A|N: Hello there! This is my first fanfic, and I know there's tons of Charon x LW out there… I just couldn't help myself. Anyways, I'm sorry if you guys don't like the bit of a backstory I gave him—I just thought because it really doesn't delve into his past so much in game that I'd put something there. –shrug- Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

They had reached safety, but at what cost?

The sun was high in the sky, although the color had seemed to drain from the world for the survivors of the Jefferson Memorial attack by the Enclave. Betsy Walsh watched her father's colleagues head to the Citadel, Doctor Li showing the emotion that had yet to hit the Lone Wanderer. Her two companions followed her in tow as she headed with the only people aside from those in Megaton she could trust to some degree. Yet even in this situation she remained unwaveringly calm.

There was a storm raging inside her, and her companions could see it hiding just below the surface.

The behemoth ghoul that was Charon, had known the vault-dweller for some time now. What he could say about the seemingly normal girl was that she was a fighter. Despite stumbling over her words at times, and not being the best when it came to bartering—she was smart. She also had a habit of bottling up whatever negative emotions were inside of her. This usually resulted in what he could only describe as a bloodbath. She'd recklessly go into a place crawling to the teeth with mutated beings and attack anything in site. Feral ghouls, irradiated critters, super mutants. It didn't matter.

It was the emotion she couldn't let out, taken on those who would gladly kill her.

Betsy wasn't the ideal candidate for a life in the Capital Wasteland; she'd lived so long with what most people would think of as luxury. Purified water, a decent source of food, comfortable living space… It was a dream boat, and she had forsaken it all in an attempt to find her selfless father. She'd found him too, and within what seemed like just a matter of days—he was gone for good. For the good fight, she could picture Three Dog telling his story now. It made her even angrier.

Cerulean eyes were filled with emotion, mixed emotions. Rage, sadness, hopelessness, and yet… She had to persevere, she had to finish the plans her father took leaps and bounds to protect. Revenge was meant to happen, and yet—all she wanted to do was get piss drunk and shoot anything that moved. A lump in her throat made her swallow as they were greeted by Elder Lyons and Scribe Rothchild. Hearing Doctor Li retelling the story of what went down at Jefferson Memorial, she felt powerless in hindsight. She could've done something, maybe if she got out of that tunnel quicker her dad would've still been alive.

That's when surprising warmth fell on her shoulder, and as brief as it was—it was comfort all the same.
It was Charon, and while he wasn't really the type for pity—or generally touching. He was still human, albeit suffering from necrosis—he still knew compassion to some degree. He may have been a hired gun, but his feelings were the same, and although they may have been muffled by being brainwashed, they were still his underneath all that two hundred year old rhetoric.

The pleasantries seemed to last eons, and Betsy truly couldn't handle it at this point.

"I need some time. The enclave doesn't know where to get the GECK and I… I need some rest."

"I understand, you are more than welcome to spend as much time as you need. Your father was a good man."

Nodding mutely in response, as Elder Lyons pointed towards the sleeping quarters, she soundlessly walked off. Her companions close behind her. His power armor he was given after the nineteen year old accidentally killed a Brotherhood member clanked gently as he walked. He didn't know if it was just because she couldn't tell due to all the fighting or she just wanted to destroy something. Either case had its valid reason, although it seemed more believable that in the heat of the fight, Betsy just forgot herself—lost track of her surroundings and attacked at random.

The vaultie was ruled by her emotions, and she'd been told copious amounts of times it would get the better of her. Entering the b-ring of the citadel, she glanced around. There were a few members of the brotherhood sleeping, and after finding a free bed, she glanced to her companions.

"We leave in the morning; I'm taking a break from this…. I need time."

The mahogany haired young woman sighed as she dismissed the two beings she'd grown the most attached to over time. Falling to her side, her black rimmed eyes closed as she forced herself to attempt a world of sleep. She heard the faint whines of Dogmeat as the companion laid on the floor next to the bed. Milky white eyes darted around the area before sighing and heading out to target practice.

Due to being brainwashed, when it came to his employer and her emotions… While yes, he understood them—He didn't quite know how to react. This Vault-Dweller was the first in a long, long while that openly showed emotion, and he was actually a bit uncomfortable around her because of it. He wouldn't blatantly admit this, but there was a lot about the young girl that unnerved him. Mainly because he'd never had to react to it before, he was not the center of attention—and he hated when he was.

Any attention really, it bothered him. Betsy was a nice girl, hot-headed as can be—but her genuinely concerned nature had made her the nexus of a lot of situations where she was left high and dry. Despite this, she still made sure Dogmeat and Charon were perfectly okay. He almost felt bad that the only way he could repay her was through not missing a damn shot. That was the contract though, that damn contract. It had been in and out of people's hands for the better part of two hundred years. He was originally from Atlantic City, in New Jersey—when the bombs fell, he was shocked he wasn't dead.

Necrosis honestly isn't that much of a better option.

War never changes, either does greed, hatred—or any of those fine rage-propelled feelings. So, with Charon's grace with a gun, it was not surprising that his work continued. His first employer after the bombs fell was a guy named Ralph. He was a dirty drug dealer who hated competition, maybe that's why he hated Ahzrukal so much. It made sense in his mind.

