This was orginally part of one chapter, but it just grew and grew like a damn okra blossom (trust me thats fast a feverish) so here is a cut out chapter four. The next one is written (well about eighty percent done), so please do enjoy this one while I re-read and finish up the next one - will be out soon. Please review (I savor them like fine brandy wine). Anyways, enjoy the read.

Don't own Fallout. (wah)


It'd been enough just to lay next to someone while she slept that night; curled on her side with the stiff, healing finger laid up in Charon's open palm. He was warmer than Desmond had been, and from the brief contact she'd had with other ghouls – it was safe to say that Charon ran hotter than anyone she'd known; almost blisteringly idyllic.

The soft even throb of his heartbeat pounded in her ear; her head resting on his stretched arm while her back molded against his front in a near-sweet orientation.

Yes, she has been the one to ask him if he wanted a mattress instead of the dusty ground to spent the night on, but it'd been him to pull her back into his chest while the fire died into a red pulsing ember; small flames struggling against the inevitable end.

"What do you think the wasteland would be like with fresh water?", she murmured; lips pressed into the grimy leather of his arm as she picked at some rough, raised skin on his palm.

They hadn't spoken much but a few words here and there for the past hour; tired but awake all at once. The sun had come up a few minutes ago and as bred to be day-walkers as they were – it was hard to fall into sleep on a whim when the little rays of sunlight filtered in through the eroded cracks riddled in the metal walls. Not having to keep an eye open, or rely on another to keep watch was something else wholly new and strangely arduous to be complacent with.

"More violence.", he spoke, with that hot breath straining past the filth of her hair; gracing the skin of her scalp and heating her smaller-brain pleasurably.

"How do you figure that?"

He shifted against her – a hand came and grasped her stomach, pulling her closer as his chin landed along the top of her head, "Clean water is a valuable commodity, people won't be content with just enough to get by. Those people horde and kill over it.", one thumb stroked against the sensitive skin under her navel as he exhale over her again; goose bumps littering her skin in effect, "There's no saving bad people."

She stared at a gathering of old bookshelves and tattered novels as the coolness infiltrated the skin his warm breath abandoned soon after he spoke his last word. Certain thoughts – those relating to her own transgressions – bubbled up slowly, and she grabbed blindly at one of his thick fingers and squeezed.

"Some would say we're bad people, you know.", she whispered – the fire crackled defiantly; lighting up the shack pallidly as the silence settled.

"Bad people don't think of a wasteland with clean water...", he stopped, but his words lingered as that hand on her stomach rubbed her through her shirt again, "...they don't regret their wickedness either." His mouth had found her ear, not touching it but blowing moist breath down her cheek and neck; looking down on her, she knew.

She hadn't told him but a quarter of the atrocities she'd committed since leaving her Vault, but even though she felt guilty for savoring his words – and believing them at least until she next woke – she closed her eyes and pulled his clasped finger to her chest. Whether he followed her into sleep then or later, she didn't know, but despite there being nothing but painful, broken bed-springs under her, and a hard-muscled arm as her pillow – it was one of the best sleeps she could remember.

It had been quick though – the sleep had seemed like the blink of an eye, but coming with a new wave of energy and collation. The warmth at her back was still breathing down her neck, still had his hand draped over her side; fingers splayed on her clothed stomach, and still there were those pleasant but bothersome goose bumps riddling around the point of contact. It came as no surprise to realize it was the first time she'd ever slept with someone since she was a child. Never had someone held her all through the night (or day in this case); sleeping soundly as she did.

For minutes or hours – there was no telling – she lay; rubbing her cheek into the dry, but wet smelling, leather on his arm. They both needed to wash, but the smells – putrid and common for the wasteland – didn't bother her as it may have before.

Past the growing smile on her face, and the soft atmosphere expanding sharply around them; filling the shack until not a single breath wasn't without pleasance – her stomach moaned loudly. That large, heavy hand over her side slipped down over her belly and cupped it; a hot wash of breath making her spine tense.

"Hungry.", he muttered into her scalp; stating it as a fact more than a question, and possibly an admittance as well.

"Not by choice", like any after-sleep voice, hers was cracked and small, but she explained her distaste for movement with a light roll of her backside; innocently moving closer into his heat – she'd starve if it meant remaining so snug for just a little longer.

There hadn't been a single sexual thought since last night, but the unexpected grunt resounded against her back remedied that, and for at least thirty seconds she lay still as his hand remained firm on her belly, until he released her and rose to a sitting position. Belatedly, she thought of pulling him back down, but he was already on his feet and balling up material for another fire by the time she cleared her throat.

