Butch.
What? A snuggle into sheets that smell of chemicals and are stiff from the heated press. She always hated the turnover laundry days of linen- they made her own bed feel foreign, sanitized. She turns over on the lumpy pillow, squints in the dark at the back of Amata's head. What about him?
He...was my first.
Wait, are you serious? She curls the blanket around her, wraps it under her blue feet, shivers. The air recirculation system keeps blowing cold air on their levels...she hopes it will get fixed soon. When? Where? Why?!
His room, a couple of weeks ago...his mom was out getting trashed on ration coupons. I don't know. It was quick...he was...nice.
Butch, nice? I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. She lays her cold heels on the back of Amata's thighs, erupts a squeal from her. That's what you get!
I'm serious! I think he's honestly a nice guy-!
If you told me this a year ago, I would have thought you were insane. She doesn't tell her what she really feels. Jealous. Left out. Weird. She was always weird. Too quiet. Too random. Not pretty enough to feel wanted.
You don't hate me for it, do you?
Hate you? She does. A little. No! I'm happy for you, if you are.
...you're such a good friend.
According to her Pip-Boy, it was almost seven in the morning. She wiped away the sleep, snacked on her own prepared breakfast (lest Greta truly poisons her), and laced up her boots. She braided her hair beside the banister on the second to the top step, indiscreetly glancing inside The Ninth Circle when its doors opened for any sort of hint at black leather and broad shoulders.
He still wasn't there.
Tulip chattered away aimlessly as she bartered the few things she had found in the tunnels. A courteous hairdressing ghoul by the name of Snowflake offered her a free trim just to work with a real set of hair. Her fist came to pound on Winthrop's office door. She told herself it was only polite to not stand up the ghoul a second time. She told herself it wasn't because she was just desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she was setting out to buy-
The mechanic was almost as surprised at her presence as she was. He widened his door just as the entrance to Underworld opened.
"Uhm," Evelyn stumbled, her heart hammering in her throat and choking her words. She couldn't pull her eyes away from the rolling storm that had just thundered on in. "Sorry, I, uhm, came to say goodbye?"
She barely heard the confused response as she strode through the concourse to intercept him at the base of the stairs. Charon noticed her just as he took the first step, the lines in his face creasing as he scowled. The silence between them felt electrifying- her toes tingled and her mouth went dry as he just stood there, fresh gore blotting his uniform and piercing eyes nailing through her wide ones. So...now what?
Minefield. There was some unresolved baggage to be unpacked there. Baby steps.
The dour look he was giving her made her knees weak. "I came here about what happened last time, between us," she forced herself to say. He was watching her lips move with each syllable she spoke. "You know, back at Minefield?"
Charon looked around subtly and then gave a sharp nod of his head for her to follow. Well! That wasn't so hard! Now she panicked. What exactly was she going to say to him? Hey, I know you saved my life and stole from me but I was looking to-
She didn't have much of a chance to chew over her words and spit them out, for as soon as they had rounded inside the bathroom beside the entrance, he grabbed her by the arm and shoved her against a stall door. She gasped from the unexpected hostility.
And then he kissed her.
...crudely.
It was the only word she could describe it as, and it wasn't necessarily the word she had hoped to use for her first one.
His mouth was hot and wet and consuming her lips with such ferocity she feared he was trying to devour her instead. Their teeth clacked and his tongue plunged inside, swapping saliva while she whimpered and he growled. One of his huge hands was holding her steady by the jaw; he could have wrapped his entire palm around her throat if he so wished (and she found the image to be as equally arousing as it was terrifying). His other was pawing at her breasts under her jacket, taking one under an iron grip and squeezing till she yelped. He did it again, and she batted at him with a fist while pushing him away. He finally released her, both breathing heavily over the other.
"What the fuck was that?!" she spluttered.
Charon narrowed his eyes slightly and loosened his hold to grant her space. She now noticed the very large outline underneath his leather pants. Her eyes widened without meaning to, he could pin her to the wall alone with that thing!
She blathered, "I-I came about what happened- and-and your contract-"
All at once, he became an entirely different man. He took another step back, assessed her like she was some form of prey, and then cracked his hands into fists.
"Ahzrukhal has told you of my contract," he rasped with a dark undertone, the question coming out more as a statement. He looked as though he was ready to rip her into pieces with his bare hands. "I advise you leave and do not come back."
"What?!" she exasperated, wholly confused as she shoved him. He didn't budge. "You fucking kiss me, and now you don't want anything to do with me?!"
It was then, looking up into the shadow of his face, that she was just reminded how extremely easy it would be for him to smear her brains on the pavement. He didn't have a reason not to- this was the wasteland, people killed for less, and yet here she was, taking a metaphorical stick and poking the very real giant fucking bear with it in the eye. She felt her insides clench at the thought, and just as she went to apologize, and, hopefully, spare her life, he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away.
"Hold on, wait-!" She jogged to catch up, but he turned around while unholstering his shotgun and aiming the muzzle directly at her face. Her hands immediately flew to the sky, cold fear stealing the air from her lungs.
His finger rested on the trigger. "Get out."
She timidly pointed to the double doors leading back inside Underworld. "My stuff is-"
A blast rang out, the wind from the shot kissing her cheek. She abruptly fell backward, scrabbled to her feet, and dashed out of the Museum of History, turning her head around to find that he was taking long strides in pursuit. Something of a frightened cry was uttered as she ducked through the doors, flinching from the crack of his shotgun and the blast peppering the space where she had just been. The first step had been horribly miscalculated, and she cursed as it felt like her entire ankle snapped as it rolled out from underneath her.
"Gruh!" Her skull smacked against the pavement, a blur of creeping darkness and bright stars disorienting her long enough to witness a gargantuan-sized, steel-toed boot kick the doors open. Another shot spat up concrete dust beside her head; she shakily got to her knees and hobbled as quickly as she could manage to relative safety.
