What day was it again – two days since the last time Dorrien pondered on the date? Probably – or it was three days past? The boy didn't feel like checking his Pip-boy, or even lifting his arm to make sure that it was still there. The weight of it had become nonexistent a few days after he received it at his tenth birthday party – so honestly he was never really sure if it was there without looking. He glanced down at it after a moment, and pouted out his lower lip. He remembered his father saying that eventually he wouldn't notice it; James was a good man, such a good man. He sat up in his bed, running a hand over his messy locks of hair that clung to his skin due to sweat, shaking away his somber thoughts, his biker goggles hanging limply at his neck; his armor a pile on the floor nearly under the desk. He didn't remember ever taking it off.
"Sir, you're awake!"
Dorrien glanced up with hazy hazel eyes; there was a light that bounced off of Wadsworth's metal, blinding the red head for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the sharpened edges of light that stabbed his pupils – hurting the cones in his retinas. He felt like he had just been hit by a truck. It wouldn't be the first time though, and just like before, he'd have to push through it. Either that or turn over in his bed and just not try.
"Yeah, I'm awake. You don't usually have this enthusiasm when I wake up," the wanderer hinted with a scratchy, sleep heavy voice; an eye brow rose accusingly, "what's different today?"
The Mr. Handy was silent, but of course, with him being a robot, Dorrien couldn't read an expression. Wadsworth was perhaps conjuring up some logical response to what Dorrien had said as there was no real emotional attachment from what the teen had noticed in his time in the Megaton house. He floated – otherwise motionless – for a long moment, before he responded.
"The other sir asked me to check on you through out the night." He said finally, then turned and left the room, not giving much else for Dorrien to think on, which was a good thing as he wasn't all the fond of thinking.
With a groan, the boy placed his feet flat against the floor, trying to find balance, and then he stood, stretching his hands above his head, his back giving a satisfied crack. A pain began to serpentine up his core and through his shoulders – diminishing to a tingle once it reached his thin fingers. He shook the feeling from his hands and sighed. Faintly, he could smell the musk of a few days without any form of bathing (even though he did fall into a little irradiated pond days prior), but he could smell that same odor off of most people that he encountered. He figured that after he went to Vault 101, he'd go to Tenpenny tower and take a bath in one of the rooms. Roy wouldn't mind – he never did. Bending over and examining his armor in his hands, he sighed inaudibly, slipping the tight armor over his form, fastening all the little clasps, pulling his boots up to his knees. The goggles were fitted over his eyes again, and he brushed his bangs out of his eyes, just to have them fall again.
He didn't feel like going back – he repeated it multiple times as he descended the stairs; Dogmeat met him at the bottom and nestled against his thigh, barking with what seemed like complaisance toward the groggy teen. Charon was leaning his back up against the door, eying the boy until they caught gaze, then he looked away. Charon always did this: he guarded the door while Dorrien slept to make sure that no one would sneak in. Of course the red head tried to assure him that there was no point as the door was locked, but there was no convincing the tall ghoul. Eventually Dorrien just gave up.
Dorrien had a sort of attachment to the ghoul since he bought his contract – actually, it was since he protected him from enclave soldiers when his plasma rifle ran out of ammunition and his arm was motionless from being crippled. Honestly, Dorrien would have killed Ahzrukhal if Charon didn't get to him first – but that was neither here nor there. The man was dead, and that was the end of it – his corpse lay rotting on the bar floor. It did bother the teen that Charon was so 'obedient,' other than a few instances. Dorrien was curious to know how he'd act if the contract didn't exist.
"Charon," Dorrien said as he petted over Dogmeat's head, brushing his gloved fingers over the dog's ears.
"Yes?"
Dorrien stood up straight and walked over almost hesitantly, a little wobble in his step, stopping a foot or so in front of the ghoul. Dogmeat followed behind him, panting softly.
"How did I get here last night?" Honestly, Dorrien didn't remember. He remembered his little break down because of the drugs, and how cold it had gotten – his skin chilled briefly in response, goosebumps littering his covered arms – but nothing after that, nothing until waking up that morning.