Lust may not have been something knew - at least not towards him, but as it went for other people, she'd never really responded to much besides the pent up aggression for Desmond...and Butch the night before she left him high and dry in Rivet City, but that was something she didn't spend too much excess thought on – he'd been an outlet...they both had.

As if there had still been remnants of an ember on the fire pit - a blaze of light expanded into a spew of fire as Charon's lighter scratched a spark - the flame became steady, more than enough to heat up a can of pork'n'beans on, and - as if he knew just what she'd been thinking - he plucked up a tin can and stuffed it in the oscillation of embers.

To her left, Meatdog rose from his dark cool corner to pad over against Charon's side - the mutt seemed to like him more than herself – sniffing him and nudging him even when he all but glared a sandstorm on it, yet even a friendly whistle from her still did little but get her a sight of perked ears and a vacuous stare.

The beast's glistening nose pushed against Charon's hip; large jaw flapping open to pant softly as a scabbed set of fingers reached out to scritch a spot against one high ear. Charon leaned forward; a cloud of gray smoke filtering up as he leaned back, and that smell filled the shack once more. She closed her eyes against the rush the scent gave and - without worrying much - she dozed back into that thin line between sleep and wakefulness while he made breakfast (or dinner...).


One year ago...

I'd been a bad idea to lead him this far east, especially when she'd taken most of the shots for him. It would have been more merciful for Butch down the road if she'd just taken them down her normal route - let him get a few bullet wounds - instead of taking the long and safer way to the rusted, metal mass of bitter-smelling boat.

In the dark of the hotel room, she watched him breath in and out; naked and splayed on the bed – the dark hairs on his chest still damp from their combined sweat.

A needle-like pain settled behind her right eye, and fruitlessly she kneaded the flesh under that eye; staring back down at her bare feet. For the first time in what felt like years, she had smooth legs, shaved under arms and cleft, and clean hair – everything smelt like acid-washed soap, but at least – she inhaled the scent – it wasn't the stale sweat and body odor she'd gotten used to.

Behind her Butch snored and rolled on his side; away from her. His bare ass caught her eye, but the sight didn't bring about the lust she knew a normal girl would have felt for his tanned skin and smooth muscles. There was just something...plain about his body; something that she'd noticed as early as when she was fifteen, and those thoughts led her to experiment with Amata, but that didn't yield anything different. Fucking him had been good enough though, and despite the guilty pain thrumming behind her eye – she felt content and satisfied enough.

As she pulled on clean-never-worn-before socks, she spat out the wave of guilt at leaving him here – it was for the best she'd decided. He wouldn't last on the outside and she didn't have the care nor the time to teach him. At least here in the confines of these metal walls he would live half of the dream he'd wanted. This boat was new to him, and perhaps that would be enough. He could drink and fuck the desperate girls here; make some caps and do it all over again until he couldn't take it anymore.

When the last knot in her boots were tied tight enough to make her toes throb, she looked at him again; his back muscles expanded softly as he breathed. She told herself she'd visit him again one day as she got to her feet; would check in from time to time when she was in the neighborhood, and maybe he wouldn't despise her for this after awhile.

"Seeya around...", she breathed; barely a sound, "...Butch-man.", and then she left; bag slung over her shoulder and weapons strapped to her back – a pouch of caps and a well-kept 10mm on the bedside table.

He ended up not being what she needed after all – not that there was much surprise in that.


A slightly off-but-tasty smell wafted under her nose; lulling her out of a brief but realistic dream-memory.

Past the crack of vision in one eye, she saw Charon sitting before her; legs crossed with a spoon of beans steaming over the open can. He stared down at her briefly before spooning the almost-rancid food in his mouth – not even chewing, just swallowing it thickly. She wondered if he still had all his taste buds, and if there was a way for her to get in on the pros that came with.

He took another mouth full and rested the spoon back in the tin; eyeing her as if she'd done something awkward she wasn't aware of.

"Is there something on my face?", she asked before making a horrible crack in her neck with the side of her hand; pulling herself up to rub the leftover crusts of sleep from her eyes; picking and pulling with nails at the challenging bits. Charon just snorted through his nose and took another bite of the beans and pork as if eating the food was more pleasurable than talking to her – which might have been true. They hadn't eaten since last evening, which was at least twenty hours ago.

"You kick in your sleep when your by yourself, you know.", he stated it with his same tone; angry and dull, but it was getting easier to decipher the miniscule changes in tempo in order to understand how and in which context he said certain things. Another spoonful of beans went into his mouth and he made a tight face as he swallowed.

"How is your finger?", he asked, but he wasn't looking at her with concern, just disgust as he eyed the contents of the tin can – it appeared he had enough taste buds to know he was eating something foul and too old.

