It's been a month and things have begun to settle. The confusion and turmoil have faded, the stress building to a boiling point, snapping and finally settling into something resembling calm. Not hating Eva has been strange but Charon is adjusting, pushing away the instinct to flinch at her proximity, scowl at her presence. The change is unnerving, leaving him uncertain on his feet, clumsy and wavering but it's happening. Slowly but surely, he's learning to move on.

The wind is warm tonight, picking up sparks and smoke from the campfire and swirling them rapidly into the still darkening sky. Eva has settled down for the evening, jacket flung to the side and pack unbuckled and flipped sideways for a makeshift backrest.
She is roasting a chunk of molerat meat, still pink and dripping fat into the sputtering flames.

Charon watches her unabashedly.

He's not certain if it's the change in their relationship or her odd forwardness rubbing off on him but he's found himself staring more and more, no longer trying to disguise the scrutinizing glances he sends her way.

A bit of color has finally begun to stain her skin, dulling the worst of her visible veins to something more sickly then inhuman. Her scars still stand out however, even in the cool evening light they are an angry pink. The nausea they induce has also failed to fade though he's learned to ignore it. If it wasn't for that hideous attempt to free him, Eva would still be just another owner to despise and, eventually, dispose of. They may still be sickening but they're a good reminder that she is no longer the enemy.

A thick droplet of fat hits the wood and sizzles, releasing a scent both savory and rancid into the dry twilight air.

Eva just keeps changing and it's an uncomfortable reminder of her mortality. Charon has been the same for so long, it's odd being around someone so in flux.

Unsettling.

Her long brown hair is shorter now, chopped haphazardly after a raider managed to get a solid grip on her by snatching up the thick strands during a fight in particularly close quarters. Charon managed to creep up on them, slitting the raider's throat rather messily but freeing Eva before the attacker could inflict any permanent damage. She cut her hair off that night, snipping away large chunks with a rusty pair of scissors while her Mr. Handy tutted fretfully in the corner.
Now her hair curls around her face, wild without much weight to hold it down. Along with her scars and slightly tinted skin, Eva almost looks like she belongs out here now, biting into the prize from her own kill as she stretches out on the cracked, deadened earth beneath her.

She smiles when she catches him watching, gesturing at the skewered meat still roasting in a silent offer.

Charon shrugs it away. Something in him is wistful this evening, empty and lighter then he's used to feeling. Tonight, he is almost unsubstantial and something as solid and real as food sounds too material, too grounding.

Maybe it's just because he's tired, exhausted to that point of faded consciousness, where everything is inconsequential and surreal or maybe it's because he's still flushed with this new sort of relief that he has yet to adjust too. Either way, he knows it's an indulgent sensation to succumb to but he's old, older then he has any right to be but without much of a life to show for it. He has more freedom now then he can ever remember having and if he wants to spend a night drifting and thoughtless then he's damn well going to.

He looks up at the stars and watches them blur and sharpen as his eyes go in and out of focus. He smells the smoke from the fire and the dust in the breeze. He breaths.

Eventually, Eva finishes her meal and, unsurprisingly, works her way around the fire. Charon can see her settle down beside him, just her blurred movements in the corner of his eye, but he doesn't react until he feels one of her still too-smooth hands close around his own. Before he would have jerked away, either insulted or disgusted at the sudden contact but now he just turns a half questioning stare her way.

Eva is sitting directly beside him, legs crossed and cradling his hand in both of hers like it's something delicate. She's not looking at him, not holding his hand as a gesture but instead staring at it, focus knotting her brows and hunching her shoulders.

It's his left hand. The skin is slightly less destroyed but no less hideous. Tendons bulge horribly along the back, highlighted by pitted skin so rough and hard it feels more like an old callous then functioning flesh. A large chunk of his thumb is missing, a wound he can no longer remember obtaining, and several nails are long gone, either ripped away or rotted off. He isn't sure.

Slowly and far too gently, Eva traces along each finger, her own dipping and raising over his various scars and knots. She avoids touching the tips of his fingers that are missing nails and he can just see the twist of her mouth as she grimaces at the sight. Another night he might have been offended but he's too tired.

Tonight, he just agrees.

"Does it hurt?" She's watching him through her lashes and he's hit with a wave of déjà vu even though he can pinpoint the exact moment she's reminding him of. The question has the same hesitance, the same thick layer of concern but now she's touching him, now she's all the way around the fire and he doesn't hate her and he doesn't want to lie to her. She's not a stranger and the small human hands holding his are warm and rapidly becoming familiar.

His answer lodges in his throat.

Eva looks away, back to his suddenly stiff hand, and slowly turns it until his palm is facing upwards. The pits on this side are deeper, the scars more jagged. Wounds still visible from the beginning of his ghoulification, the blurry half memories of desperation, the need to use his hands even while he's still rotting, skin sloughing off in huge chunks as he maneuvers guns, scrambles through ruined doorways. They're carved into him.

