at that. Charon nearly twitches into the phantom of a smile.
"I suppose I want to know you're treated right. And I—I don't know how well I'm succeeding, but I try to treat you right. Give you room and freedom as much as you're allowed."
There's a pause here where Charon considers Lone in his entirety. A meek mouse with a good heart turned hard from the Wasteland, but not yet wavering in his foolish faith in humanity. Mostly, Charon finds that to be laughable. He's seen the boy conned and cornered, and not once has he come away bitter. Upset, yes, but no resentment ever sunk below the surface. It was a hard thing to accept; that there were and are good people out there.
Charon is trying to override his programming: to give in to the possibility that this former vault dweller is forever sincere. He's experienced it firsthand, not moments ago when the smoothskin was touching his ghoulified body.
Still, Charon cannot shake the notion that even a worm will turn.
A kind hand reaches out for him and he's expecting a fist, a strike. It's proving to be a difficult thing to unlearn.
"It is…" Charon considers his words with more deliberation than usual. "Uncommon," he decides. "Your… ability to trust. Your desire to help."
Lone looks at him with wide, expectant eyes.
"But, it is not… unwelcome."
Lone bites down a smile and gets up, packing away his medical supplies.
Charon is relieved he doesn't want to explore this admission further.
With Lone having scavenged a few holovids, they sit opposite of each other on the couch and watch one to pass the time. Charon is still feeling the blunt high of the Med-X and he pairs it with a stale cigarette. Dogmeat lays between them, his head in Lone's lap, who scratches his ears absently.
The postage stamp television screen flashes reels of black and white men. Charon feels like, once upon a time, in a life before this one, he could name who they were.
He taps ash out on the edge of the tarnished white ceramic dish to his left.
Even with the dulling of Med-X, Charon feels as though he's created a tension in the room with his earlier confession. He's yet to give any sign of friendliness toward the boy. Outside of protection, Charon has kept his distance, remained guarded.
With that one wall lowered, he feels dreadfully exposed. He's unsure of the next move. Of what comes now.
The domestic simplicity of this situation certainly isn't helping. Charon assumes he's reading too much into everything and it worries him further. He'll likely continue this cyclic reeling until something happens between them, whatever that may be.
Charon raises the butt to his mouth, takes one last pull of smoke before stubbing it out.
Not long after, Lone rises and disappears into the small kitchen area. Dogmeat naturally follows suit, probably hoping for scraps he'll without a doubt be given. The stove clicks on and there's the dull metallic clanking of pots and/or pans being moved about.
Charon keeps his eyes leveled on the television set, absent, bovine. His focus is on Lone. The boy is capable of cooking, to a decent degree, but there's always room for error. A sleeve kissed by flame. A finger bit by a cutting knife.
Wadsworth could just as easily prepare meals, but Lone insists he do it himself. Says he wants to be able to keep his skills about him for when he's alone in the Wasteland without the luxury of a functioning stove and a robotic assistant. A smart choice.
For a vault dweller, Lone had a lot of insight for survival.
Charon can appreciate that.
The thought ghosts him. The slight admiration he has for the boy and his unconventional ability to self-sustain. At another time, Charon would probably startle at the realization.
Instead, he coasts along loosely with the cotton-soft blunting of Med-X and enjoys the warm smell of Salisbury steak being heated on the stove top.
Charon is beginning to go stir crazy. It's not so terrible to watch movies and smoke cigarettes and use books as arm weights, but it's eating at him. Lone keeps around town for Charon's benefit and he loathes it. Leashing the boy to him.
Lone's out at Gob's. Probably chatting up Nova, buying a few drinks to return home with.
Charon tosses the age-worn baseball against the nearest metal wall. It rattles off it, comes bounding back to his lowered and waiting hand.
Pwang! Thump, thump, then palmed. Pwang! Thump, thump. Palmed.
Charon fucks up his wrist placement and the ball hits the wall at an awkward angle. It goes skittering with an unfamiliar trajectory and disappears under the lip of the couch.
Charon grumbles. He'd go to retrieve it, but it's not worth the hassle of getting into his wheelchair. He stares ruefully down at his ankle, overwhelmed again with the need to sink his teeth in like a feral and bite it clean off.
The next morning, Lone must take notice of Charon's growing agitation, because he gets ahold of the ghoul's wheelchair and sets him up outside. Small balcony-like overlook fenced in with crude slabs of metal. Lone seats him at the circular table.
Charon gives him an expressionless look.
"Fresh air will do ya good, or however that saying goes." Lone disappears into the house and returns with two cold Nukas. He places one in front of Charon before plopping down in his own seat, immediately bringing the bottle to his lips.
"No matter the effort, your kindness will not nullify the contract," Charon rasps coldly.
Lone freezes. His Nuka is halfway from his mouth and it hangs there for a beat before he sets it down. "Is that why you think I do all this?" he asks.
"I cannot find another reason for—"
"Jesus Christ, Charon." Lone shakes his head, looks disgusted. "It's been months and you still don't get it. Fuck, I guess I don't even get it! You think I feel guilty for buying a slave? I fuckin' do. Any decent man would. But I'm not being preformative. You protect me, I protect you. We're equal. Dogmeat is equal."