Her belly went sour and made a muted howl at the prospect of food – no matter how revolting. "Like nothing happened.", she muttered past the calling of her stomach and curled said finger in front of him. He stared her and her small ruddy finger down, tossing the spoon with a plunk and a rattle into the can before handing it to her. She took it without question; shoveling slop in her mouth – the quicker she ate it the less of it she had to taste.

When he spoke; a serious question to his tone, she paused, "Does this boat we're going to have...", he paused as if to make the coming words less brittle, "...restrictions against ghouls?"

He rested his elbows on his crossed thighs; back bowing to where he was almost as short as her in this moment; eyes never wavering.

Before responding, she stomached the last spoonful of food; reaching out for the near-empty bottle of whiskey and unscrewing it, "No. But they're no worse than any other bigoted shit-hole. I wouldn't worry about it though." The whiskey washed down the foul taste, but just left her famished again. Charon's stare was still harsh and burning when she peered upwards. "Hell...most raider's take a second too long gaping at you – a bunch of 'civilized' homebodies won't think twice about keeping their mouth shut. I assure you, no one wants to fuck with someone like you. Except me maybe.", she forced a overzealous grin past the taste lingering in her mouth and capped the bottle smoothly.

His gaze didn't falter and she found herself uncapping the bottle again, taking another swill of the booze just to have something to do under his pitted look.

He spoke finally, but that undertone past the angry timber made her gut wrench, "I wasn't worried about myself.", his off-blue eyes skimmed over her appearance in a way that wasn't sexual nor innocent, "No one takes kindly to a smoothskin and a ghoul traveling together, much less a female smoothskin and a male ghoul."

There was no denying his logic, but there was also no dwelling on it either – no one would negate her service or a bed just because he was with her. If anything, she was mildly titillated by the reactions she'd seen so far – a traveling merchant, some waste scoundrels, and raiders were of the only ones she'd seen a change in, but being in Rivet City with him would be interesting.

"Try not to think about it, we'll be in and out, back in the grinder before you know it. Besides...", she dropped her voice briefly, "...I doubt you'd share a bed with me in that dingy boat even If I ordered you too."

That got the smallest of smirks out of him, but he refrained from speaking – instead he reached across the shack (the sight of his extensive reach interesting to say the least) and grasped her boots, dropping them at her side. In other words, he wanted to get going, and who was she to say no to him when he stood like the sun and the moon above her. There never really was a contract between them; like it didn't even exist except for that one moment when her fingers first touch it, and that warm spray of blood painted her.

"Lets head out then", she said with a mild smile; an easy and real smile, as he slung his shotgun over his shoulder; mask of death claiming his face once more.


Thirty three hours later...

"You're good at ignoring people, just do what comes naturally.", she muttered as the clammy smell of the ship made her eyes water concisely – the boat, no matter how clean, never smelt any better than mirlurk breath.

"Naturally.", he snorted (amused and at the same time not) behind her, and she knew – a smirk curling on one side of her mouth – that his arms were crossed tight over his chest. He growled again, "We could clear this boat in half an hour. I doubt anyone would care."

Meatdog gave a gruff bark – catching more attention from the buyers and sellers at their sides – his canine translation almost an approval to Charon's loose threat of devastation.

"Dead people aren't worth a damn, even less than these people...", she muttered as Meatdog pranced forward with a tongue flopping up and down wetly; staring back up at them, "...but this place has value: ammo, food, booze, and all the other luxuries that come with a mass clumping of people without aim to kill each other over mean looks.", she gave a lectured under her breath as they made it without issue through the market iles. Granted – the stink eyes and bile-filled sneers directed at her friend did very little for her own mood, much less his, but it'd taken all night and most of the morning to get here – to make trouble now would just be too exhausting.

"Point taken", he muttered; loud enough to catch the attention of a lone man sweeping the floor. The old, un-shaven and droopy-eyed man looked up; recoiling inwardly with eyes poking open – it was almost enough to call upon her own offences, as if the insult had traveled passed Charon and right inside of her.

Even before her brain surgery in Point Lookout, even before Christmas, and even before meeting Gob, she'd never had a problem seeing people for who they were, not what they appeared to be. It was easy to look past the physical appearances when they seemed displeasing to others; so easy, that she found the general human being frustrating for this very reason. Ghouls were the only ones whom had the same filters as she did – a reason she was drawn to them in the first place.

Only later did she realize that there was something about their exposed bodies and deep insights that attracted her to them on a more base level, yet Charon seemed the only one she'd truly been intrigued by – even Desmond had been something abrupt and uncalled for.

