Looking out from his station by the V.I.P. room's door, the chaos the sea of people before him causes washes over his nerve endings—some quite literally exposed and aching at the abuse—the waves leaving sand and grit behind in their wake.
Not the least of these nerves are those which belong to what little remains of his ears—though he has to admit, they at least have it a bit easier than the rest, thanks to the woman crooning on the makeshift concrete rubble stage in the corner.
Still, it does not compensate for everything else.
The deeper frustration of it all is that the worst of it does not come from the all-too-familiar scenario of him standing watch in a bar; no, the worst comes from behind him, through the barrier of the wall and door at his back, from the two males currently conversing with his Mistress.
He is naturally protective of his Mistress. It is a fact of his conditioning, of his creation, of his existence. His very blood thrums with the desire to protect, to sacrifice for her—to die for her, if only as a last resort. He is uncertain how the serum that was supposedly used on him at some point can still be in effect after all this time; he is not a man of science, after all, but he is certain that the pain response is not a voluntary function of his biology. Unless it was the serum which caused it to be so. But even then, it is certainly not what nature originally intended.
Regardless, the threat from behind that door is one he cannot protect her from, and it makes every millimeter of his remaining skin crawl.
Not that he believes either the Mayor or the synth Detective would lay a harsh finger on his Mistress.
He is more adept than most at reading people, and though the synth is not organic, he certainly seems to feel and think as any organic sentient might. He has been able to read no less than pure adoration and unwavering loyalty to his Mistress, in either of them. No, the damage they might inflict would definitely not be of a physically violent nature. Indeed, it could be far more violent than any physical blow ever would be.
He knows what topic his Mistress means to broach with them tonight. It was part of the reason he'd pulled her out of the waters that threatened to drown her so swiftly earlier. She needed strength and support to complete her task tonight.
And he will always be there to provide it.
By the time the door opens for anyone but Carol's prodigy, Gob, it is the synth which first steps out, followed by the room's other two occupants, all carting the various dishes and trays they'd previously ordered. It's near last call, and most of the patrons have long left to collapse into their beds or each other.
He falls into step beside her on the right-hand side, as he's come to understand it is where she prefers he remains when she actually allows him to perform his function.
Not behind, as a slave; not in front, like a shield.
Beside.
On the right-hand side.
'The place of honor,' she'd said with a somewhat jocular smile when she told him. At first, he'd thought she'd been joking, just having him on, but when he didn't immediately fall in, she arched a brow at him, nodding pointedly next to her.
He's since learned that she is simply always laughing. She uses it to play off her awkwardness, her pain—her sadness when it allows her to. The few who might've once looked at her oddly for the habit, have since learned it is simply a part of her, and if they want her help, they must also accept her laughter in the face of this world, which laughs back at her with maddening regularity and intensity.
She slides calloused fingers over his wrist, squeezing gently. "Any trouble?"
He shakes his head. There had been a few drunks, but nothing he couldn't handle with a stern glare. "No. It is resolved?"
She draws a deep breath, tipping her head in a shrug. "Something along those lines." She sets her plate and the empty tumbler of whiskey resting atop it on the bar by her butler, now the Rail's official chef. "Thanks, Cods! Need anything tonight?"
He tunes out her conversation with the semi-sentient machine, noting her fingers still lingering on his wrist, and flexing his fingers—making the ligaments beneath her touch wriggle—in reminder. It normally works, unless she has more to say to him. Apparently, this is one of those times, as she does not release him; only giving a light squeeze to tell him she's aware of herself and every one of her digits.
He glances aside at her... is there a term for what the Mayor and Detective are, now? Or are they anything at all..?
His Mistress had been vague on the eve's success, and he does not know anyway, so he does not bother to try his hand at labeling them.
The synth is the only one of the two who gives her touch on Charon's wrist a curiously inquiring look, mostly directed at Charon himself as if it's somehow his fault that he has such a physical employer. The vaguely disapproving glare he turns upon the Detective eventually deters him, for the most part; though if the synthetic man's expression is anything to go on, he will ask his Mistress about it, later.
Finally, she turns away from the 'bot, which takes all of their dishes and hovers off. She smiles at Charon, presses one last bit of pressure to his wrist, then removes her fingers. "What are your plans for tonight?"
A few seconds of watching her features in contemplation reveals to him that she would rather he have his own choice of activities for the night. Glancing back at the males still hovering nearby, it isn't much of a leap to guess why. "You would rather I did not guard the door?"