There's a lull where a dry wind passes over them, flutters Lone's hair a bit. The hurt flame in his eye doesn't waver, though, face pulled tight in a bitter scowl.
"I know you—that someone did something bad to you and-and it's hard. Hard for you to get it, but I thought by now you'd understand. I'm not dragging you around as some trophy of my acceptance. I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone."
"There is no benefit for you," Charon bites out.
Lone stares at him. "No. No, there isn't. Again, that's not what this is about. Contrary to what you've been taught, not everything is a matter of cost and gain. I want you around for the sake of you being here. But when you say shit like that—that I'll never be able to-to…" Lone's voice catches and he turns his chin away like he's trying to hide.
Charon breathes steadily. Down below them, some folks are happily having breakfast, chatting and clattering caps onto a counter. They're not paying a bit of attention to the Vaultie and his stubborn ghoul.
"If you want me to sell your contract, I'll sell your contract. If you feel like you can fulfill yourself elsewhere, that's fine by me." Lone stands and the metal chair he was sitting in is pushed backward with a grating scrape. "If you think you should be out there—out there protecting a trader or-or whatever else, you can go do it. I just thought—Jesus, I was stupid enough to think maybe you'd come around to just-just living here." Lone laughs with no humor and takes his exit.
Charon digests. He sips slowly from his Nuka until the bottle is drained. He considers the idea of being passed along to another. A trader wouldn't be so bad. He'd be fulfilled, yes, but certainly stripped of the luxury he's been spoiled by in his time with Lone. A more active life or one of greater comfort?
His contract and what human parts of him remain at war over that for a while.
In the end, he knows he cannot deny himself any longer: he likes Lone with a startling sincerity and not just because he can benefit from the boy's nature.
It's unprofessional. Harboring any sort of attraction to a contract holder. Affection will make Charon soft, let his guard down. He can imagine the scenarios all too well: his mind displaced with lust or longing and because of this, his senses will be dulled stupidly. A single bullet and Lone will be gone forever.
Aside from that, there is the issue of age. Pre-war and a young former vault dweller. The social taboo of a smoothskin and a ghoul being partnered.
Just considering it, it seems too difficult to traverse.
But perhaps Lone is worth the struggle.
Charon rolls himself into the house. Lone is bent over his work table, screwing some sort of attachment onto the blaster Harkness gave him, and when the door opens, his head peeks up like a curious molerat. A flash of recognition goes over his face and Charon tries to read it, but it's gone fast. He doesn't appear angry.
Charon swallows. He steers himself over to Lone and throws the little metal brake against the right wheel so he's stopped firmly. He says, "I apologize."
Lone sets down his screwdriver. He turns, faced toward Charon fully. "I—Thank you. I accept… your apology. I'm sorry, too."
Unsure of how to continue, Charon sets his jaw and blinks. Finally, he clears his throat. "If you wish of me to stay, I would like to stay. Here, in Megaton."
A funny little smile graces Lone's face, almost like he's sad. "Yeah. That's—what I want. It's all I want now, really."
"And in the event of pursuing a less than… formal relationship, I am willing to overcome the terms of my contract." It feels strange in his mouth, those words coming out of him. It goes against his programming in every single way and inside, it's nearly enough that it physically hurts. He pushes that further down, overwhelms it with his own want.
"Is this your way of asking me out?" Lone asks, chuckling.
"I didn't mean to imply—"
"Hey, relax, big guy. I've kind of been the one chasing you. I know the contract—complicates things… So uh, we don't have to rush it. Working around it."
Charon nods. Something akin to relief warms inside him, unbraids the tension in his shoulders. "I do not feel obligated to…" There's a pregnant pause here, where Charon considers his wording. "Romance you."
Lone smiles at that and his cheeks go pink with a bashful blush. "We'll just… see where things go then."
From there out, Charon tries to resist the magnetic pull of his contract as much as he can. It's tough on his nerves, makes his jaw clench like he's awaiting the inevitable punishment he deserves for denying what he's wired to believe.
For all the inner turmoil it causes, there also comes the sweet relief of Lone's affection. A reward of pure indulgence for each act of want or independence. Choosing to sit closer to Lone on the couch than what is considered professional results in a small, soft hand tracing nonsensical shapes over his thigh. Making use of the kitchen without asking first for permission to eat gifts Charon a proud, boyish smile when Lone sees him with a plate of Blamco or a fresh Nuka.
The domestic bliss of it all is almost enough for Charon to forget about his broken ankle. Almost.
Lone yawns and stretches an arm up over his head. "Med-X before bed or skip it tonight?"
"It can be skipped."
"Not hurting so much?"
"No."
"Good. Maybe we can call Doc Church in the morning and ask him to come look at you."
Charon hums, not exactly keen on the idea, but rationally aware that it's the next logical step. "Alright."
Lone pats Charon on his good thigh as he gets up. Charon imagines it leaving behind a mark, not like a scar, but rather a memory imprinted.
