Three more days of watching her care for and fuss over the Mayor, all while avoiding the Detective, and even—to a point—him, has drawn him to a fine edge like few things can.
It bothers him how easily she manages to set him on that razor's edge; bothers him so much, because he's absolutely certain it would take frighteningly little for him to slip, and be cut in twain.
And he doesn't know what would become of either of them if he did.
Already he tires dangerously, the sleep pattern she's been forcing him into these past months now startlingly absent in her forgetfulness during this time of stress, when she herself cannot fathom sleep, even—no, especially—for herself.
His past training means little, in the face of this current drought of rest, and she has no such conditioning to fall back on.
They are both in dire need of actual sleep, not just an errant nap on the couch.
Besides, by Charon's estimation, the Mayor is nearly recovered. Another day at most, and he will be on the mend. He is awake and coherent. He's holding down irradiated water and most soft foods. He still trembles, but it seems more out of malnutrition and general weakness than any kind of detoxification, and the sweating has stopped entirely. He can sit up and even shakily stand without assistance and usually makes it to the bathroom in time, effectively negating the necessity of his Mistress' presence. Between Mozzy and the Detective, there will be more than enough of a warning system if something were to go wrong enough to require her presence, for any reason.
It is time.
Charon divorces himself from the wall at long last, his back cooling even in the stagnant air for the sweat that has gathered in his shirt between skin and plaster. Belatedly, the movement catches her attention, eyes that are usually bright and sharp now dulled and glassy from exhaustion, ringed in a darkness that surely none in the room can escape noticing. He approaches and peers down at her with his own tired gaze.
He takes a weary breath and addresses her firmly, "Mistress, you... we both need rest. Mossman and Detective Valentine can serve as a warning system, should one be needed. You and I are adjourning to your apartment. I cannot guarantee your safety much past this point from my own protection without slumber to recharge, and your health will begin to decline if you do not sleep soon. I will brook no argument on the subject at this juncture. I will carry you there, if necessary." He pauses, looking at her pleadingly. "Please don't make me carry you there."
His Mistress snorts at his last words and slumps with a sigh of mild defeat, though the wry smile tugging at her lips belies her downtrodden facade. She lifts her view to the Mayor, reaching out to slide her fingers across his brow and cup his cheek, the ghoul raising his own hand to cover hers as he rasps a quiet chuckle into the air.
"He's got you by the short hairs, sunshine. Don't think you'll find any of us disagreein' with him. You gotta rest sometime. Much as I'd love to keep ya around right now, you gotta go take care of yourself for a while. I'll be fine, right here. Just go sleep, darlin'." The Mayor pats her hand and gives it a squeeze when he gently lowers it from his face to her lap, offering a tired smile and a wink before he draws his hand back to his own lap.
She nods softly and stands with another sigh, leaning down to press gentle kisses to her ghoul lover's face. She straightens and pauses, watching that middle space she so often goes to in the forest of her mind. Then after a moment she sharply turns, marches over to her synth lover and grabs him by the lapels, nearly slamming her lips into his in what can only be fierce determination, which clearly surprises the synth more than anyone else, as he now seems incredibly uncertain what to do with his hands.
By the time her lips leave his, his hat is askew, his lapels and collar are crooked, and the synth is quite beside himself, utterly besotted and as mussed as a mechanical man can be. "Damn, doll." His smile tugs one corner of his mouth up, one hand finally trailing its thumb softly over her cheek, as if he's afraid to touch her, but can't really help himself. He carefully chucks her chin with the same hand's outstretched forefinger, every inch of his body's language radiating his affection and love for her. "Right back at ya."
She smiles her satisfaction and gently pats his cheek, leaving one last peck on his mouth before cleaving herself from him and sauntering over to Charon, indicating for him to lead the way.
He arches a single brow, then turns and does just that, pondering deeper concepts than most would guess by looking at him along the way.
Watching her, as she passes by the Watch members, by the drifters, by the citizens of the town she is all but queen of, he yet again attempts to formulate his true opinion on who his employer really is. It's a vision that changes often, as time creeps on and he learns more of her, and he's come to realize that it changes because she is nothing, if not a woman with an ocean of depth to her soul.
