(A/N: Just three more chapters left after this!)
And Wolves Beneath Their Seams
Part 25
V remains awake. She rails from her doorway at anyone who will listen. Leaning against the frame, she accosts doctors and paladins, stares down the knights that come when the others grow afraid.
"Because I could not say no, you heard yes!" she snarls at doctors. "Just like the fucking Enclave. Anything for the better good—and who gets to decide what's good? Not me, right? No, I'm just a kid. A fucking princess. What do I know?"
Some try to reason with her, to argue her health, the necessity of her care. One, earnest and too old for such delusions, tells her that her test results will help others. V hears it will help Lyons, and though she can barely stand, she is still strong. She grabs the man by the front of his robes, hauls him forward until they are nose to nose.
"I would like to stick my fist down your throat," she says, sweetly. "It will help me to feel better. Better, it will help my friend here feel better. So I should go ahead, right? Because it will help?"
"I understand you are upset," he stutters. "But violence will not solve anything."
Charon thinks it must have been easier to agree when she was only a rumor, a name on a requisition form.
V bares her teeth, so very close to the man's trembling chin.
"If violence solves nothing," she whispers, "then why did you attack my friend?"
For this, no one has an answer.
And when V lets the man go, when she returns to her bed, the knights clear the hall of people. Afterwards, anyone who passes through travels with an escort. Most people steer clear. The hall remains empty for hours at a time.
V sits on the bed, her side pressed to his, watching the door.
"They have to walk outside to walk around," she says and smiles.
They both take grim satisfaction in that.
Of all the Brotherhood members, Yun persists. Even when nothing requires her attention, she comes. More and more, with V awake, they talk. Yun brings cards. V shares a little of her history, of their history sprawled throughout wastes, over poker and gin and one breakneck game of war that leaves her laughing.
Until, four days in, Yun says, "You know, you might feel better if we spoke about it."
V tenses, cupping a pair of threes and sixes. "Spoke about what?"
Yun's face does not change, rearranging her cards. "About what happened to you. The brahmin in the room. It's often beneficial to talk about these things with a neutral party, privately—both of you—to separate your experiences."
Cleaning one of their spare guns, Charon stops. His fingers burn, a storm warning on the horizon. V flattens her cards against the table. "You're saying we're co-dependent."
Carefully, Yun sets hers aside, folds her hands. "If you feel better putting it that way, then yes."
"So?" V snaps. "What's the matter with that? He has my back; I've got his. That's how it works."
Yun nods. She looks at V, fixes her with her full attention.
"And in your case, such a bond has proved incredibly useful. The two of you have been through a great deal together and have formed a unique way of… coping with events. However, you must admit, V, it is not unreasonable to expect that you and I could have a conversation without Charon present."
Charon snaps the gun together, returns it to the bag half cleaned. He watches Yun, wondering if she holds her hands to look inoffensive or to stop them from shaking.
She should be shaking. Across the table, V holds herself too still, unblinking. Slowly, she smiles. "Is that why you tried to sedate him, then?"
"You're defensive. I understand."
"No, you don't. You did to him what the Enclave did to me. For your convenience. Because he wasn't where you wanted him, how you wanted him."
But even knowing what this woman can do—knowing what Charon can do—Yun only purses her lips and says, "V, that is ridiculous and you know it. I had nothing to do with that truly idiotic decision. You are avoiding the issue because the question makes you uncomfortable. Very well. If you and I cannot converse alone, then perhaps Charon—"
In a second, V is on her feet.
"You stay the fuck away from Charon," she snarls, swaying but dangerous.
Cautiously, Charon stands. He places himself at her side, where he can catch her or intervene as necessary.
But even faced with the woman who purged DC, Yun remains calm. She nods.
Gently, she says, "This is exactly the response that worries me, V. A separation of twenty feet should not cause this level of anxiety."
And at her quiet surety, it occurs to Charon for the first time that perhaps they are strange, their responses inappropriate. His place is at his employer's side; his function is to protect her. But the idea of losing V fills him with an unfamiliar, churning dread.
Charon thinks of Azhrukhal, never more than five minutes alone together. He thinks of the others, thinks of years spent as unnoticed as the other weaponry. Before, he had not cared where his employers went or what happened to them. Some had died beside him; he had retrieved his contract and continued on.