"I carried you." Charon answered succinctly.
"I didn't ask you too, and you know I hate being carried." Dorrien didn't seem angry though, just curious, his lips still parted ever so slightly, as if he was ready to speak again.
"I felt obligated to; you hold my contract, and I'm supposed to protect you." Charon crossed his arms, sounding irritated with the questioning.
This was a habitual sort of discussion between the two though. Charon would do something, Dorrien would question it, and when the ghoul would answer, usually mentioning the contract, the red head would question that to, or offer a strange sort of rebuttal that left Charon wondering until he ended up angry or irritated – grumbling away while Dorrien skipped to a beat that played softly in the back of his head, massaging his aching thoughts.
"What if there was no contract and you were with me by your own will? Would you have brought me here then?" Dorrien walked away now, and into the little section of the house that held the refrigerator. Charon could hear him rummaging through the inside. Dogmeat stayed where he was, staring at the ghoul as if waiting for an answer too. There wasn't one, other than an audible scoff.
The boy returned with a little box of Sugar Bombs, munching away, searching around for something that his eyes couldn't find. He patted his hip curiously, until Dogmeat bolted up and ran up the stairs, returning shortly with Dorrien's plasma rifle between his jaws. He managed to ignore the slobber long enough to pat the dog's head and return the weapon to its holster.
"Are we ready?" He asked, mostly trying to remind himself of anything else they needed – the bag with the supplies and extra ammunition (as well as extra weapons, but he didn't remember that part) was resting by the door, about a foot from Charon.
"This was all we had with us in the first place." Charon stated as he lifted the bag and slung it over his shoulder, opening the door and moving to step out.
He must not have locked it after he brought him back – Dorrien figured, and he shrugged his shoulders, following behind the ghoul without much worry. He knew where they were heading now, but the anxiety of it hadn't yet set in – and he hoped that it wouldn't.
He wasn't all that worried about helping them; honestly, he just wanted to see how things had changed since he had left. Already, he knew that the Overseer were a power hungry pompous ass, but that was beside the point. As they walked down the staircase, Dorrien brushed his fingers through his hair, kicking a tin can away and down the stairs with him, liking the sound that it emitted – finding a menial pleasure in it. It was discarded soon after, and as they neared closer to the gate, Dorrien stopped as the anxiety set in.
"Charon," he nearly squeaked, biting down on his lip, his hand reaching for the ghoul.
Charon looked over at him silently then placed a hand to his shoulder, squeezing a little. The boy tensed for a moment, then sighed and nodded in a mutual, yet wordless understanding, and offered a little smile before he began walking again.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Dorrien jumped back, left arm out stretched, the plasma rifle shaky in his grip, narrowly dodging the stinger of a large radscorpion.
They had just gotten past the Megaton sign when they came out, three scorpions, one rivaling the size of a car, and the rest averagely frightening, concerning themselves with Dorrien's companions. Of course, and he was the one afraid of them; deathly afraid. He shrieked, firing a missed shot of plasma, hitting the ground and forming a pile of glowing green sludge that caught the red head's attention for a mere moment until he was forced to back-pedal again as a pair of claws tried to snap off his ankles.
"Fall back!" He heard the shout, not reacting too quickly but taking off in a run when he noticed the frag grenade flying past his eyes – the mini explosion seconds later.
Not to Dorrien's surprise, the radscorpion still lived, but moved slower, its legs crippled. Taking this to his advantage, he aimed, closing his right eye, calming his intensified breathing, hand hands still shaking as the creature inched closer. His fingers slipped over the trigger, and as the plasma flew, enveloping the radscorpion, making it a steaming pile of neon goo, the teen sighed aloud, lowering his arm to his side and holstering his weapon again.
"Never again, I mean it this time." He moaned, walking over hesitantly, as if there was a chance of the goo pile attacking him – the scorpion coming back from beyond the grave, as it were.