His Mistress is a contradiction of kindnesses, wrapped in a layer of armor, riddled with ill-hidden vulnerabilities, and decorated prettily to distract from every ounce of it.
All while seeming to realize none of this.
Not that she is ignorant of herself, by any means; no, the failure is a lack of conceptualization.
She simply doesn't see herself as others do.
She sees herself as something small, just someone trying to help make life better for as many as she can manage to help. She thinks herself a generally good person, but also occasionally—more frequently than not, she'll admit, after a few drinks—a monster. The level of violence she is capable of frightens her, almost as much as the level of love she feels every day. Such extremes send her running for the hills often, right to his arms, into the comfort she somehow garners from his steady presence.
And there is yet another layer to add to the complexity of what patterns come and weave themselves together to create the tapestry of his Mistress. The care she takes not to upset the balance of comfort between the two of them is painstaking. She treads so softly with him, always considering his happiness or his comfort, but never entertaining the idea that her eggshell walking itself may bother him.
He knows it is unfair of him to expect her to realize it. It is learned behavior; a part of her own training, for lack of a better word, after all.
She opens up to him more than she does to most, she'd confessed about a month ago, admitting that she didn't even know why she confided in him so easily; that she worried it was too much to put on someone who clearly had more than enough of his own history to deal with.
She'd told him of her past experiences, specifically what could cause her problems now, because of her post-traumatic stress issues. Because of the flashbacks. The dissociations.
He'd learned indirectly that it was her ex-husband, the one who beat her, to condition her to tread so carefully, and she uses it unconsciously now, in a few specific circumstances.
Why she uses it with him, with the one person who would never, literally could never lay a violent fingernail on her, he's uncertain.
Add to all of this the last question she'd leveled at him, one he'd apparently had an unsatisfactory answer for:
'What do you want, Charon?'
What does he want?
What does he want?
What does he want?
What does he want?
...Does he want?
Beyond food in his belly, enough rest to stay alert, ammo, and a clean gun, he cannot claim to actually want anything.
But she seems to think he should.
What does he want?
He slides the key she's entrusted to him alone into the elevator lock and selects the upper floor once she steps inside the box. This close, their mutual lack of personal hygiene over the past week becomes apparent, even to his ruined nose, and he's quite grateful for the fact that a shower awaits them both within her apartment.
What does he want?
Well, he supposes, the comfort of cleanliness doesn't hurt. So, perhaps that could be added to the list, as a nicety.
And while he's considering niceties, the presence of his Mistress, despite her caution around him, is an unexpected comfort. He has noticed the bond they have formed utterly in spite of the contract, and it is... shocking, in its way. An odd symbiosis he is uncertain how to classify or quantify.
It is nothing like the bond he and Lynn had formed. That was an easy camaraderie, a battlefield bond, but it still existed well within the limits of his contract, and she'd respected that contract like it had been engraved on her own skull, instead of his.
His Mistress... Shana... has utterly remade his contract, in an image he no longer truly recognizes. Oh, it still exists in its original form—she'd even kept the holotape version in a small wall safe, for some strange reason, along with a gold wedding band she slipped from her ring finger at the same time, setting it atop the tape; a memento, perhaps?—the words are still intact and every bit as binding as they ever have been. No, it is the meaning of the words, or perhaps how they affect her in particular, that has been inexorably altered. She is not just his contract holder.
Not any longer.
What she is, he has yet to grasp, but it is an ongoing effort on his part to finally take hold of it and properly identify it, label it, and understand it.
What does he want?
His entire life is in flux, cradled in the threaded fingers of his Mistress' hands, and he is uncertain of his own footing, of who he is becoming, of who she is molding him into. Of who she is molding herself into.
Of how she feels like his shotgun slotting into place on his back, the warm steel heating his aching muscles comfortingly.
What does he want?
He's not sure, anymore.
Nicky takes a smoke break out on the balcony, and watches Charon and Shana walk side-by-side to the apartment he's no longer allowing himself to visit.
Not until this nightmare with Kellogg is over.
The old merc's taken to occasionally popping up in Nick's thoughts, hanging onto the tail ends of memories he plays, infesting them with his own memories, his own thoughts.