Past her shoulder, she peered at him; catching his slanted eyes surveying the close corridors and water-stained walls – he looked larger in the tight confines of the halls, so much more than out in the wastes. Her eyes went back before her; expecting at any point to catch Butch turning a corner. It wasn't fair to say that she wished to avoid him out of some form of shame, or hate, but it was a more petty emotion that involved the ghoul at her back; an emotion that was as selfish as the oldest of man's emotions.

The Weatherly Hotel was empty save the robot circuiting in half-center rotations; a pencil in one stiff clamp and a worn bowl-hat teetering off it's head – a prank maybe? Or just a failed attempt at making the inhospitable robot more approachable. A scuffed, brass-rimmed name plate on the desk brandished the Mr. Handy's name – Mr. Buckingham - no doubt salvaged at the bottom of the ship and transplanted as the calling for the skittish mechanical man only now noticing the two of them.

It made a strange batch of bountiful noises that had to have been a failed greeting. Last time she was here it hadn't seemed so rundown, but all that meant was she had the possibility of making a few caps by pretending to know how to repair it, and for all she knew she did – luck was a good thing in the right circumstances.

"Yeah...", she turned to Charon who had come to stand at her side; elbow close to her bicep and eyes straight ahead.

"Two rooms.", he said gruffly before looking down at her with one bow raised, as if he expected her to retaliate, or something along those lines.

"Two rooms.", she repeated his words; looking up at him with a steady gaze. He seemed unwilling or too tired to commit to some staring match however, and looked away slowly with little emotion.

"Thank you sir or madam. One-hundred and eighty caps is your total – with your discount. Please dispense accordingly, and have a-a-a-a pleasant stay.", its voice module free-roamed a moment – a stray spark flying out between a tube wrapped around its front casing and under the joint of one mechanical limb. No one could say Mr. Buckingham lacked personality, even if it was due in part to its mechanical deficiencies – the hat did wonders though.

She had half a mind (nearly) to use the old saving-caps-speech on him. A hundred and eighty caps wasn't a lot but it was enough to be of a loss, especially just in one night, but just as her lips parted to use her tarnished silver tongue on him, a small pouch of caps was dumped down on the counter besides her palm. Her eyes creased, and as she turned to her left.

Something churned in her gut long before she recognized the face.

Low and behold – before her eyes was the pompadour of the one and only Butch; mouth turned down and skin looking paler than it had when she'd last seen him. He didn't look good, but with eyes that angry and lips that thin – no one would.

"How you doing, poindexter?", he seethed it as he put a hand on the counter beside her own; oblivious to a mountain of a ghoul that had pushed himself up against her back. The old saying 'stuck between a rock and a hard place' came to mind, but the brief show of poorly taken care of teeth between Butch's lips got her mind off useless words. He looked old; like he'd aged five years in one...

"We need to have a serious fucking talk.", he groused loudly, her blank stare only making the ire on his face less constrained and more arrant. Honestly, she didn't know what to say to him; didn't want to say anything really. She'd done enough for him, and in a sense – she owed him nothing, not even an explanation.

"Can it wait? I'm a bit tired – Charon too. We can catch up this evening...maybe.", she made her voice particularly stale and short, turning to the counter as she fished out her own caps; ignoring the sack he'd flung on the counter – the bare look on her face only growing colder. She really hadn't thought Butch would have missed her 'company' so much.

"Are you seriously going to play this damn game with me? It's been a year! What do you think I am? - a turncoat?", his tone grew and Charon's body went from silent intimidation to suddenly being only a few inches from Butch's face, somehow slipping around her back like some damned comic-book snealth warrior; emitting a low and steady growl.

She knew the look he was pinning Butch with, without having to turn around. Spending her down-days wetting her whistle in the Ninth Circle had landed her privy to just about every shade of furious Charon could muster – to say it was intimidating was ignorant. It was discouraging.

"No it hasn't.", she stated, imagining the egomaniacal Butch pissing himself at the stare down he was receiving now. If anything - hearing the trickle of piss while Butch wet his pants would have been worth all the caps in her bag; all the caps in the wasteland maybe. Resentment was a funny thing, once you thought it was gone, it comes back violently.

Even as she dumped her caps in the slot - feeling the tension of the two males behind her – all she truly felt was the exhaustion and the mild depression of having run into this predicament. In front of Charon she didn't want to show any regret or guilt she may have indeed been burying for Butch, nor did she really want to speak with him now or later.

"Come on Charon, lets go to sleep.", she muttered, as the key cards were dispensed from the robots chest with a vibrant ding of approval. She grabbed hers, and stayed put just long enough to watch Charon peel himself from a still and silent Butch, grab his card and head stiffer than Mr. Buckingham to his room.

Maybe Butch expected that once Charon was gone she would talk to him – judging by his open mouth and expectant gaze as she walked past him to her own room.