She fingers a particularly rough patch of skin and he can almost remember the feeling of it tearing, catching in…something…and ripping away. He flinches. Eva doesn't notice.

"I know you said it didn't but you're missing some nails. If I touch them, will it hurt?" Her eyes are back on his, so sincere, so concerned.

He can't find the words.

He shakes his head.

Eva half smiles, that familiar look of relief clear as day, and lightly touches each tip.

Charon nearly shivers, something heavy drops to the pit of his stomach. He doesn't pull away.

The breeze is still warm but now it feels hot, catching on every gruesome detail of him, tugging at rough flesh. Eva explores every inch of his hand, feather light touches tracing out injuries he can't remember but can suddenly feel.

It hurts.

He doesn't want her to stop.

Finally, he thinks she's finished. The hand not cradling his pulls away, hovers over his own. Even her trigger callouses are soft compared to him. Charon's not certain whether he's relieved or if he misses the contact. Maybe both. Just as he adjusts to her pulling away, she's back, fingertips now stroking up his wrist, the exposed flesh of his arm, culminating at the crook of his elbow and then back down. He fights back a shudder.

"Can you feel this? Are there still nerve endings this close to the surface?" Eva just sounds inquisitive, curious and Charon envies her for it. Why does she always do things like this when his guard is down?

He swallows. His 'yes' is still rougher, still catches in his throat, but with already rotted vocal chords, he doubts she can tell.

Her slow tracing stutters at his response but she continues after a moment, touch somehow even lighter. Most of her face is hidden by her newly short hair, wild tangles blocking a full view, but Charon's certain he can see a tinge of pink color her ears and cheeks.

It makes him feel a little better.

A little worse.

Eva pauses at his wrist, fingertips pressed against his pulse and damn it, his heart is definitely beating faster and there's no way she can't notice, no chance it isn't obvious so he twists his hand and catches hers up before it becomes any more glaringly clear how much she's affecting him.

Eva looks up at him, confused and he smirks, trying for casual but probably coming across as predatory.

"My turn."

She laughs instead, relaxing in his grip like it's a completely reasonable response.

Charon looks down at the delicate hand now in his clasp. He hadn't actually intended to return her actions, just wanted to stop whatever was happening to him from becoming obvious. Now that he has a hold of her, he's not certain what to do. At least she had something ghoulish to explore, her hand is relatively unscathed. What can he do with it that won't seem horrifically tender?

Uncertain, he twists her hand like she had, exposing her palm. Three dark freckles dot her wrist. Cautiously, he thumbs the fleshy part of her hand, traces the lines in her palm and tries not to think about what he's doing. Her hand is limp in his, relaxed and trusting and she is too close, too soft. Why is this happening? How did it get this far?

Eva's nails are short and freshly parred, cut irregular with a sharp knife. He touches each of her scars, some of which he recognizes, too many he can recall inflicting himself.

Distantly, he is aware that he's barely breathing but he can't bring himself to pull in anymore air. Eva seems to have forgotten as well, both of their attention focused elsewhere, on her hand in his.

Charon brings his other hand up, spreads her fingers and touches skin too soft to not be hypnotic. If he were human, it would be different. He would be just as smooth and stroking her open palm wouldn't hurt, wouldn't pull something in his chest tight with envy and longing. He wouldn't be jealous or frustrated. He wouldn't want to touch her more because he would feel the same way.

Right?

Eva remembers to breath before he does and releases a shuddering breath, hard enough that the warmth of it joins the breeze on his skin. She's no longer watching their hands, she's watching him and he can't stop himself from returning her stare.

She is too close.

The evening light has faded and the darkness presses in on them, the warm glow of the fire only making her proximity more obvious. He can see faint freckles scattered across her cheeks as well, ones he wasn't aware of until now. Ones he hasn't touched. Her hand is still in his but he can't see it, can't look away from the pale eyes focused on him.

His grip tightens. She is so incredibly close.

When did she start squeezing his hand back?

Besides them, the fire sparks and Eva glances away, slipping her hand from his so quickly it's like it was never there. For a moment, it doesn't register and he closes his grip, searching for her.

Eva tosses another log into the fire, the light in their camp spreading as the wood catches aflame. She's much further away then he remembers.

Even with the heat of the flames and the warm night air, Charon feels inexplicably cold. The dreamlike state he was in has vanished and now he just feels drained. Eva has moved further away from him, further even then she usually sits. For a moment, she won't look away from the fire and when she does, her expression is strange, difficult to read.

"I'm glad,' Eva hesitates, 'that it doesn't hurt."

She smiles but she isn't happy. It's an inversion of their first night, her words coming first and the expression following. Not relieved but revealed.

Guilt.

She doesn't say anything else, just goes and lays down on her cot. Charon stays by the fire, waits for her breathing to even out, fade into the gentle rhythm of sleep. It never does.