He prodded it with his boot, and then shook his head, glancing over at his companions who were, as always, calm and collected after these kinds of altercations. Dorrien, not understanding how, shook his head again and continued walking, his breathing heavily. He wanted a Med-X, his veins pulsed delightedly at the thought, and he patted the little pouch that rested against his chest, attached to the belt that hugged around his shoulder and torso. He opened it as he was walking, avoiding the stimpaks and grabbing one of the five Med-X that laid in waiting. Purring out a little pleased sound, wanting to calm his incoming withdrawal symptoms, he lifted the syringe to the light and then paused in his step for a moment, pushing up the sleeve of his armor as much as he could then he found a vein, tapping the tip of the needle with his finger nail before he pressed it to his skin, hissing slightly at the sting of the insertion, the spicy feeling of the liquid mixing with his quick moving blood – his eyes dilating in response.
He threw the empty syringe to the side and pushed his sleeve back down, proceeding to fold his arms behind his head, his lips curling into a small smile. Charon mumbled something behind him, but Dorrien didn't hear it, or rather, didn't want to here it. His senses were clouding with a delicious euphoria, and he wasn't going to let anything jeopardize that.
Familiar – or vaguely familiar given Dorrien's faintly buzzing senses – ground came into view, his eyes perking up with something close to fondness, even despite the dilation of his eyes. He walked quickly now, his companions close behind and when he reached the vault door, his heart skipped a beat and he exhaled a long breath, closing his eyes to calm himself again. His hand outstretched and he pushed the door open with a sudden confidence that diminished again with each step he took – the darkness of the walk towards the entrance door coddled his fear of what he'd see inside – and he hoped to whomever the creator of this wasteland was that no one would mention his father.
"I can't believe I can't here to settle a petty dispute, screw this." And despite his words, Dorrien continued to wander around the Vault, looking over everything. He was still on the lower level.
When he first got in, he was stopped by Officer Gomez, of course, and had to speak on his father, of course, then he was cursed at by old vault residents that probably thought he was a piece of shit - of course. He growled out an irritated sound, looting some things here and there just to make up for how annoyed he was – though it probably wasn't stealing because he used to live there, but he didn't care. Apparently they didn't like him from the beginning either – he shot a radroach in the face at the thought, then stepped on it for emphasize, squishing it's insides and wiping the bottom of his boot off on the side of a table.
"You should have never come back," he heard a yell from behind him and he turned back, sneering at Wally Mack, his face feral and his hand reaching for his holstered plasma rifle. Charon grabbed his hand before he had the chance to do something that he probably wouldn't regret, and dragged him towards the stairs, the teen growling out a sound that sent Wally backpedaling, his face pallid.
It might have been how dilated his pupils were – he took another Med-X after he spoke to a first displeased vault dweller. He was still conscious however, and keenly aware of his surroundings, but his emotions were askew and reeling to the point where if another person spoke to him about how he shouldn't have come back he would shoot without hesitation and perhaps piss on the corpse just for the feel of it.
He climbed the steps with heavy legs, his eyes unfocused as he thought over what he could have just done. He never liked Wally, but killing him was completely unnecessary – he was honestly surprised with how they were talking to him, and that the people that he had run into so far hadn't killed him. It wouldn't have been surprising, and it apparently would have fixed a lot. Maybe, he should just lea—shit . . .
It all seemed to happen really fast. Dorrien's heart constricted, despite the fact that there was a knife to his neck, and despite the fact that there was a gun pointed square towards the exposed temple of the male in front of him, ready to fire and rid the world of the existence of his grease slicked hair. He panted out a short breath in response to the tension, his eyes wide and bright for a brief moment, almost as wide as Butch's. He'd never admit that he was surprised about the return of the wanderer, and Dorrien was alright with that – he saw the expression, and knew the truth in it.
"Oh my god . . ." Dorrien whispered to himself, barely audible, watching the arm that lowered the knife from his neck – he could feel a trail of sweat running down his Adam's apple, tickling where the knife was – letting him pretend that the warmth of the near contact was still lingering there, brushing his slightly tanned skin.
