Prompt: Of Beatings and Bruises
The sun was sinking slowing behind the horizon, the sweltering heat of the day cooling as dusk's warm hues stretched across the darkening sky.
She heaved a sigh, lightly frowning as she sat at the base of a charred tree, hugging her knees to her chest as she let her eyes roam over him, a stimpak and his old, tattered undershirt clutched in her hands.
He was standing thigh-deep in the irradiated lake, bare from the waist up and currently pouring a cup of the dirty water over his wounded shoulder.
She had tried to patch him up, but he had refused, curtly reminding her that they their medical rations were extremely low - one stimpak and three Med-Xes to be exact. He had told her that there was a source of radiation nearby and before she could protest, he was already moving.
So here they were: Charon was giving her the cold brush off while taking a radiation bath and she was sitting here alone, feeling shitty about herself.
And she didn't even dare try to enforce an order on him to make him compliant. The last thing she wanted was for him to develop hatred for her; the type of hatred that he'd had for his former "employer"; the employer who had had holes blown into him as a farewell gift.
Breath gusted from her mouth in another sigh. Her fingertips were absently rubbing the extremely worn fabric of the undershirt and she glanced down at it. It was old; shredded at the bottom; stained from years of shed blood, probably not all his, and sweat; scarred with knife gashes and bullet holes.
She started when her fingertips smoothed over a cooled, damp substance that had cascaded down over the collarbone, pectoral, the sleeve of the shirt, the trail feeding from a bullet hole in the shoulder. When she drew back her hand and looked at it, she saw that her fingers were now smeared with the drying crimson of blood.
Charon's blood.
Her heart clenched as something hot welled up in her throat. It was everything she could do to not start crying in the wake of a tidal wave of emotions. Guilt; remorse; shame; anger. All directed in at herself in a self-defeating process. All of which she had open arms for. She deserved everything she was getting from Charon right now and probably more.
Charon was sworn by contractual agreement to lay down his health and even his life for the sole wellbeing and survival of the person in current possession of his contract. It didn't matter if he hated them, personally wished harm to them, or if he was treated like a beaten dog by them. He was sworn to unwavering loyalty.
And in that moment, she felt like she was his former employer all over again.
In the last four weeks since her acquirement of such invaluable loyalty, she had been dismissing most of his advice, instructions, and even out-right commands when it came to dealing with Wasteland entities that meant her harm.
And they ended up in perilous situations nearly every time she chose to not to heed him or his warnings; however, unlike all the times before, they didn't come out unscathed.
This time around, Charon got hurt.
If it'd been her, it would have been what she rightly deserved, and it probably would have been a major lesson learned - a lesson in fallibility and the vulnerability to fatality.
But no.
It was Charon.
He was the one wounded. And it was because he was forced to forgo his own self-preservation when her safety was being threatened, even when it was she who willingly forfeited that safety for the sake of her undue arrogance and ignorance.
She was forcing him to risk his life needlessly when the whole thing could have been avoided if she would just listen to him.
God, he doesn't deserve any of this or any of my shit, she thought resolutely, her jaw setting determinedly. She got to her feet and dusted off legs quickly before straightening and starting down the hill toward him, her stride filled with a purpose. For him to jeopardize his life just to save me from my stupidity, knowing that he doesn't have a choice in the matter either way, is like . . . is like . . .
The image of Ahzrukhal's eyes, something so cruel and malevolent seeded deep in them, arose unbidden to finish her trailing thought.
She felt the burning lump rise back into her throat with a vengeance and she clenched her jaw against the hot prickling of tears. She didn't want to be associated with someone so spiteful; someone so unforgiveable.
The sound of her boots shuffling down through the dirt must have alerted him of her presence because he stopped mid-pour of the irradiated water and turned his head a little, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
They widened slightly when he saw her nearing dangerously close to the water. He instantly dropped the ceramic mug into the water and turned to her, wading toward her instinctively, his powerful, leather-clad thighs causing large, disruptive waves in their wake.
"What are you doing?" he demanded lowly, the remnants of a deep blue behind the milky film of his eyes regarding her warily, yielding to confusion and even alertness - most likely because he assumed there was danger in the area. The gloved palm of his uninjured hand was thrust out at her to halt her from any further advancement. "You will get sick."
"I want you to take this stimpak, Charon, " she answered, coming to a stop just at the water's edge but still a safe enough distance away, her arm stretching out to meet his.
She was able meet his gaze at an equal level, his much taller stature lacking the intimidation that she usually felt when standing next to him, because she was standing higher on the embankment. But when she locked her eyes with his, her chin subconsciously lifted in defiance.
Those eyes, after possibly concluding that she wasn't being chased by something to make her get so recklessly close to a radiation source, seemed to clear under his now infixed attention, narrowing as agitation sparked in their depths.
In spite of the cooling, hardening of his stare, there was still a gentleness to him when he pushed at her hand with the back of his, brushing the offered stimpak away. His voice was strained and guttural from the usage of ruined vocal cords, but his tone was clear.
"No."
The heat of her anger - anger at herself and anger at him for still holding her future health above his current one - burned low in her belly before rocketing upward, the tears that she'd been holding back finally spilling over and down her cheeks.
"Damn you, Charon," she hissed through clenched teeth, the scalding burn in her throat almost rendering her of her pride as she fought against the urge to breathe a sob, and she grabbed his thicker wrist roughly before slapping the stimpak to his open palm. "I am not Ahzrukhal."
The name brought a heavy tension crashing down upon them, and the silence was nearly deafening to her. There was a frostiness to his stare then; an unspoken demand that she explain herself.
She swallowed thickly and averted her eyes. Her hand was still gripping his wrist, the bare palm of her other hand pressed flatly against his gloved one, the stimpak wedged firmly between them.
She couldn't bring herself to let go of him. She needed something to steady her nerves or she was going to completely break under the onslaught of her remorse; even if it meant finding that "something" in the man who was the focus of her emotional turmoil.
"I'm not Ahzrukhal," she repeated quietly. She could feel the burning of his gaze. "I know you've heard me say this many times in the last hour - heard me say it to you every time before this - but I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Charon."
She breathed in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around his wrist as she lifted her gaze back to his.
"I'm sorry for being so damn selfish and stupid," she stated earnestly. "I'm sorry for not truly understanding that no matter what the hell I do or what I get myself into, you've no choice but to rescue me from it. Even if that means laying down your own life in the process. I won't ignore you anymore, Charon. You and your contract deserve more respect than what I've given; what Ahzrukhal had given; what I'm sure many before him have given. Your life and future are no less important than mine or anyone else's, and you shouldn't be forced to put it on the backburner for no good damn reason."
The trailing silence after she finished only seemed to thicken. She felt so small under that unblinking, unfaltering gaze of his as he regarded her emotionlessly.
She glanced down, nodding briefly that she was finished. But when was released his wrist and started to pull back her other one, his thumb locked itself with hers and strong, blunt fingers enveloped her small-boned hand in a warm embrace.
She shot a surprised, questioning look up to him, but before she could open her mouth, she was lightly tugged closer to him as he leaned in, bringing their faces within scant inches of one another.
His eyes were alight with something quiet but intense, his voice a harsh rasp as he whispered, "You could never be like Ahzrukhal, softskin."
And with that, he pulled back and turned away, wordlessly wading deeper into the poisonous water again.
She just stood there, watching him as his words echoed gently in her mind; an assurance; a promise.
Her gaze slid down to the now empty palm of her hand and a small smile flitted across her lips.