He'd have to wait; at least, that's what she told herself.


It'd occurred to her fifteen minutes deep in the sheets of the Weatherly's lumpy excuse for a bed, that her over activated mind couldn't ignore the need to reconcile before letting sleep take her.

For a minute or two she felt the familiar ire for Charon and his responsibility for the lack of med-x at her disposal. If only she'd had a syringe (half-full even), she could ignore her consciousness and drift off easy. As things were though, she'd have to deal with the emotions the hard way – lest she sneak into The Quick Fix, literally to get herself a fix.

Two mornings ago – sleeping with Charon at her back – had been enough to keep her mind off the desperate want for a narcotic-numbing, but now by herself with the weight of Butch's aged face in her mind's eye, she couldn't stop the trembling of her leg.

For another ten minutes she sat at the foot of the bed with her temple in one hand and her gut growling sharply; retaliating like her wobbling knee. Things like this – old grudges and emotional scars – left her stomach in knots and she didn't know whether to shit or vomit violently, or both.

Her mind had – in a sense - been made up the second she'd closed the door behind her; hearing Butch curse loudly before leaving the lobby of the hotel. They'd been through enough together to make her plain disregard of him a conceited move through and through.

She slipped out her room with old memories both a welcome sensation and a dread. Meatdog didn't whine at the door as she shut it, and Charon's door seemed dejected enough that she thought – briefly – of forgoing Butch and crawling in bed with the stone-faced ghoul, despite his unwavering opinion of the matter, but that idea died quickly enough.

Butch wasn't too hard to sniff out. All of his old habits back in the Vault hadn't changed when she'd returned, (when he'd followed and when she'd left again) and there was a good chance of those detrimental habits staying the same, especially now. His eyes hadn't struck her as belonging to someone keeping the liquor bottle on the top shelf - no, he was probably balls deep in a bottle right now.

Down the groaning metal corridors (where water trickled in individual currents along the rusted bolts and seams), descending stairwells and rusted doors, she found the Muddy Rudder about as hard to find as the first time she'd gotten directions to the place, but once surveying the crowded, tin-smelling bar, she spotted the greasy pile of dark hair, hunched over a shot of rich looking alcohol with a woman at his side.

The bruised blonde was speaking loudly, but past that smoky voice there was still the noises of half a dozen conversations and a skipping record player; echoing a heavy chorus of trumpets and sax. Most of the people drinking looked content, almost happy - most unlike the normal watering holes she'd been in. Why Butch had seem so abject about living here she couldn't figure - it wasn't like Megaton, wasn't like Underworld. People here seemed happy to be drinking and frolicking with the few women around. No one really pulsed with depression aside from Butch, who still seemed to be ignoring the smiling woman running a finger over his tan arm.

A drunkard bumped into her when she fitted a foot on the floor of the bar; an unwanted hand easily missing her upper thigh with a quick shove off his shoulder. She didn't have time for grabby drunks and he didn't look any older than her, which meant he was probably younger - young men didn't seem to know under which circumstances to back down like the older men did.

The record player skipped while she pinned him down with a violent gaze.

He grabbed the railing of the stairwell; teetering on one bent knee, staring at her. Obviously he wasn't fit for more than dragging himself back to his hole - his brown eyes wavered when she bared her teeth (looking like a wild animal normally got the desired results) and he did indeed turned with his body up the stairs after a few seconds.

A new song she'd heard a million times came on while she watched the boy disappear around a curved plack in the stairs.

When her eyes shifted to the bar Butch was looking at her over a shoulder; bottom of his face hidden in the lapel of his jacket. He looked worse than he did back in the hotel, and it was almost reminiscent how quickly he'd drank himself into a glassy-eyed stupor. The blonde on his arm didn't stop recounting a story she'd probably heard three times removed, even when she took a seat in the unstable bar stool at his side. He looked her up and down before tipping the shot back down his throat - the bartender filling it up without a seconds thought. Butch was either a passive drunk or no one cared how much he drank as long as he paid.

"Can we talk?", she didn't have to speak over the woman or the loud, boisterous music - he'd probably been waiting to see her mouth make those words for awhile judging by how quickly he stood up - the bar stool clattering to the floor and the bruised-blonde making a strange shrill noise when he headed straight for the staircase.

Her eyes locked with the blonde's blue stare, unsure of how to decipher the tight lips and shivering irises, but all she did was offer a fake smile anyways and upright the stool before following Butch as he hugged the railing with each step. Singular, small beads of sweat hung along the back of his neck; fitted between the hairs that were spread out in empty gaps until they cluttered into the thickness of that greasy pompadour. He must have been incredibly inebriated - the very thought almost made her nervous. Things were never easy with him - probably a problem more to do with her own psyche than him. He was the only thing she had as a flesh and blood reminder of the memories; memories that seemed like some strange dream.