She blushes prettily, and he notes her skin pebbling in goosebumps everywhere it physically can. "I... well. No, I... don't really want to put you through ah... that." She frowns slightly, swallowing and clearing her throat. "Anyway, surely you've got better things to do?"
The deadpan look he gives her is the only answer she needs, but he is compelled to answer nonetheless, "No."
She squeezes her eyes shut on a frustrated sigh, only opening them to turn to her... companions. "I need to talk to Charon for a minute, I won't be too long. You can head there or wait? Up to you guys."
The Mayor nods quickly. "Alright, sunshine. Need your key, though."
His Mistress blinks then shakes her head. "Oh, right. Sorry." She fishes through a pocket at her hip and produces what Charon recognizes as her elevator key, which she then presses into the other ghoul's hand with a smile. "Here you go. You boys go on then, I'll be along in a little bit."
Mayor Hancock smiles and kisses her cheek, leading the way out of the establishment with a confident swagger.
The synth, glancing around at the empty bar first, takes it one step further and kisses her lips, garnering a soft, wanting whimper and a stroke of his cheek for his efforts.
"C'mon Nicky! There's more where that came from headed our way, if you ever leave her to it," comes the Mayor's teasing rasp from halfway up the stairs, and they all look to see the impish grin he's bent down just enough to let them see, before he turns and continues up the stairs.
His Mistress' peach-colored blush floods all the way down her neck, even touching the shells of her ears with her embarrassment.
The Detective traces the heat down one side of her neck with his metal hand, a sly smile on his synthetic lips. "So beautiful."
She tries to hide the blush that only seems to be getting worse, ducking her head down, though she tilts her head aside, giving his hand room to do as it wishes. "You're a horrible tease, Detective."
Said Detective smirks, then puts on an utterly scandalized expression. "Well now, I don't see how it's a tease to speak the truth, doll."
His Mistress levels a half-smiling sneer at the synth, growling softly, though the sound has so little bite it's laughable. "Stop trying to have me on the bar and go catch up with John, Nicky. I'll be with you both as quickly as humanly possible." She gently shoves at the synth, though it has little more effect than pressing her palm into his chest, as he isn't even budged by the pressure. "Go, you immovable man."
The synth hesitates as if he wants to correct something she's said, but a corner of his mouth turns up and he shakes his head fondly, then tosses his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright; I'm going." He tilts his head up to look Charon as square in the eye as a shorter being can manage. "Don't keep her too long there, ferryman. She's got an appointment with life tonight."
Charon merely arches a brow at the synth, offering no other response as the synth looks back down to his Mistress, smiles then turns and ushers himself out. He looks down to where his Mistress sighs next to him.
She gestures for him to follow her, tossing a small cap bag at Charlie as she grabs the two glasses and the fifth of whiskey he hands her. She's overpaying, he thinks, until he realizes she's paying for their meals, as well. "Cods, could you possibly whip up some steak and a side or three for Charon? I promise it's the last thing I'll order."
The 'bot hums thoughtfully. "Rad doe, rad stag, or brahmin, mum?"
His Mistress looks to Charon, lifting both brows and keeping eye contact as she nods at Codsworth, a silent order to provide his own preference.
He sighs. This is a regular exercise she coaxes out of him; the exercise of choice, in things that do not really matter. He looks to the Mr. Handy and grumbles for a few seconds, wavering under the crushing demand that he make a decision. He clenches his jaw tightly shut as he grinds out, "Brahmin."
"Very good, sir. And how would you prefer it cooked? It must be at least medium to avoid parasites these days, I'm afraid."
Now the machine is demanding decisions of him. He glances to his Mistress, only to get a repeat of her insistence. The bar's edge creaks under his fingers' tightening grip. "Medium-well," he growls, at last.
"Oi, you there, giant," interrupts the other Mr. Handy. "Stop man-handlin' my bar. I didn't polish it just so you could put your grimy fingerprints all over it and rip it apart."
He sends a glare the 'bot's way, but forcibly un-clamps his fingers from the furniture, returning them to his sides.
"Charlie, lay off him," his Mistress insists, a placating hand raised, "I'm being hard on him right now, just... lay off him."
The machine waves her off. The other machine has gone about making his dinner.
He ignores them both, looking in question to his Mistress. "You are not... being hard on me, Shana."
She purses her mouth into a thin line as if she knows that every time he says her name, he means to say 'Mistress', and she can hear it in the letters of her name as she reads them from his lips. Her own lips loosen as she flits her gaze up to his, a soft sigh susurrating from her. "C'mon." She tips her head toward the V.I.P. room she's spent most of the night in. "Let's talk."
