Stepping out of the clinic, fatigue settles onto Olivia's shoulders, a palpable weight. She glances at Charon, and an emotional burden is added to her discomfort. "Let's go home and pack. We're leaving tomorrow."
Charon obediently follows at arms-length behind her. His face impassive, he betrays no emotion. His old mantra resurfaces:
I am a stone.
Cold, hard, silent.
Stones do not feel. Stones do not think. Stones do not question.
If he could not feel, her words could not wound him.
Friend. Home. Freedom, he thought, bitterly. All lies.
I am a stone.
Once inside, he takes his place beside the door.
She stands at the foot of the stairs, unable to look at him. The past six months – the death of her father, the loss of Dogmeat, the pleading eyes of destitute wastelanders, wanting just another piece of her, until it seemed like there was nothing left to take – it feels like lead in her belly. She had not cried, as badly as she had wanted to – her cheeks remained dry, even after her one-woman assault on the Enclave. She could grieve later – she had no choice.
Later was now.
His behavior; his body language sears her already aching heart. She had wounded him. Even worse – she had allowed him simple pleasures that were the birthright of every man – a measure of free will, the ability to make choices for himself, the freedom to come and go as he pleased – and then cruelly, with a mere six words – stripped him of his dignity.
He had just wanted to please her.
She is worse than Ahzrukhal. She had given him hope, then torn it away. It is more than cruel – what she had done is monstrous. Her face twists in a grimace of pain and self-hate. Tears cloud her eyes, roll down her cheeks. She crumples to the floor, sobbing violently.
Sobbing for her father. Sobbing for a brave canine companion, forever lost. Sobbing for him, a being who refuses to weep.
Tears pour from her eyes; stream down her face. Her nose is running, but she neither cares nor notices – consumed with grief, her appearance means nothing to her.
Abruptly, a heavy hand on her shoulder. Charon, kneeling. "You do not have to cry for me."
She wails. Sobs rack her body – the body that had restored the water purifier. The body that had crippled the Enclave. Bowed, broken – by the purchase of a contract. The purchase of a man.
Exhausted, she feels herself lifted, cradled in his arms. Like the first night, he deposits her gently on her bed. She turns away from him toward the wall – consumed with shame. She had treated him like a piece of property. How she will live with that, she does not know. She howls, clenches her hands, rages at herself.
Eventually, she sleeps.
She dreams of the vault, a jumble of images – dad is alive again, smiling. Jonas teases her, makes her blush. She challenges Butch; standing up for Amata, her friend. Freddy's heavy gaze, unrequited. Her dreams become misty, hazy. She feels Charon's strong, leathery arms enveloping her; his lips on her throat. Her body quivers, melts into his. They become one.
When she awakes briefly during the night, she senses him next to her. He had not only laid her down, he had held her until she fell asleep.
Too tired to protest, she closes her eyes and sleeps once more.