Butch was more concerned with the rifle that Charon was pointing at him, his eyes narrowed in the ghoul's direction, but Dorrien had forgotten how to really form words, or that Charon was there. Dogmeat growled steadily, baring his teeth, ready to gnaw at Butch's leg. He blinked slowly, and then at realizing the situation he placed a hand against Charon's wrist, lowering the gun away.
"I know him, it's okay . . ." He raised his voice a little, but not too much, his eyes still resting on the male before him.
"Is this your goon? Damn, and I thought you wouldn't be coming back either." Butch groaned, but held a smirk that comforted Dorrien, a least a little – he wasn't like the others.
"He's not a goon, Butch," Dorrien narrowed his eyes, pushing back his feelings momentarily, "I remember that being your job – next to hair dresser. Where's Amata?"
Butch sneered, but sighed and shook his head, pointing a thumb behind himself with lack of interest, "Back there; she's been whinin' about how she 'knew you'd come back' and how she 'knew you weren't dead'. I wanted to tell her you were dead just to shut her up."
"She mostly right," the red head placed a hand to his hip, not ready to walk away yet.
"What do you mean by that?" Butch raised a brow, and Dorrien fought the urge to twist his finger around that lock of hair that dangled delicately at his forehead – he remembered watching Butch perfect it when he was supposed to be paying attention with studies.
At that thought, he realized that this could truly end up bad if he didn't fix this situation in the Vault and leave. He thought, honestly, that after being out of the vault for so long that he wouldn't have any sort of feeling for Butch, other than disdain, but this—this rivaled how much he loved Grognak's loincloth (and at times disliked, for obvious reasons). He wanted to sigh aloud, but decided against it until he was at some place more fitting for such a display. He'd go to Rivet City after this and drink himself silly, then pass out in his hotel room.
"It doesn't matter. You're siding with Amata, right? What do you think I should do about this?" Dorrien was honestly curious about his opinion. Obviously, he'd lived in the vault longer than the wanderer.
"I want the door open. Actually, I want to leave – this place is seriously—"
"You want to leave," Dorrien repeated, blinking slowly as if he had misheard him, "and what do you plan on doing when you get out there, Butchie? There are creatures out there bigger than radroaches."
Butch shuttered at the name and perhaps the mention of radroaches as well, both bothered him equally. He narrowed his eyes, challengingly and stepped closer, invading Dorrien's personal space, taller than him by a few inches.
"Start another gang; of course," of course, "maybe I'll let you in."
"I thought I was already a Tunnel Snake." He used the jacket as a pillow sometimes – it was in the bag on Charon's back, waiting for use. It smelled like Butch – and honestly, it took Dorrien forever to convince himself that liking the way Butch smelled wasn't weird.
"That was the old Tunnel Snakes, Nosebleed, but you might be able to join again," he winked and Dorrien felt the heat of a blush fill his cheeks. He shook his head and stepped around him, giving him a passing glance.
This wasn't working out like he planned. Butch turned to follow his eyes after him when he walked into the room where Amata was – he heard her squeal of delight at the sight of him, imaged her throwing her arms around him for a hug, one that he'd probably reject as he always seemed to do. He'd ask for all the logical points to what was happening, ask opinions – disagree with all of them – and get the job done tentatively. He shoved his hands into his pockets, careful with his toothpick as he didn't want to cut his pants. Time had changed him though, Butch could see it – he offered his first rebuttal without a hint of thought; he used to stammer when ever Butch spoke to him, and his eyes were sharp though dilated to a degree, but Butch found that normal in some strange sort of way. He shook his head and returned to his about face position, watching out for anyone that could possible sneak up the stairs, for any sort of reason. He wasn't expecting this, and it was yet to be seen if he was going to return as a blessing.
"I'll talk to your dad, Amata," Dorrien sighed, rubbing his cheeks with his hands, and shaking his head as felt his Med-X wearing off, again. He wouldn't worry about it until he got to leave though.