But V's fingers slide through his, and Charon cannot—cannot fathom a world without her in it. He begins and ends with her. She is his War.
He thinks, perhaps, the scribe is right.
But V shakes her head, vehement and furious. "You're Brotherhood," she spits, "And the Brotherhood attacked him."
Yun's eyebrows rise. "An attack?" she says. "Yes, let's talk about that. By my estimation, your friend here could not have slept more than twelve hours in twenty six days. He has prevented our medical staff from reaching you on fifteen separate occasions. Seven of those resulted in physical injuries—none of them his."
"They had no right—"
Mouth tight, Yun stands. "I am not finished. Charon became violent to such an extent we were unable to reach you and provide necessary medical assistance without risking actual casualties of our own. Out of difference to you and your sacrifice for DC, while he posed a red-level threat within our facility, we responded with minimal force—sedating him—for our well-being, yes, but his and yours as well. It was not the best decision, but I assure you, it was not made without cause."
Calm and cold, V takes the cards from the table, returns them to the pack.
"Fuck you," she says, sliding the deck to Yun. "You do what you want because you want to. You're just clever enough to cover your tracks with a pretty reason. If that's what you're here for, don't come back."
Yun shakes her head, lips pursed, "I want to because I am concerned for your recovery."
"You are nosy. It's fucking different."
"I am a scribe. Nosy is my job description," she says and shrugs, taking her deck. "It does not, however, stop me from being right. I'll leave the two of you alone for now. But please, think about it."
Though she wavers, V refuses to sit. Long after Yun leaves, she paces the room, her hands balled into fists, humming with nervous energy. She says nothing—attempts no questions or conversation—but her hands creep constantly to the edges of her burns.
Charon remembers the Jefferson Memorial, the hours before her father's death.
He waits.
At last, at the end of an hour, V drops to the edge of the bed. Carefully, Charon joins her.
They do not touch. V curls into herself, her arms around her knees, and Charon feels the loss of her heat like a physical ache. For some time, the silence survives.
Quietly, V whispers, "I was scared. I thought they had you."
Charon's stomach clenches. Immediately, he knows what she means.
"It will not happen again," he insists, jaw tight, but V shakes her head.
"I thought they had you. I found my gear. They'd taken my ammo, but left my suit, my fist, so when I hit them, I broke their necks. I opened every door. I killed every soldier that crossed me. It took me awhile. More than a day, I think. Maybe two? They caught me twice but I—" she falters, holds her knees closer, picks at the burn on her hand. "I got uncaught."
Cold to his bones, Charon feels miles away, feels locked in the Ninth Circle, under constant battery.
"You left me there to die," V accuses from his memory. "After everything I did for you, you just hand me over to the Enclave? You run?
But at his side, she says, "I was scared. I couldn't find you, Charon. You weren't—weren't there and maybe you were dead. Maybe I'd gotten you killed. And everywhere I went, I left bodies stacked behind me and I—I was scared of myself, too." She swallows, staring at her hands. "They called me a monster in the vault and this is what they were afraid of. I am exactly what they always thought I was."
"No," he says and he knows it—knows it in his blood—but V only clenches her teeth, looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
"Charon, I reached into a man's chest and pulled his lungs out. Easy. Like shredding paper."
Seeing her so shaken, the world shifts. Charon looks at his employer, his partner, and he remembers seven months ago—six, five—when threats to her safety involved only idiots with nail boards and badly maintained guns. He wants to protect her and wishes, so badly, it were simple again.
At last, V whispers, "Do you think Yun is right? Are we… broken?"
"No," he says.
"No?" She looks at him with hope, with sadness and fear, and Charon is not a man for words. He does not know what to say to soothe her.
V fingers creep from her knees to find his. He runs a thumb over her knuckles, tracing old damage there.
We are not broken, he thinks, her hand dwarfed in his. We are afraid.
Instead, he tells her, "We will be alright."
Tremulously, she manages a smile. And it is worth it. It is enough.
Like a dog worrying at a carcass, Yun returns the next day. She enters the room determined but careful, one foot holding the doorway, and finds his eyes.
"I'd like a word with you, Charon," she says.
Without thinking, he falls back into an old pattern—fifteen years of habit—and says, "Talk to V."