Kellogg seems to take endless pleasure in tormenting him, probably because it's the only trick he has left unless he flat-out takes over for a while.
It's almost better when he does, despite the creeping sensation of disgust that slides and winds its way up his metal spine, because at least then, he doesn't have to hear Kellogg in his head.
Like he does right now.
"How do you like being a literal Trojan horse, Nicky? Does it frighten you that I could take over at any moment and peel your little popsicle's face off with your own fingers?" A darkly amused chuckle invades the caverns of his mind for a moment. "Ah, but wouldn't the look on John's face when he saw you do it be worth it? Now that would be a pair of faces not even a mother could love. Hell, at least you'd all be a matching set, even if one was a little bloodier than usual. And probably dead."
That laugh fills his mind again and he groans, fingertips digging into his temples fiercely, as if he could somehow find relief from Kellogg, like he was just some phantom headache.
But no, this is not something he can solve on his own steam. And neither John nor Shana would ever forgive him if he just ate his own gun, much as he'd considered it a few times, just for some peace and quiet.
Hard way it is.
Whatever that ends up meaning.
Charon nudges me toward the shower, the moment we get into the apartment. I snort and nod understandingly, acquiescing easily. We all need a shower after the week we've had. I'm sending him in here after, while I pass the fuck out for twelve hours or so.
Unless...
Shit.
He needs every bit as much sleep as I do.
Hmm. Maybe shifts? Or... well, it is a huge bed meant for multiple people; we could probably both sleep on it all sprawled out and never even get within a foot of each other. It wouldn't be the first time we've slept in close proximity, though it's never been on the same set of bedding, exactly. Though he does tend to set up his bedroll near enough to mine to reach out and touch, if I need to wake him for something.
I decide to discuss it with him before he goes for a shower. Best to just get it out in the open, when it comes to concerns between us. Otherwise, we tend to endlessly pick things apart in silence until we come to some internal conclusion—usually the incorrect one—that has one or both of us spiraling into a tizzy of doubt or anger or annoyance... it's not pretty.
That's another thought—he's definitely been thinking hard on something for a few days, and I can't help but wonder what it is, exactly. It's distracted him, and while I generally don't worry about him being distracted where it concerns his ability to protect me, as he so often insists is still his function, it does worry me for the thought that it seems to actually be bothering him. Pile atop it all that I've caught him staring at me, eyes boring through me with either his far-off gaze of concentration or his active glare of speculation, lips pursed in thought so often that I'm actually wondering if he's upset with me, beyond just his worry for our sleep schedule.
I guess I should ask him about that, too.
I sigh, shuck my clothes off and toss them in the hamper, the open lid slapping closed on the leg of my pants with a dull thump. On goes the water, freezing cold at first, then eventually tapering off to a semi-tepid kind of warmth that borders on bearable enough. Turns out post-apocalyptic water heating systems not created by crafty contracted ghouls are... not so great.
Maybe I can get him to take a look at it after we're both clean and rested.
I pop a rad-x and scrub down thoroughly, adding what soap suds I can stand to spend on it all to the rag, and rub the watery homemade shampoo through my hair, fingers scratching into my scalp until the water runs clear. I spend a few vain moments under the water, wishing the pressure or heat was sufficient to get some of my upper back muscles to unwind a little, but the thought and meager effort are impotent in their futility.
Mostly, I just use the time to brush my teeth. It's the one bit of hygiene I haven't allowed to go by the wayside this week because I'm really not interested in finding out what wasteland dentistry is like.
Rolling my shoulders, I turn the water off, snagging a largely threadbare towel from the rack and stepping out after wrapping myself in it securely. I shake my head violently to liberate my short hair of most of the water dripping from it, then push the fogged, rounded glass bathroom door open. I toss a smirk to Charon, where he stands with his back against the lift doors, arms crossed, trying to intimidate me and failing miserably.
"Has that ever worked on me?" I remind him, with a gentle smile, then toss a nod toward the bathroom. "It's all yours. I promise I won't try to escape while you're in there." I snag the desk chair and drag it into the middle of the room, facing him, and sit in it. "Before you go in, I have a couple things I'd like to discuss."
He tilts his head at me, arching a brow in question.