He turned from the room, and pulled his goggles down to hang around his neck, reveling in the smell of mostly fresh air. It was better than inhaling pollution and dusk all hours of the day – though it smelled kind of nice around Rivet City, the irradiated water added a sort of class to the boat, or maybe it was just the drugs talking again. Probably the drugs; they had better insight on things that really didn't matter.
"So what's your plan?" Butch asked as Dorrien went to walk past him; the lanky form stopped and shrugged his thin shoulders, turning to face him.
"I'm going to talk to him, and if he doesn't listen, I'll leave. Simple; if I can't handle it, it isn't really my problem. You guys will be fine without me, you were before."
It was never as simple as Dorrien wanted to make it sound, Butch knew that, but he had a gift with words, the Tunnel Snake wouldn't deny that. He shook his head, taking a step closer.
"That's all well and good, but it's boring. You wanna know what I would do?" Butch asked, wrapping an arm around the red-head's shoulders. He briefly noted that he needed a haircut. His bangs were too long, and his hair was covered in dirt and dust.
"Humor me," Dorrien sighed, leaning against Butch in a way that he thought wasn't noticeable. Butch didn't mention it, so he assumed it was fine. He could hear Charon mumbling something about it though.
"There's a terminal in the sub-basement that'll flush the water chip. If it's not safe in the vault, we all have to leave."
"Butch, I swear you're such a dumbass sometimes," he mumbled fondly, then pushed his arm away, "I'll consider if talking doesn't work. Maybe."
"You're still boring, Nosebleed." Butch called after Dorrien as he descended the stairs, and the red head waved his hand in response, though he smiled all the way to the Overseer's room, a feathery feeling playing at his stomach.
"I swear you don't get it do you . . . you'll be fucking inbreeding after a while. The Vault only has a few more years before you have kids with mutations worse than a Super Mutant, and no one left to run anything. Think about it, Overseer, you're really ruining what you took so long to fully control."
He lingered thoughtfully on Dorrien's words before sighing aloud and throwing his hands up in defeat, turning away for a moment. Dorrien remembered him doing something similar one time when he talked to him.
"Y-you're right, the Vault only has t—Dorrien?" The teen had already started walking away.
"What? This is all I came back to do. I'm done here."
"Just, stay long enough for me to tell Amata, she'll probably want to thank you."
Dorrien groaned, almost wanting to stomp his foot in protest but he followed the Overseer anyway, shoving his hands in his pockets in his armor, glancing back at Charon and Dogmeat then shaking his head. He should just leave, he really should. Amata gave him a hug as thanks, especially once she found out that she would be the new Overseer, but then things just got worse. Not that Dorrien really minded being banished – he never planned on coming back again, but, of course that meant that he couldn't visit his room anymore or anything else. Other than that, there was nothing he held ties to. Butch was leaving. He sighed, glaring his hazel eyes in Amata's general direction, then he walked to where his room was before, glancing inside. He'd kill her if that wasn't morally wrong – not that he was always the good guy, actually, he wasn't exactly 'good', ever. He stole more than most raiders.
"Fuck the Vault," he mumbled to himself, tracing his fingers over the picture frame that held that infamous quote, his gloves denying him the feeling of the glass. If the situation was different he would have cried a little.
"Why do you think I wanna leave?" Dorrien glanced over at Butch, leaning against the opening to the room.
"Because you're bored; you don't get it, Butch, you're safe in here. Why leave now? Amata's Overseer," Dorrien stood and placed the frame in the bag on Charon's back, then stopped in front of Butch, a few feet as distance, "everything will be better now. I have no options, you should savor yours."
He sounded too somber, and he wanted to take it back, but it was a little too later. Butch was never really good with anyone else's emotions, including his own, and Dorrien was afraid he'd walk away for the reason. He didn't though, he frowned for a flash of a moment.
"I don't want to live this 'safe' life. We do the same thing in this place—"
"And now you don't have to, you can come and go as you want."
"And that means I can choose to go and not come back." Butch crossed his arms over his chest, and Dorrien shook his head and reached into the pouch that held his stimpaks and Med-X, pulling out one of each, and a few bottle caps, lifting Butch's hand, and placing the items within the Tunnel Snake's grip, lingering his hand there for a moment.