"Can't believe you got some shuffler tagging along 'sides me. You always were weird, weren't you.", she didn't respond, just walked baby-steps behind him as he turned down an empty corridor. The sound of dripping water echoed like a vibration having been bounced for too long, but even though dank and cold - it felt safe and familiar.

Butch paused at a door she barely recognized as the one she'd left him in. Spray paint (a green-yellow color) had been marked on the bottom of the door in a crude drawing of a bowl movement, an arrow pointing over the door and along the bend of the floor. She didn't say anything, but felt ashamed for him, even as he fumbled with his key; a hand plastered on the dirty iron while that arm trembled against the weight of his body.

"Need some help", she finally asked after a wet curse left his mouth. He didn't answer, just shoved a shoulder hard on the door. The whole act looked ridiculous, but the door slapped open after another pummeling and he stumbled inside before she could think of any condescending remark. Inside was black and incredibly cold - the smell like stale sewage but not excessively revolting. When he flicked the light on she stepped inside, and latched the door behind her.

"Wan' ah drink?", he slurred, and she declined, watching him fish out a practically empty bottle of vodka behind the bedside table. Butch didn't look like Butch in that moment, as he plunked down on the edge of his bed to finish off the alcohol like a tired old man – he looked like his mother.

She wasn't sure what to say, though she didn't think she'd ever known what to say to him, even when they were kids. It was easy to hate him, but just as easy to feel worry for him as well; justify his action because his mother and her complete disregard for him.

"I think you owe me an explanation - or a pity fuck...not sure which one I want. You smell pretty bad.", he said it all to the floor with the empty bottle barely held in his fingers. She couldn't smell herself, but she could easily smell the aroma of the room, and it wasn't at all pleasant.

"Can't say I'd want to fuck me, but the same goes for you too.", she muttered, taking a few steps further into the room - the memory of him hugging her hips as he took her from behind more tasteless than anything. She'd never fucked him before then, even in the Vault when she'd held that reluctant girlish crush on him - he didn't like her then anyways, only when she'd crawled back in the Vault with blood in between the grooves of her armor did he take interest.

"I'd fuck you now. I don't give a shit...about anything anymore.", he fell back on the bed, releasing a sudden wave of musk that was bitter and strong, but nothing like the death-scent Charon emitted constantly. She thought of the tall, foreboding ghoul even when she looked over at Butch.

"I wasn't going to do this, but out here it's hard to turn your back on someone like you...so why don't you tell me why you can't deal with this, before I leave.", she was harsh for a reason - he never responded to anything less.

He rolled up, glaring but behind that look their was a smirk, "I knew you'd come. Figured you were putting on a show for that zombie - you always did want people to think you were some badass bitch..." - it wasn't what she'd asked from him, but it wasn't unexpected either.

She'd tried at least, she told herself as she turned on her heel for the door.

The bed made this strange groan when he stood, and the fingers grabbing her shoulder pulled a similar sound out of her - the feel of his hand was horrible; cold and thin. He was drinking himself to death like his mother would have eventually done.

"Don't leave. I'm...sorry I guess.", he seemed coherent enough to see she didn't want him touching her - his hand dropped to his side as his other slicked back a curly cue that'd bounced free of his do. "Kinda feels like dream - you being here and all. Didn't think you'd ever come back."

She didn't say anything; figured it was better to stay silent so he was forced to either let her leave or continue, "Thought we'd had a silent agreement going on yah know - like 'scowering the outside and fighting dragons...or some shit like that.", his intentions seemed well, but he touched her again and didn't back off when she stepped back - just followed her until the door bit into her back as he held her shoulders. She didn't find this comfortable - any of it.

"Butch...please don't touch me.", the anger, she kept in her throat, but he didn't seem to notice she was trying to keep such wrath at bay.

"Come on", he moaned it, grabbed her head and she should have pushed him back then, but he looked like he did when he'd been shoveling all those hygiene products in a bag for her - almost happy. He was a weakness - no matter all the bad things she reminded herself with that he'd done to her, she couldn't just push him away so quickly, but he thrust that feeling away when he banging her head back with the force of his mouth on hers.

It was a drunken and stale kiss that made her tongue fold back in the bottom of her mouth, unwilling to even touch his tongue to get it out of her. She wrangled her face from his hand and his mouth, but he just pressed her into the countless lug nuts poking from the door while he ground up against her.

"What the fuck Butch!", she bucked him back but he slapped her against the door again and slobbered over her neck like some fucking dog. She was stronger than him, even if she was smaller - a well place slug against the side of his neck got him off her; curling in on himself with a hand holding his carotid artery.