Glancing back briefly at his employer, he could only assume she was asleep. She was deathly quiet, and if it wasn't for the events that took place prior to this- he would normally question her. Of course he felt bad, James Walsh was a good man—he had a heart bigger than a super-mutant, and was one of the most brilliant minds of the post-apocalypse. He'd also done a good job at raising his daughter, even if she was more stubborn than a damn bighorner. Charon often found himself wondering what the smoothskin dreamed about, she'd knew some were about him, and presumably the strange events that happened out here in the wastes. Others… Well, he could have sworn once or twice she called out Butch's name. They had met briefly in Vault 101 after they'd picked up the emergency broadcast from Amata. The red-haired ghoul saw the way that smoothskin eyed his employer, and to say he didn't like it was one of the biggest understatements.

Still, Charon convinced himself that it was just the wastes getting to him. The Capital wasteland and pent up lust… He prayed to whatever almighty being existed that if they were heading to Rivet City—he was gonna get the first prostitute he found. He may have been a ghoul, but he still had needs. It didn't help that his employer was a cute smoothskin who happened to wear that damn red and black merc outfit. The only reason he hated it, really—was because it showed off what he couldn't have, after almost getting sexually assaulted by a very intoxicated Jericho—he remembered the vault-dweller telling him that the charmer outfit was something she'd never be wearing again, and he chuckled faintly at the memory.

Betsy slept harder than she'd ever had, and it was a dreamless sleep. Her body couldn't take any more traumas, and Dogmeat noticed her crying in her sleep. The worried dog climbed onto the bed and curled up beside the person who'd helped him. Her body was releasing the emotion that filled her brain to the brim, and if she wouldn't do it consciously—her body was going to let it go during her sleep. She didn't cry when Amata claimed to hate her, and she didn't cry when Jonas was shot.

Maybe it was the culmination of everything, finally reaching a head with the loss of her father.

Betsy just wasn't the same when she woke up.

Charon never actually went to sleep, and as he saw the smoothskin move, he greeted her with a casual good morning. He was surprised when she actually greeted him back with a smile, and a rather chipper response. He didn't understand how in the hell she could be so happy when yesterday she looked as if she wanted to kill everyone in the damn Citadel.

When it came to hiding her emotions, Betsy was a class act. The tears that escaped, and the emotions that went with them gave her more than enough leeway to make everyone think she was just handling it really well… Except Charon, but he could see through any cleverly built up disguise, it was part of his training after all. Regardless of where she needed to go, she realized she needed to take a week or so off. She needed some time to process, to come up with some sort of strategy after she got the G.E.C.K.

"Where to, boss?"

The Dog stirred as the Vault Dweller walked to the windows, jumping off of the bed and barking happily.

"I'm thinking maybe Megaton."

Charon clenched his jaw as the young woman looked out onto the Bailey. The last time he'd been in Megaton with his employer—He was fooling around with Nova, who had since claimed she didn't mind 'certain' ghouls, which made Gob hopeful. She didn't have a taste for pushovers though, and Gob was definitely that. Her taste was more refined to… Charon, and that was fine by him. The only thing that really worried him though was how his employer would think—completely oblivious to the fact that she at one time had slept with Megaton's prostitute too.

The main reason Betsy wanted to go there was the reason Charon was, unbeknownst to her, dreading it. The young girl needed a release, and Nova was well… her first time with a girl. She just needed something really life affirming, like her first time. The first time she'd actually been with a guy was Butch, and honestly—it was clumsy and really… Betsy couldn't call it anything but awkward. It was in a little nook of his room because he didn't want his mom catching them. She had Charon in front of her, and even for a ghoul he wasn't that bad… She'd seen worse.

The idea of being with a ghoul though, the social stigma more than anything was why she steered from thoughts of it.

It's hard to focus on anything else; especially when you can feel their eyes on you, the tension was enough to drive her to drink. Betsy recalled being at Vault 101 with her companions, she could recall the tall ghoul giving Butch death glares. She knew he felt… Something, maybe even borderline possessiveness, but Betsy found herself not being able to ask him anything. There was still a lot to be done in the wastes, and Charon was an asset she wasn't comfortable with letting go of.

"Are you sure, boss?"

"Yeah, it's the closest thing to home right now."

Of course that's why she wanted to go back, Charon was so nervous about Nova—he forgot his employer's reasons for heading back. He could easily avoid Nova if he just decided not to go to the saloon, or maybe he could go when Vaultie wasn't around. Sneak in after hours for some late night business. That could easily work. He almost felt bad for wanting to pull the brunette from the people she'd grown the closest too since leaving the vault.

Dogmeat barked happily as they decided on a destination and as they headed out into the Bailey—The trio was greeted by none other than Scribe Rothchild. His eyes seemed to narrow at the nineteen year old.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I need to clear my head."

"You need to find that G.E.C.K."

"I'll find your fucking G.E.C.K just give me some time."

"Oh yes, time. I'm sure if you're father was still alive you'd give him time too."

Emotions bubbled over as Scribe Rothchild smugly grinned at her lack of response, her teeth were clenched and her hand was gripped tightly to her gun. Suddenly she had all eyes of the brotherhood on her and the Scribe. Her eyes locked with his, if she shot at him—she wouldn't get out of this alive.

"Run along little girl, we only want you here if you're useful," With that the Scribe merely walked off—as if he did nothing wrong. Betsy snapped, normally—She could take snide comments like that in stride, but it hadn't even been a full day—and the Scribe was scoffing at her, and throwing the death of her father in her face. So she ran, ran out of the citadel, the next vulnerable being she saw…

That thing, whatever it was that was stupid enough to let its guard down…
She was going to annihilate something, and pretend it was the Scribe.