"Yeah, fine. Don't get killed, Butchie," though in his heart he felt that he probably would.
"Like I'd get killed," he glanced at what was in his hand, pocketing it quickly. It seemed as though he didn't know what it was for.
Dorrien sighed as he walked down the stairs again, giving one passing look to the interior of the vault before sighing heavily. He heard the remarks from the people inside the vault, urging him to leave as quickly as possible, and never come back – and he swore to himself that he wouldn't, even if Amata changed her mind or even if there was another message sent to his pipboy. The outside air felt more welcoming than the first time he did this walk, and he smiled at the feeling of it, even as the vault door closed behind him.
"We're going to walk to Rivet City, the long way."
"As you wish," Charon's laconic reply bothered Dorrien.
"Unless you don't want to," Dorrien hinted, leaning down to hug Dogmeat who licked at his face, probably noticing the frown that soon overcame his features moments after he stepped outside, as the good feeling wore off.
"I'm following you, you have my contract." Charon glanced over at Dorrien, without saying much else. The boy sighed in defeat, not wanting to try this anymore – he wasn't in the mood to argue.
"Ah, fine. I need a drink, or something; get away from this," he motioned a hand that wasn't occupied with his dog towards Vault 101. Charon nodded, seeming to understand the meaning with those words. Dorrien had never really seen him drink before though.
The walk was painful, only because Dorrien chose to take the long way, but that was to be expected. He chose not to take any Med-X on the way either as he didn't know the effects alcohol would add to the drugs. He smoked half the way there; however, blowing smoke rings in the air nonchalantly as he shot plasma at bloatflies, chuckling deeply when then fell lifelessly to the ground, rolling a few feet away. Charon and Dogmeat didn't bother to help; they didn't attack bloatflies in normal cases as they weren't much of a threat. It was getting steadily getting darker – dusk was soon approaching. Another bloatfly fell, less than graciously as it disintegrated into green sludge, and Dorrien sighed.
As they climbed the stairs that lead to the platform walk on to the boat, Dorrien glanced over at Charon again – he only looked back for a moment, but didn't say anything. The teen just shook his head, deciding that he'd force conversation later. He still had that attachment to Charon, but he did feel lonely every so often. Other than Dogmeat's panting, barking, and the reverberation of footsteps, it was rather quiet as they traveled. Charon only really spoke when he was alerting Dorrien that they weren't safe. It made Dorrien curious though. Silence sometimes meant that the person was just thinking really hard – or so he had been told – so he wondered if Charon was just thinking a lot. He couldn't act on his desires anymore because of his contract, but then again, he wondered what exactly those desires would be. If he were to ask, Charon wouldn't answer, that was obvious.
They walked to the Muddy Rudder, Dorrien sitting on one of the stools and waiting patiently for Belle to finish talking to Brock. Charon stood a foot or two behind the red head, his eyes focused on nothing particular, but his arms were crossed.
"Charon, is something wrong?" Dorrien asked after a moment of silence between the two of them, but he didn't bother to turn.
Charon merely shook his head, moving his attention to the curious wanderer. Dorrien was about to pry again, his lips parting, but Belle walked up, already having Dorrien's Scotch in her hand – she knew what he wanted without asking. With a pout, he pulled the caps out of the pouch that rested against his chest and placed them against the table. Out of his peripheral, he could see Brock eying Charon, again. He always seemed to figure that Charon was going to snap sometimes and attempt mass murder – Dorrien remembered trying to convince him that he was his body guard, and wouldn't do anything without being told, but that only made matters worse.
The bottle was downed in seconds, the burn of the liquid barely fazing the boy. More caps were placed to the table in a loud, unnecessary slam, Belle returning and scooping the caps up with a faint smile, two more bottles slid towards the wanderer.
"One's on the house." She chuckled, resting her elbow against the table, staring curiously at the young male that watched her with a raised brow.
"Are you only doing this because last time I got so drunk that I gave you a quarter of my caps?"