She watched him stumble and fall to his knee - he was going to be dizzy for awhile, maybe even vomit, but that was fine, he probably needed to anyways. Slapping hard on that artery cut off the blood supply to the brain for a second or so, but it was always enough to disable someone long enough to escape - it worked especially well in places where it was better off to get away rather than spill blood. He gagged briefly at her feet, but didn't vomit - a pity.

The pity she'd had dissolved rapidly when he rolled back on his ass, scooting back until he hit the frame of the bed; a hand still cupping his neck as he burped up alcohol in mouth, swallowing it back down with a sweaty look.

He was drunk, she told herself, she should see him in the morning before she left just to give him a second chance, but even that felt like a personal lie.

Then - while she whipped of the slowly drying spittle on her neck - a funny thing happened; a funny-sad thing. Butch started to cry - he hiccuped with a mouth shiny and open; eyes watering and spilling slowly down his face. Suddenly things felt very uncomfortable, she shouldn't be witnessing this. A grown man crying was something she shouldn't see. Butch may have been as ass all his life (might have gotten worse in a very pathetic way) but he didn't deserve this. In all good consciousness she should have left and hope he didn't remember this; hope he could keep a small semblance of pride to get by, but she didn't.

She walked over to him and helped him up by an arm, got him to his feet and pressed him back on the bed. He made a hitched noise and looked up at her with wet eyes. He wasn't crying any longer, may have been a fluke occurrence, but those eyes begged her.

She tightened her lips, and looked away, but in the end it didn't hurt her to give him something before he fell into one of those drunken sleeps, and if he remembered anything he'd need something else to even it all out - so she kissed him. It was hard to ignore the acrid taste of stomach-acid-riddled-alcohol, but she felt better mentally doing it, and really she'd only even searched him out to make herself feel better.

He didn't stick his tongue down her throat like he had before, just kissed her like he'd done when she was just a teenager - even then he'd tasted of booze. She kissed him two more times - just small ones that meant little to her, but enough for him that he seemed to fall asleep without that scared look on his face. When he started to snore out his nose she washed her mouth out in his sink; sucking up radiated water and spitting it out straight from the tap.

In the mirror she saw the reflection of a familiar bag hanging on a broken towel wrack. The Vault sigil was embroidered on the flap, and inside lay all the soaps and glorious little things he'd helped her steal. Nothing had been used, even the bronze latch had been hard to open at first - like he'd never touched it. Good conscience told her to leave it, but she didn't have much of that - so she took it and left Butch asleep on his bed with the fresh smell of piss burning her nose. He'd have a hell of a morning, she knew that much.


She graced the cold-humid halls in the dead of the afternoon hours. People crammed past her; cursing her as she continued on down the corridors in the very dead-center of the walkway. All that crossed her mind was that she'd be brushing her teeth with toothpaste, washing her hair with shampoo and shaving before succumbing to a blissful, guilt-free sleep.

When she reached the hotel – the robot churning noisily along it's motors to greet her in it's broken voice - she stole a look over at the mast-locked door, behind which Charon slept.

Key-card in hand, she leaned up along her own metal door; staring at his own just across the lobby. It was fitting that she chose the more difficult path; needed and desired things from someone unconventional in every sense of the word. He wouldn't even share a room with her in a place like this; afraid or ashamed of brandishing her something foul by her peers. In a way he was akin to Grognak – a comparison she'd made a few times before; saving damsels and defending their honor, but in the comic everything was fixed with a cracked blade and a set of painted abs. Charon was similar but not, and the ways in which he wasn't were just as flattering as they were infuriating.

If she wanted to, she could pick the lock to his door and crawl into bed with him. What could he do? - besides allow her unless he wanted to make a scene of kicking a smoothskin out of his hotel room. She imagined him lying awake in the same style of bed as in her own room, watching the door as if he could sense the dangerous thought crawling along inside her cranium; waiting and watching. She could see him rigging up a trap system in case someone – especially her – decided to break the lock.

Slowly, she smiled; thrusting her card in its additional slot with eyes still on his door, even as she slipped inside the darkness of her room with pleasant thoughts of lukewarm water and soap – she wouldn't kick in her sleep tonight, she refused.

Once inside Meatdog leapt off her bed and skirted to the opposite end of the room, knowing he'd been caught rubbing his greasy coat all over her sheets – the dull light in the bathroom all that illuminated her treasure of contents as she upended them while pinning a thin lipped look at the mutt wagging his tail. After bathing there was now an excuse as to why she wasn't sleeping in her own bed. Never before had she smelt anything as awful as what Meatdog could emit – a combination of rancid meat, rotting fruit, wet iron, and the bowl movements from a sickly mole rat. Terrible.