He follows her in relative silence as the glasses in her hand clink against each other, the liquid fire swishing around in the bottle's short neck to the time of her swinging hips.
His Mistress sinks into the largest couch in the room, toeing her boots off and lifting her sock-encased feet up beside her, then tucking them slightly under her, as she sets the glasses on the table beside her. After few seconds of twisting, the surprisingly intact old cap unscrews itself from the mouth of the bottle, and she's pouring two-hundred-year-old whiskey into tumblers that are likely just as old. She takes her glass, giving the liquor a cursory sniff and a taste, before apparently deeming it drinkable. She points wordlessly to the other end of the couch, and he sits readily enough. Handing his tumbler to him, she settles back into the couch comfortably, swirling the alcohol in the glass and watching it contentedly.
The moment he lowers the glass from the sip he'd taken—the flavor of it had certainly dulled over the centuries, but it is indeed palatable—and swallows, her azure eyes capture him in their regard, sweeping over his seated form as if taking him in for the first time.
There is a heavy sigh, and she draws another, longer sip from her glass before she turns fully to him and speaks. "Charon, I'm... assuming previous employers have... had you guard the door while they went into some room and fucked someone?"
He pauses, taking a moment to consider the question. It's no more or less blunt than most of her other private queries to him have been, so it is not the tone or candor that causes him to delay his answer, but an actual lack of complete memory on the subject. Things tend to get fuzzy, after two centuries. "There were... some who did, yes. Ahzrukhal most definitely did many times. Lynn always sent me to guard one of her nearby inner circle when she wished time alone with Butch. Why do you ask?"
She blushes softly, but answers without delay or hesitation, "Because I'm trying to figure out whose head I need to blow off, for forcing you to stand outside a door and listen to that."
He quirks a brow at her, even blinks, once. His Mistress is full of surprises. "You assume it was always a duty that was forced upon me?" At her nod, he shakes his head and explains, "It was not... always. In some cases, yes. In most, it was simply a form of my function that demanded I stay nearby. Even a trusted lover could slip a knife into my employer's ribs in the middle of sex, or after they'd fallen asleep. It happened many times, over the years. If I had not remained nearby to catch the perpetrator and tend to my employer, I would have found myself in need of a new one far more frequently."
She frowns, clearly skeptical. "And it didn't bother you, having to hear everything that was going on in that room?"
He shrugs, swallowing down another bit of his drink before answering, "I was protecting my employer. It is my function. A lack of ammo bothers me. Not being allowed to fulfill my function bothers me. Listening to an orgy in the next room ranks, at best, on my list of minor annoyances. So long as I can fulfill my function, I am... content enough."
His Mistress makes her displeasure at his conclusion known with the glare she pointedly fixes on him. "'Content enough'? Charon, we've been over this. I want to keep you as happy as possible, not just 'content enough'. I know there's only so much I can do to help you there, but not adding to the minor annoyances list can't hurt."
He tilts his head as he turns it to look at her, expression pensive. "You realize not allowing me to perform my function lands you on the frustrating list, yes?"
She drains her cup and sets it on the table behind her, folding her arms over her chest somewhat ineffectually, her seated form diminishing the intended effect. "Can you entirely blame me for not wanting anyone to hear anything, the first time I attempt sex with my boyfriends?"
He arches a brow and partially turns, left knee sliding up to the seat's edge as he rests the glass and his hand around it on the back of the couch. "So that is what you are calling them? I admit I was uncertain how to label them."
His Mistress seems to consider the matter. "Well," she offers, after a time, "I suppose they could be called mates, since... I mean we're a pack." She wobbles her head a bit. "I dunno. Boyfriends, lovers, mates... whatever seems appropriate, I suppose."
Twenty less than savory suggestions pass through his mind before he shuts down that train of thought entirely. "As to your question, yes, I can understand your wish for privacy. I will obey any command you give me on the subject, but I cannot promise I will be... happy about it, as you insist I remain."
Just then, Codsworth floats in and delivers his dinner to him, quietly leaving after he notes the ongoing conversation. Charon sets his glass on the couch's back, then tucks into the food with gusto.
She quirks an eyebrow at him. "Would you rather I insist you be miserable, Charon? Would you rather I be like Ahzrukhal? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't want to be anything like that prick. From everything you've told me... just... no. Fuck no." She shudders visibly, then uncrosses her arms and turns halfway, pouring herself another glass.