She shook her head, pointing a work tired finger towards Charon, who gazed at the finger for a moment before looking away.
"Last time you were by yourself. He'll probably keep you from spending all your caps. You just look like you've had a long day." She uncharacteristically spoke, and Dorrien sipped at one of the bottles.
"Are you drunk? You're never this nice to anyone." He shook his head, deciding that he probably shouldn't bother to care. His throat argued at the next bottle of Scotch, sliding down his throat.
"Look. I could take the bottle back." But she didn't, she walked around the table instead, sitting next to Dorrien on the stool.
"I was only planning on getting three, so I guess I shouldn't push my luck until tomorrow." He smiled a little, sighing out a little breath when the expression diminished.
After a moment, Belle got up, walking away for whatever reason; Dorrien's eyes didn't follow her, he placed his fingers against the bottle of Scotch in front of him. It was slightly cold, but not enough to make a difference in the way it felt in his mouth, which was fine – nothing was special like that in the wasteland, usually. The bottle was thrown back, his head tilting back to get all of it, even the last drop that slid down his tongue, tickling his taste bubs and making them tingle. He placed the empty bottle down, standing up and grabbing on to Charon for support. Knowing this all too well, he linked an arm around Dorrien's waist to keep him steady, and walked him back up the staircase, and as easily as he could, toward his hotel room.
Half way there, Dorrien stopped walking, putting most of his weight against the ghoul, exhaling the scent of alcohol – it lingered a little in the air, but it didn't bother Charon too much – he was used to it in the bar in Underworld. He sighed, and urged Dorrien forward, reaching in his pouch for the key to the room and unlocking the door. Charon went to open the door for the other male, but the red head caught his arm, pouting almost childishly.
"I can do it," He whined, loosely gripping the door knob and weakly turning it. It took him a few tries to actually pull it open, but he stumbled out of Charon's hold and into the room, almost wanting to crawl to the bed. His legs wobbled pathetically as he walked.
"You're stubborn." Charon mumbled, closing the door behind himself and Dogmeat, walking over just to give Dorrien the key back. He had finally made it on to the bed.
"You're one to talk." His voice slurred a little at the end, but his eyes remained focused.
The bed wasn't comfortable against his back; it reminded him of what it felt like to sleep on the roads that lead to places like Paradise Falls. The only difference was, the bed wasn't exactly cold, but hard all the same, and may have had rocks hidden here or there, just to stab at his sore back. Someone was going to need to invent some other form of transportation soon, because Dorrien couldn't keep doing this. Then again, it was his own fault, because he was the one that wanted to come to Rivet City, rather than walking back to Megaton.
He turned over on to his side, facing his two companions, his eyelids a little heavy. Dogmeat found a comfortable place on the floor (perhaps more comfortable than the bed), and Charon grabbed a chair, watching the boy almost too carefully, his eyes narrowed.
"Why are you staring at me like that?"
"You took Med-X earlier today, and you just had alcohol." Was his simple reply – Dorrien was too tired to be irritated with it.
"I'm fine, and please don't mention the contract again – at least until tomorrow morning."
Charon grumbled out an annoyed sound, one that Dorrien didn't bother to try to read. He reached up and pulled his goggles down, a little imprint from where it rested on his face, but since he couldn't see it himself, it didn't bother him.
It didn't take long for him to fall asleep actually. Between Dogmeat's steady breathing, and the beat of his heart swimming slowly in his ears, he couldn't stay conscious. Charon walked over, placing a skinless hand to the boy's chest, trying to make sure there was still a heart beat. It was difficult to feel through the armor, but he settled himself back in his chair, sighing out again, but softly, as to not wake the boy. He doubted that he'd wake up anyway.
At times, he did wonder if he would act the same with him without the contract bonding them – but it didn't matter then, and thinking too hard on it was pointless as with the contract still being in existence something like that would never come up. Dogmeat was sleeping close to the bed, his tail wagging idly, patting the floor in time with how Dorrien's heart beat was going, and despite Charon's better judgment, he was soon asleep as well.