I tick off one finger. "One, your preferences for sleeping. Personally, I'm fine sharing the bed," I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at said bed, "there's room for five of you, so we shouldn't have any crowding issues." I shrug. "It's up to you. But I'm not sending you off to the Rexford in your exhausted state, and you're sure as hell not sleeping on the damn floor when there's a perfectly serviceable bed around." I level a disapproving glare at him. "I'd rather take the damn floor myself if you're gonna try to pull that shit again."
He'd tried to do that, once. Once was enough.
I continue without pausing for more than a breath, "Or we can do this in shifts if it freaks you out too much. One way or another, you're gonna sleep, today, however it happens."
I tick off the second finger. "Two, what's been bothering you for the past few days, other than the whole sleep thing?" I wave my hand around vaguely, the motion drawn out and lazy, that hand coming up to support my cheek as I rest it on it, the elbow planting itself on the armrest as I watch him, waiting as he deliberates with himself.
After a bit of mulling, he finally deigns to respond, "The bed will serve well enough. As to my considerations over the last few days, I have been... pondering your last query to me. It seemed my answer was inadequate, so I sought to find a more satisfactory answer."
I frown slightly, confusion clouding my tired mind. "What query was that?"
"You asked me what I wanted."
Both my brows rocket up in surprise; I'd honestly almost forgotten about that whole thing. "And have you come to any conclusions?"
He hesitates, and I regret even asking the question when I see him wince in a pain that I recognize quite intimately as that god damned pain response that those god damn scientists programmed his goddamn brain with. And it's just getting worse because he obviously doesn't have an answer to give.
I hold my hands up in surrender. "Enough! I didn't ask to bring you pain, it's alright, you don't have to answer, Charon."
Usually, that stops it.
It doesn't, this time.
Oh, god, it doesn't.
He grits out the words through a teeth-clenching grimace of pain, "I want to answer."
I stand from the chair, one uplifted hand already reaching for him as if it could close the distance on its own power. "Charon, it's okay, you don't have to answer if you don't have an answer to give. It's alright, you don't have to push yourself." I take a step closer when I see his condition isn't improving. "Charon, please. I can't imagine how much pain you're in, but it's hurting me to see you like this."
I take the final requisite step to reach him as he actually falls to one knee, his breaths coming in short gasps as he bears whatever agonies he's enduring in a silence no doubt graced him by his training, my fingers gently settling on either side of his head, gingerly cupping his upturned face. "Please, stop torturing yourself. It's not worth it."
Suddenly, the cloud of pain in his eyes clears, and one hand reaches up to settle firmly on my upper arm. "It is if it is my choice. That is what your question was about, yes? What I chose to wish for?"
I can tell he's still struggling under the strain of physical anguish, but his mind has reached a moment of clarity he must have been seeking for some time. I see what looks like a revelation in his eyes and I nod softly. "Yeah, that was a part of it, definitely." I lean down the scant inch or so it takes to come almost face-to-face with him because I want to make sure he hears me, gets my point. "But I didn't want you to have to suffer excruciating pain just to figure that part of it out."
Maddeningly, he picks now of all times to give me a full, genuine smile, followed by a somewhat sardonic huff of a laugh. "Perhaps not. But it is still..." he grunts, eyes clenching closed and forcibly re-opening, again hissing the words through bared teeth, "my choice."
I give him a tight, pained smile, nodding once and swallowing as I stroke a thumb along his cheek, trying to soften the pain. "Yeah, it is, Charon. But please, I beg you, stop torturing yourself. I can't do anything to help what you do to yourself, and it's killing me to see you in pain that I can't soothe."
His eyes lock with mine, that damnable smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like a specter trapped in a shadow. "It's more than the contract for you, isn't it?"
A chill slides through me, surprise and the licking flame of truth chasing it through my system. I realize he's right. It had been more, from the second we first met. Some strange kind of... kinship. What eventually evolved into this weird... synergic kind of thing we have now. Slowly, I nod. "Yeah. It always was, I think. Ever since that moment I stared at you like a complete idiot at the door of the Rail." I chuckle, running a hand fondly over the choppy tongues of flame red hair on his head, hand coming back to rest on his jaw, to match its sister on the other side. "You're a force of nature, Charon. Easy to see what had my feet glued to the floor just then."
