Charon's been shot.
They were scouting a new part of downtown D.C and wandered into a trap. Eva managed to duck behind a dumpster but Charon was too far away. A bullet clipped his shoulder as he followed her down. A moment passes where he can only hear their breathing, amplified by the adrenaline and the metal they are crouched behind. He hears the raiders as they approach, searching for their victims, psycho deepened voices snarling vague threats, and he knows they can't wait. He tries to catch Eva's gaze, tries to communicate non-verbally that they need to run but she's staring at his wound in shock. He doesn't look, can't tell if it is as bad as her expression suggest.
The pain hasn't kicked in, just the impact and the heat. He can't tell if the bullet has passed through entirely so a stimpak is out of the question. Instead, he grabs her wrist with his good arm and starts to run. Eva stumbles at first but she comes to quickly enough, soon almost outpacing him as they race away from the voices still shouting behind them. They scramble over a heap of rubble, Eva drops to her feet in a crouch but Charon is thrown off by his weakened arm and stumbles to his knees, grunting at the rough impact. Eva shoots him a worried look and then takes off, sprinting with quiet feet towards an open building. He struggles to his feet and follows suit.
The building is barely standing. The ceiling has collapsed, filling the room almost completely with rubble. Eva is already climbing up the collapsed floor to the second story, picking out solid hand holds like it's second nature. It's become obvious throughout their travels that her best survival skill is her ability to escape quickly and quietly but he's never seen it so thoroughly put to the test. She slips over the edge and vanishes and if he hadn't seen her make her way up it, Charon wouldn't have even considered her escape route an option.
Following her is difficult. His left arm is fine but the bullet wound has numbed his right to the point of uselessness. Even if he wanted to use it, he couldn't. For now, it is nothing but dead weight at his side. Attempting to adjust to his compromised sense of balance, Charon starts up after his employer. With the raiders not too far away and the scent of blood hanging heavy in the air, his command to protect is going mad. She has gotten too far away, he can't even see her, and the uncertainty of her fate is twisting in him, pushing him up the climb with raising urgency.
"Eva?" He hisses, voice low but the need to be certain she is still nearby driving it out of him. He struggles up another portion of the rubble, panting harshly. He thinks his fingers might be wet but he can't be sure. Finally, he gets his answer in the form of a rope dropping silently down beside him. Despite himself, Charon grins, the urgency of the situation pushing the reaction to the surface. She's clever, he'll at least admit that much.
He grabs the rope, twisting it twice around his good hand and climbs. Charon is lifting himself up over the edge, a wide-eyed Eva pulling desperately at his arm, just as aggravated voices begin to echo down the alleyway outside. He crumples to his knees and twists, pushing his back up against a still standing wall and trains his breathing to be quiet while he listens.
Someone is shouting outside, a deep female voice slurring from the psycho. Another voice answers, higher and less intoxicated. He can't make out the words but she sounds frustrated with the first speaker. The strung-out voice responds, furious and loud enough to make out a couple words, 'fault' and 'lost.' Almost instantly, the voices descend into chaos, several male speakers joining in, each clearly agitated.
It seems their escape has incited a fight within the group, though the unusual gruffness of the majority of the voices hints that the drug may be doing most of the instigating. Eventually the voices fade away and Charon can relax, falling back further against the concrete behind him. He wants nothing more than to rest but small hands are gripping his arm to the point of pain and he opens his eyes (when did they close?) to watch his employer swing her leg over his. Suddenly she is straddling him and he has a blurry thought that she's attempting to initiate something.
For a brief moment, he wonders just how bad that would be. His fingers are now obviously wet and he feels drunk from the loss of blood and the left-over adrenaline slowly draining from his system. He tries to move his arm and scoffs. Fucking's not really a possibility with one limp entirely out of commission and barely enough energy to use the rest. This is clearly a survival response. He's still alive and an old instinct wants to take full advantage of that fact. Charon knows this but something still stirs in him when he feels both of her thighs pressing against his and there's a flicker of disappointment when she finishes the motion and settles down at his right side.
Later he will deny this but if he had still had any strength left in his arms, he just might have tried to pull her back.
Eva is oblivious to all of this. Her eyes are trained on the bullet hole in his armor and she's unbuckling his shoulder platting with shaking hands. She slides the straps of his pack off his shoulders and the instant relief of the loss of weight is glorious. He hisses when he feels her fingers near the wound but bites down any protest. They need to know if the bullet is still lodged inside him before they can use a stimpak and, with the amount of blood he's sure he's lost, the sooner the better.
When Eva sighs, he knows it's been a clean shot and he barely notices the sting of alcohol being poured over the open wound. The pain has begun to kick in now but it's deep and so much stronger that nothing else really matters. He doesn't even realize she's administered the medicine until the unnerving sensation of skin knitting together takes over the aching heat in his shoulder. She doesn't look away from the wound until its done, tracing light fingers over the new knotted scar the stimpak has created.
"Let's hope it doesn't get any worse." She finally looks up at him and he is too tired to look away, too weak to break eye contact. Small crumbs of rubble drop from the ceiling but otherwise it is quiet. Everything Eva is feeling is clear as day, worry and relief and even affection flickering across her face like racing shadows. It is raw and open, a fresh wound exposed to air, pale skin under sunlight.
Eva is clearly watching his expressions too and he doesn't have the energy to disguise anything he might not want her to see. Pain, weariness, weakness he would otherwise conceal must be plain as day on his face. He can barely bring himself to care. Eventually exhaustion overcomes him and he lets his eyes drift shut. As everything fades away, he thinks he hears her sigh.
...
When Charon wakes, he finds Eva curled close against him. She is huddled over her pip-boy and he can hear the faint strains of old music crackle out from its muffled speakers. A woman is singing about doing anything for her love but it sounds hopeless, one-sided and desperate. He's heard it a thousand times before, the gentle strains wafting through abandoned radios in empty houses, over the rowdy bustle of a crowded bar. Already he has heard it drifting up from her wrist.
What he has yet to hear is Eva singing quietly along.
Her voice is faint, even softer then the radio but clear. She isn't the best singer but it's gentle and a little scratchy at the deeper notes. Mixed with the old sounds of the building, metal slowly shifting and concrete steadily falling away, it's peaceful. She looks up when the song ends and hands him an open can of water by her side. She watches him as he drinks it and places a box of snack cakes in his lap when he finishes. Her expression is stoic.
The pastries taste stale and sickly sweet. He eats every one.
"I like that song." Eva's voice is unusually emotionless. "I heard it for the first time a day after I left the vault. She's so loyal and determined."
Late afternoon light filters through a shattered window across the room. Charon watches dust swirl through the beams like little flecks of gold.
"It made me feel like I could do anything if it was for someone who mattered to me. When I was searching.." her voice stops, stutters.
The food feels uneasy in Charon's stomach, too sweet and light, as if he's swallowed sugared air.
"... searching for my dad, it helped a lot." She plucks a crumb of pastry from Charon's leg and flicks it over the yawning hole in front of them.
"I still like it, even if it doesn't matter anymore."
Another song starts to play, a man singing about uncertainty. It sounds eerily similar. Charon shifts, rolling his shoulder experimentally and when he finds it stiff but useable, he reaches across her to grab a can of pork n' beans from her pack. He doesn't bother pulling further away as he eats. He doesn't have the energy.
The afternoon fades into night and the radio plays on.