The shower she took was long and cold by the end, but the chill was worth it, and not only was she clean but so was Meatdog. She'd drug him in by the scruff of both his ears after mulling the idea over briefly; washing the green-ink slime from his coat until the water ran clear.

It was hard not to overuse her stash after lingering in her own filth for so long, especially after dumping a whole small bottle of soap on the mutt before scrubbing the thick fur with her nails. Some would say this pampering meant she had some feelings for the soggy dog, but realistically, she just didn't enjoy smelling the creature from his height at her thighs all the way up to her nostrils. She re-edified that thought with a kick to his rump before letting him bound out the shower; spreading pools of water throughout the bathroom, and no doubt everywhere else.

Used shampoo bottles and wrappers littered in soggy masses around her feet. Soap suds ran in gray clumps down the side of the stall and small fine hairs – hers and the beasts - turned the slippery tile a darker shade of metal, but her body was clean and smooth, and the sheer, bare slickness between her legs was something wholly special and cherished.

Once the smell of wet dog had evaporated into the harsh rose scent of shampoo, she slid two fingers between her legs, separating them along her cleft and squeezing pleasantly against her inner lips.

She moaned softly as her back slapped against the shower – the cold water stiffening her nipples to the point of pain, but the sudden idea of pleasing herself landed her with other, more complicated thoughts.

A dangerous idea – not at all new – centered between her two lobes as she licked up the cold water running down her lips. She cupped herself as she relished in the weightlessness that a clean body delivered. There really was no better moment; no better time to exploit than the now and the here.

"Charon.", she said to the backs of her eyes.

Quickly, she cut off the shower with a punch of her palm – the water ceasing and the air oddly warmer than the evaporation burning the water off her body. The moisture in her eyes was itchy and cast the bathroom in a blurry hue as the warmth seeped along the frozen, pink parts of her body.

There was no towel. Why bother drying off when normally you just slipped back into the same grimy rags you'd peeled out of? - but now she had pre-packaged bags of never-worn underwear, all blindingly white. The thin plastic wrappings rendered easily.

For a few seconds all she did was wrap her fingers in the clothing, enjoying the softness of clean cotton; downy and good enough she had half a mind to start gnawing on it.

Meatdog shook his body behind her, loudly slapping his wet fur in a fan back and forth until her legs were coated in dribbling water once more – it wasn't a bother though. Nothing was a bother with clean hair sticking to her neck and an incredibly soft, thin and unbearable white tank top sticking damply to her moist flesh. The cotton panties were just as plush – the feeling of just standing in them was unexplainable. It'd been so long, and the thought of how everyday and mundane this kind of thing had once been almost made her laugh in upset.

For the first time, in a long time, she felt like the luckiest person in all of the wasteland. She had the freedom of the wastes, the comfort of the vault, and the impending prospect of sneaking into a real-life Grognak's bed; clean and fresh.

Gently, she plucked at the thin fabric along her belly; staring off in the corner where her rank clothes lay in a pile that looked disgustingly wet and heavy. There really was nothing worse than trying to share intimacy while ignoring the strong smells of each other. Being clean, even if Charon still smelt like decay and old blood, would feel even better shared alongside him.

The clock on her Pipboy – set delicately on the bedside table even before finding Butch – read six-twenty-two.

Really, in a place like this, it wouldn't matter if someone caught an eye of her in these underclothes. As long as the threat of rape wasn't lingering on the glimmer of seedy eyes, she lacked most concepts of modesty...at least now she did.

The hotel had been dead before, and it'd been dead when she came back. Who's to say the hotel wasn't still near abandoned save from the two of them and the dog? She didn't answer her own question – was to busy unlocking her door and staring out at the empty lobby with only the malfunctioning Mr. Handy taking up space. Charon's door was suddenly extremely different looking than all the others – the paint chipped more, the rust darker, and the water stains more prominent around the trimming.

The lock was easy to pick, and breaking locks had never been something she'd excelled in – no matter how hard she tried. It was almost as if luck was on her side. She smiled ruefully as the bobby pin ran through the laser readings inside the key-card lock. A dim, green light popped on and the latch unbolted loudly enough to level the smile – if he was awake, he heard it.

Seconds went by and there was no sound – so, as easily as she would her own room, she slipped inside and closed the heavy door behind her.

Pride. Competence. She nearly forgot the earning for med-x when her fingers locked the door with a small push a button – the confirming blink of noise only affirming what the red light said, but all those heavy emotions went on hold when a dense grunt bellowed across the room.


Hope it wasn't too slow. Please review if you have the time, and thanks for reading regardless. (I don't live for feedback, but I do grow big and strong on it).