He huffs a tight laugh, eyes sliding closed to choke down the pain, then opening again, tiredly, to look back up at me. "You sure it wasn't the layer of filth on the floor up there?"
That shocks a laugh out of me, and I move up to plant a kiss on his brow, then straighten and draw him to me gently in a comforting embrace, stroking his head where it rests with his ear just above my heart, tall even on his knees. "I'm sure it didn't hurt, but that definitely wasn't all of it."
The hand on my arm falls to my back, the other delinquently following, both wrapping around me like the roots of a tree taking hold; firm, warm, solid. His voice sounds more steady when he quietly murmurs, "No, it wasn't."
A peaceful quiet follows as we hold each other together, his breaths slowly evening out and his strained trembling calming to something next to normal.
It isn't until many long minutes pass, when his breathing sinks into something soft and slow, his arms squeezing me to him possessively, that I realize he's fallen asleep.
I almost don't have the heart to wake him, but the combination of his ghoulish smell and the fact—which really only strikes me now, now that all the shocking developments have passed—that I'm only dressed in a threadbare—if still whole—towel has me trying to gently separate us so I can bend down to shake him awake.
Well, that was the plan, anyway. But his arms really are solid and tight as tree roots, and he is not letting go.
"Charon," I say, firmly, more than loudly enough for him to hear, especially this close. "Wake up."
A great squeeze of his arms follows, before he takes a deep breath, and nuzzles into my sternum with a soft, sleepy groan.
Honestly, there are few things I've seen more adorable than this sight, right now. It makes me grin, and I trail my fingers gently along his scalp in fond comfort. "C'mon, Charon. You need a shower."
He grumbles something incoherent in response, arms once again snugging me to him.
I can't help it. I start shaking with giggles.
Naturally this causes him some disquiet, which he grumbles at again, finally lifting his head from my trunk and blinking blearily at it, then turning his gaze to me, then back down to where his head had been resting with a slightly surprised, then disgruntled look, when he realizes it's still tensed and quivering with laughter.
I lean down and press another kiss to his brow, resting mine against his and leveling out my laughter with a soft sigh. "While I'm glad you find me comfortable enough to sleep against, you need a shower, Charon. And I need to put something besides a damp towel on."
He looks at me, though he has to cross his eyes a bit to see me this closely, and it almost sends me off into another bout of laughter. I maintain my composure, just. He heaves a deep, long sigh, closing his eyes in a moment of peaceful quiet.
I smirk and nudge him to remind him gently, "No sleeping yet. Shower first."
A soft growl is his only response, though he does suck in another heavy breath as if trying to fill his body with oxygen in preparation to move. After a moment, he slowly leans back, eyes flitting over my features in a lax search. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, as following a yawn he utterly fails to stifle, he gingerly releases me from his grip and struggles stiffly up from what have to be sore knees.
I offer him a hand up, but he refuses it like the stubborn mule of a man he is, using the wall as an aide instead because that's somehow safer for his dignity than accepting my more than capable help. I snort and send an unimpressed look his way, which he simply shrugs off. I shake my head and reach up to pat his cheek with a long-suffering smirk on my lips. "Stubborn. Shower. Go."
He simpers at me and to my utter shock, lifts his own hand to cup my cheek, then bends down and plants his weathered lips on my brow. "As you wish, Mistress," he says, murmuring the words into my skin, the whispers of his breath fanning against the fine tendrils at the edge of my hairline, the feeling tripping off every goddamn goosebump on my body. I swallow as he turns away with a fond, sleepy smile, heading into the bathroom as if he hadn't just dropped the bombs all over again, right in the middle of my apartment.
I... but wait, I'd... I'd done it first, hadn't I? Had he reacted the same way, and I hadn't noticed? Or am I just... utterly overreacting?
I must be. I have to be.
This is Charon. He's...
What? He's what?
A contracted slave? Is that really all he is, now?
I sling the towel from me and drape it over the laundry line by the left wall, then reach for my dresser drawers, pulling out my usual bedclothes—a thin shirt, underwear, and a pair of boxer shorts over them; though the latter is more to cover up a bit better for Charon's sake, than because it's anything I usually wear to bed.