The echo, talk to Azhrukhal, snaps like a live wire.
V flinches as if he has struck her. Immediately, Charon regrets speaking at all. He looks at her, tries to catch her eyes, to find an order in the shape of her fingers, but V holds herself very still, eyes low.
Yun notices. She looks between them, gauging, says, "I didn't realize you were under orders. I apologize."
V's jaw clenches, shoulders tight. She keeps her head down, scratches at the burn along her scalp, and will not look at him. Charon tries—tries to find her eyes, takes a step closer, reaching for her—but V shakes her head.
"Charon isn't under orders," she says, so quietly. She glances at him, quick and sharp, but cannot meet his eyes. Slowly, she squeezes her knees to her chest. "You do what you want, Charon. You know that."
Looking at her, Charon sees her in the library, a fist around his name, trying to hold onto anything she can find. He sees her, believing she is alone.
She is not alone. She is his War. She is his choice.
She is not Azhrukhal.
Yun says nothing, waiting, watching. She came to test boundaries and found a minefield instead. Now, she stands back, tallying the damage, and in that instant Charon despises her violently—but hates himself with the same vehemence.
"I have nothing to say to you," he grinds between clenched teeth. "If you wish to speak with my employer, you may do so, but I have not been ordered to converse with you."
The last is for V. He hopes she understands. He is not… he is not built for the litany of small freedoms she gives him. He cannot—cannot simply decide what he will and will not do—but he wants V to know he understands, appreciates what he cannot graciously accept.
Yun nods.
"Very well," she says. "If you ever change your mind, know that the offer always stands."
V sits like a stone for hours after. She says nothing, will not meet his eyes—does not reach for him or ask him to join her—and Charon's whole body hurts.
He… he wants. And the shock of wanting anything is still so jarring, but he wants… he wants to keep her from pain, to keep her safe, to never have failed her. He wants her to be whole and uninjured again. He wants her to smile.
Still, V sits on the bed with her back to the wall, her knees to her chest, and Charon does not know what to do. He does not. But he thinks… he thinks he will try.
Slowly, he joins her on the bed, sits beside her though he is careful not to touch.
"I have… offended you?" he ventures. "It was not my intent."
V shrugs. "Can I give you a standing order?"
Charon feels better at the prospect of an order—a clearly defined goal, a need—and is disgusted with himself for it. Still, he says, "You are my employer. If you order me, I will obey."
"I can't—I don't own you," V says, jaw set. "Do what you want, Charon. Whatever you want. Leave if you want. You don't have to listen to me. Consider it a standing order."
And his contract does not work like that—he cannot do what she has asked—but nevertheless, Charon's blood runs cold. He feels an abyss gaping under him, waiting to swallow. Feels an ocean closing overhead.
"You wish for me to leave?"
V looks up. He sees a wolf, cornered.
"Do you want to leave?" she challenges.
The question strikes him as bizarre. Does he want to leave? Can he? Is he capable of wanting to leave an employer? He hated Azhrukhal, despised the man, watched the bar at night musing on the day his leash would slip and he could finally kill him. But had he wanted to leave? He had wanted to shoot him. Beyond that… nothing.
Yet, the question—does he want to leave V?—fills him with blind, unruly panic.
He had never considered what would come after Azhrukhal. Had never cared. But he has been without V. He has been bereft of employer and contract—has failed her—and the emptiness hurt worse than any hundred bullets taken in her name.
Charon was built, designed, to obey, to have no desires of his own. His purpose is to serve his employer until the day he can no longer do so. There are no provisions in his contract for want.
But V looks at him, angry and hurt, and Charon wants. More than anything, Charon wants.
"I do not wish to leave," he says. But it is not enough and Charon gropes for what words he can to comfort her. "Given the… choice, I would remain with you indefinitely. You have such honor that, in service of you, I have honor. I have not… I was designed for war. But you…" he looks at his hands, scarred and calloused, battle-worn and long burnt.
"Mistress, you are my War," he tells her. "Wherever you lead, I will follow."
V looks at him as though she does not recognize him, as though he has given her more than she ever hoped for. The anger in her eyes has changed, curled into something quieter, something small and hurt and hopeful.
When she speaks, he hears her voice catch. "I could give you your contract."
"You did," Charon says. "I returned it."