The checkup is rudimentary. Doc Church looks Charon over with the least amount of physical contact possible and comes to the conclusion that he can graduate to crutches. Lone pays the caps owed for the visit and returns from Moira's with the needed devices.
Charon takes to the crutches with ease. It feels good to be at his regular height, even if he has to hunch over slightly to properly use his crutches. His ankle has set rather successfully for a wasteland injury treated with wasteland medicine. He hobbles around the couch a few times, paces the small kitchen. Not yet ready to try the stairs, but thankful he's leaving the wheelchair behind.
"Only a bit longer and you'll be able to start putting weight on that leg again," Lone says. He doesn't even attempt to hide his smile as he watches Charon.
A smile grows inside Charon, too, but he turns his face away so it can't be seen. He grumbles something and to Lone's trained ear, it sounds positive.
Charon is not quiet when he moves.
The crutch pegs hit the ground with a dull thud, no matter how light he tries to set them, and the weight of his upper body causes them to strain. Prior to the injury, Charon could fox walk, and often did when they were investigating new locations.
Charon is not quiet when he moves, but Lone allows him to get very close before he turns around and acknowledges it.
Lone blinks. "Uh. Hi?" He's still got his arms elbow-deep in the sink which is frothed with suds.
"I would like to show you my gratitude." Charon pauses then adds, "For making me realize that your hospitality is not… weakness, but mutually assured survival."
Lone laughs like he's confused. "You don't have to thank me, like I said. Just try to make yourself comfortable and don't-don't take that as a command, because it's—"
Charon advances closer, his left crutch knocking obnoxiously against the belly of the sink, and he mentally curses. It doesn't dissuade him, though; this close, he leans down and places a kiss to Lone's forehead. It's brief and dry and once Charon stands upright again, he feels very foolish.
"That was dumb," he says automatically.
"Was it?"
Charon cocks his head to the side, unsure of what to say next. Lone moves things along for the both of them by arching up on his toes and kissing Charon just beside the corner of his mouth.
"Hopefully that was less dumb," he says and he sounds breathless, like he's on the verge of flustered laughter.
Not expecting a gesture in return, Charon says, "Certainly."
Time passes quicker now that Charon can get around and reach things on his own. He gradually starts putting pressure on his ankle, holding tight to his crutches as he tests the waters. God forbid he gets too cocky too fast and ruins his progress.
On the couch, Lone pulls Charon's ankle into his lap and presses his fingers into the joint, feeling around. Charon says nothing, watches him from behind the smoke of his cigarette. When Lone doesn't find anything of concern, he switches from prodding to massaging. Doesn't even acknowledge the ghoul, just does this of his own volition.
Charon stubs out his cigarette and silently plans for the future.
Lone's gone to bed, Wadsworth powered down for the night in the kitchen, stock still and looking strangely like a metallic skeleton. Dogmeat's front paws twitch in his sleep as he dreams about hunting molerats from his spot on his makeshift bed.
Charon eases off the couch and tucks only one of his crutches under his arm. He hobbles to the foot of the stairs and looks up at them. He's beyond thankful that Lone installed a railing whenever he did, a crude fence of what were once plumbing pipes refurbished and planted in a row. Charon grips tight to the metal banister and inches forward.
It takes him a while to reach the second floor, having to find where his crutch will fit safely on the step in the dark before he pushes himself up. At Lone's door, he hesitates, but doesn't knock when he enters.
The vaultie has his lamp on, barely illuminating a small sphere beside his bed, where he's sitting, semi-reclined. "Thought I heard you coming up," he says. He half smiles.
"I wanted…" Charon thought this over in his head for hours, chewing on the thought, like he used to during his time in The Ninth, but now that he's in Lone's room, his mouth dries. "To join you," he finishes. Just five words and it's taken him more effort to get them out than it did to climb the stairs.
Lone's partial smile blooms into a full one. "Come join me." He pats the space beside him, drawing the blanket back as a way of welcoming him.
Charon obeys, but doesn't think of it as obeying. It's something he wants. It's something that benefits him and while indulgence is not necessarily a pillar of survival, Charon knows the two of them are beyond the primal worry of day to day. Charon is allowed to desire comfort and contact. He has to remind himself of that until it is no longer practice, but action.
Charon sits and before he can lay out his long legs, Lone moves a pillow to the end of the bed. "Prop your ankle up," he explains. Charon nods, does just that.
Lone clicks out the light. They lay where they are for a bit, side by side but not touching.
Lone asks, "Will you be alright going down the stairs in the morning?"
"I assumed you might help me."
That must be the right answer because suddenly Lone is shifting, turning on his side. He scoots over to Charon, bridging the few inches of mattress between them, and tentatively puts his arm over the broad field of Charon's chest. Gently, Charon takes his wrist and pulls his arm further, positioning the boy into a one armed hug. Charon reaches his own arm around, drapes it behind Lone's shoulders so he can pull him closer as needed.
"I'm glad you purchased my contract," Charon mumbles, eyes closed.
Lone yawns. He snuggles in. "Me too, Big Guy."