Or is he becoming something else?
Something new?
I tug the articles on, only paying enough attention to make sure I don't put anything on inside-out. I eye the bed, deciding to spring for the window-wall side of the bed, since Charon would likely prefer to be between me and the door anyway. He usually does.
Or is it me that's changing?
Adapting to having him next to me, like the limb I never knew I was missing?
I don't feel all that different...
Well, other than... whatever that was.
But that was just... ridiculous, really.
I'm overreacting. I must be.
I settle into the covers, burying the side of my face into the bunched up pillow beneath my head, utterly tangled in the arms I wrap haphazardly around it, for lack of one of my lovers to cling to. I hear the water turn off, and delayedly, the bathroom door open.
There's a quiet pause that lasts for some time, then the soft rustling of fabric against ragged skin at first, then itself. A quiet, roughened sigh sounds in the stillness.
Bare feet slap softly against the clean floor, approaching the bedside behind me.
The bedclothes slide and shift as they're folded over on themselves, making way for the giant who slips into my bed, dipping down his side of the bed nearly as much as Nicky does.
"Mistress."
I twist my torso until my upper back lays flat on the bed, turning my head to look back at him with a brow lifted in query.
"To quote you: I don't bite, unless you ask me to. Please relax."
I blink and swallow. "Uh. Right. Sure." I roll back to my original position and curl in on myself. "Sorry."
Apparently, that's not good enough. I hear a sigh, followed by, "Have you changed your mind, Mistress? Would you rather I found another place to sleep?"
I jerk back to looking at him again, alarmed, reaching out without thinking, hand sliding over his cheek to offer solace. "No! No, I... don't mind me. I'm... not myself right now. I don't know what's... just... you can sleep right here, it's alright."
He frowns, clearly unsatisfied with the state of affairs. Or at least, with my response. "What is wrong?"
Shit.
Lying to him, as appealing as it is right now, won't work. He can read me every bit as well as I can read him. He'd know.
Instead, I draw my hand back beneath my pillow and begin to deflect.
"I..." I hesitate for effect, a frown of concern creasing the space between my eyebrows, "I'm not really sure, yet. I need to think about it. Too tired to really go over it properly right now."
He narrows his eyes at me, and I can tell he doesn't like that answer, either, but lacks the energy to get into it right now. He sighs and rolls onto his back, closing his eyes without further comment.
I turn back to the discolored glass of the window-wall, reaching out a finger to trace along the lead grout pattern running through it. The simple repetitive motion is calming, centering; and I'm nearly asleep when abruptly, the cover and sheet are yanked and rumpled all at once, and the middle of the bed dips drastically, just as the rooting branch of a ghoulified arm steels itself around my waist and tugs.
Despite my surprised noise of indignant protest, I am nearly immediately wedged beneath the chin of my largest ghoul pack member, back flush against his front, the arm wrapped around my middle indicating with perfect clarity his disinterest in any argument on my part.
I try to look up at him, to get a read on him, but halt when I realize two things. The first, that from this angle, getting a good look at his face is impossible. The second, that he is... shivering. And his skin is cold.
Oh.
Well, that simplifies things.
...Somewhat.
I have to ask. "Charon?"
His response is muffled, but alert enough that it's clear he's awake, "Yes, Mistress?"
"You alright?"
He sighs softly. "I am c-cold, Mistress."
I nod, much as I can, being wedged into place as I am. "I know."
By inches, I allow myself relax into his hold, letting my warm beach spread to more of his frozen tundra, idly wondering if all ghouls get this cold after a shower. Finally, I drape my arm over his, and snug back into him fully, pressing against him to provide the most warmth that I can, fully relaxing and settling in to sleep right here.
May as well.
Cold and my own awkwardness aside, I feel... well, safe, like this.
And if he doesn't mind the weird little smoothskin who holds his whole life in her hands sharing his sleep and being his space heater, then who am I to argue?
I can live with this.
The realization of how easily I can live with this cards itself into my fading thoughts, as I drift to sleep in his arms—the most secure I've likely ever been—and I find I can live with that, too.