He finishes his own, and she's reaching for it before he fully lowers it. Within moments, he has a full tumbler of whiskey. By the time she's turned back around to face him fully, she's already imbibed her first sip of the new glass. He sighs, the whiskey burn warming the breath as it billows from his nasal cavity. "No, I would not wish you to be as he was. Because, if you were to become like him, something so drastic as to alter the very essence of what you are would need to occur, and I am... uncertain we would survive such a thing. Or that I would wish to."
She acknowledges his statement with a quiet dip of her head and a lifting of her glass, which nears his. "To never becoming Ahzrukhal."
It takes a moment for him to realize what he's meant to do, but she is patient, and he belatedly lifts his own tumbler, tapping it as gently as he can to hers. They both take their drinks to seal the toast. He sets his glass aside again, efficiently wolfing down his food. After he clears most of his plate, he nods at her cup, then levels an even look at her. "If you consume much more, you will not make it to your bed with enough wherewithal to perform. I suggest slowing down, M... Shana," he corrects himself, quickly. He downs the last of his food, and quietly sets the plate to the side.
There's a deep heaving of breath from the other end of the couch. "Charon, how much does it really bother you to call me by name?"
He winces; though the pain response hasn't been triggered yet, he does expect it at any time if her displeasure continues. "It is simply how I think of you. You are my Mistress, whether or not you choose to agree or acknowledge that fact."
She nods after a long moment. "Does it then follow that I cannot also be Shana?" She holds her finger up, asking for a moment as she drags in a slow breath and stares deeply into her glass. The finger lowers. She looks at him. "Would you like to have the choice between the two, at any time?"
He quirks his head curiously at the query. "I would choose to address you as Mistress if I had the choice."
His Mistress grimaces slightly, then downs the remainder of her whiskey, setting the glass behind her and making no move to refill it.
He relaxes marginally at the sight, though he continues to watch her, wary of her next words.
When her pursed lips part to speak, she affixes her gaze to his and does not allow it to relent until she again falls silent. "Charon, I'm rescinding my previous order to only address me by my name. Instead, I give you a new one: from now on, you will choose the manner in which you address me, whether that be my name, my Minutemen title, Mistress, or any other name you choose, at any time. I only ask that you try to be reasonable about it all. Similarly, you will decide whether to remain by the door or not. I have a feeling you'll eventually get tired of it, once you realize those two aren't going to murder me in my sleep."
It takes a few seconds for it to hit him, but when it does, he frowns at her. "Those make no sense. You are literally ordering me to exercise free will."
She nods once. "That I am."
"How am I to follow these orders properly?" he demands of her.
She smiles patiently. "However you wish to."
As if choice is something he has been designed for.
As if it were that simple.
As if he were free.
But no, there are still many threads binding him to her by dint of his contract, and he will never be a free man.
No matter how many of her eventual orders taste like freedom.
He takes some small comfort in that, despite the perversity of it all.
"Very well..." he considers, then nods, "Mistress. If that is what you wish."
She chuckles softly. "For you to do what you want? Yes, that is my 'wish', if I had any. You're not a slave, Charon, no matter what your contract says." She roughly pats the pocket just above her breast, which crinkles softly with the papers of his contract. "Much as I'm grateful for what you bring to the table in combat and instruction, you know I don't like this thing one bit, nor the power it holds over both of us. It's not right. If I didn't know what it'd do to us both, I'd have destroyed it the moment I bought it."
A shiver races up his spine, chasing the icy fingers of dread that trail along it at the mere mention of destroying the papers in her pocket. He covetously eyes the outline of it in the fabric which covers it, but shakes himself not even a second later, shoving the thoughts that had gathered firmly away. "It is good that you understand then, Mistress."
An affirming grunt answers him. She slides her feet out from under her and hands him the bottle, grabbing her cup just before she scooches herself into her boots and stands. "My... mates, boyfriends, whatever you want to call them, have been waiting long enough. You've got your entirely optional orders, so I say goodnight!" She gives him a lazy, two-fingered salute, then heads for the door without further ado.
He glances down at the bottle in his hands, then scoops up his glass and plate and follows, depositing the dishes on the bar in front of the Mr. Handy resting in his charge station. He keeps the bottle with him, as he bounds up the stairs behind her, watching her back contemplatively.
His Mistress is a confounding creature; all contradictions and far too many freedoms and orders that taste like a glut of sugar on his tongue.
She is, however, unerringly fair.
In this, she did not lie.
However unnecessary he still believes it is.
It is that fairness that tastes so overwhelmingly sweet, after all.
He is unsure he will ever fully adjust to it.
But at least he does not completely chafe under it.
At least she is, and never will be, Ahzrukhal.
There is a comfort in that he cannot ignore.