"Charon!" she heard Willow bark, "what the hell is going on?!"
Neither had a verbal response as Charon adjusted his aim with quick reflexes just as she disappeared around the bend. When there was no longer the stomping of heavy footsteps behind giving chase, she stole a peek back, finding no one there.
The molerat exploded in a gruesome display of blood and fleshy bits. Some had the unfortunate luck to be sprayed directly in her face, and before she could keel over and gag, a sharp nip bit her in the ass.
"Ow!" she yelped, swinging the 'repellant stick' around wildly.
So, I finally did it. Yep. It...wasn't planned. Not even sure it counts, really. What does he look like? Uh, well...he's big (in just about every way), tall, broody...and looks like he got dropped in the fan shaft...on fire.
Another rodent blew up with a high-pitched squeal, its body vibrating erratically.
I don't know. I kind of hate him, right now, I guess. Maybe. He tried to kill me...he's a real asshole.
A loud sigh was exhaled from her lips, and she winced as the sunburn on her face reminded her that she looked like a walking cherry tomato. She really needed a new hat.
I think I like this one. Yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?
She looked around at the extermination she had provided for Moira's latest research project, the carnage brutal to any vermin that would so happen to cross these sands. With a swing of the makeshift weapon over her shoulder, she trudged back to Craterside Supply, spying a few raised brows from the locals at her bloodshed appearance. Moira gave her an armful of chems to carry back home- items she could turn around and sell to Doc Hoff, the chemist trader, when he would make the rounds next week. She jammed them in her locker, somewhat rinsed away the stinking mess, and then took a trip to the Water Processing Plant that towered high above the tin can town, a metal crate balanced at her hip.
In the two weeks since she had limped on home, there seemed to be no amount of shortage to the busy work she kept herself tasked with. Two-thousand caps...after how he had threatened her life, she should've nuked that notion from her mind, but the bundles sitting in a secure strong box upstairs said otherwise. It wasn't enough, it wasn't even close, but she couldn't bring herself to spend them. Not on lifesaving armor, a decent meal, hell, not even the tub Moira had offered to let go. Oh, how she would kill for a hot bath...but here she was, killing her skin under the sun and her back with this drudgery, instead.
The kiss almost felt like a fever dream at that point; it was maladaptive to her everyday life. He had tasted like the warm barrel of a gun; metallic, slightly acidic, a hint of gunpowder with a greasy aftertaste. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad...and she found herself wanting to dip her tongue in for a second taste.
He doesn't have lips...or a nose...yeah, I know.
She entered the smelly water plant, her footsteps clanging the metal like percussions on a tambourine.
I miss you, Amata...I wish you were here for me to tell you all of this.
"Girl, did you get me that scrap metal?" Walter, the grumpy operator (and sole reason Megaton had any purified water at all), questioned no sooner than she had rounded inside his office. "We got more leaks I think around the east side."
Evelyn heaved the metal box onto the table, inwardly sighing at the instant relief granted to her sore muscles. "Here's everything I found out of Sewer Waystation...minus the actual sewer." The growls and hellish screeching that had come from the black tunnels had derailed any sort of adventurous spirit she had.
The elderly man came over to poke his nose inside. "Guess it'll have to do, for now. Keep bringing anymore that you find, otherwise, we're going to be shit out of luck up here." He handed her a pouch of tools to get the job done. "Figure you know the drill, same as last time. I'll count the caps I owe you while you're gone."
Evelyn straddled the metal piping under the hot midday sun, getting absolutely soaked by cold water as she fitted wrenches and reinforced square patches of refurbished steel over the seepages. Her boots made a squish with every step she took back to the plant, puddles forming at her feet as she stood a sopping mess waiting for her compensation in time and labor.
"Twelve things of scrap metal at ten caps a piece, and two hundred for repairs." The jingle of money had never sounded sweeter to her ears. "Here you go."
Once her hard-earned caps were tallied alongside the rest, she popped a Nuka-Cola from her stash and sat down on the busted chair in her home, prepping an array of sterilized equipment on the table to begin a minor blood transfusion. If donating her own blood to The Family wasn't desperate enough for income, she didn't want to know what was. She sipped her sugary soda while she waited for the bag to fill, ignoring Wadsworth's quiet, bitter disdain towards her after he had learned she had taken a haircut from someone else. She set the empty bottle aside, removed the needle from her vein with a wad of bandage pressed at the sight, and prepped her 'new' pack for a trip to Northwest Seneca station.
Loneliness.
That's what she had tasted like. Not a tingling sweet, not the cold chew of fat, not simple heat and moist flesh of skin on skin. There was desperation...and fear. If she hadn't forced him back, he wouldn't have let go. He would've taken it way too far. He would've done what Winthrop played out behind his eyes every time he looked at her.
She didn't come back. Good. She shouldn't, if she's smart. They held on to her stuff, said she'll eventually come around. They questioned him, but he didn't answer. Didn't have to. Nice smoothskin. Pretty smoothskin. That's what they said about her. He knew better, he probably knew her better than everyone. Lonely smoothskin. Straight out of a vault, wandering the wastes, not having a single fucking clue.
He sometimes imagines she's dangling from a raider noose, somewhere, her body swaying with the breeze and fingers missing. Or she's sliced into pieces in a super mutant encampment, head in a bucket and skin blue, bloated, mouth open in a silent scream. The wastes are not kind- it's a horrific landscape to survive in. Most do not, and the ones who manage come to learn it is not something to be taken for granted. It's a skill, a desirable trait, an experience of sheer dumbass luck and a big fucking gun. He was really good out in that world, really good. Being out there tested his limits every day; his ingrained instinct to survive versus his very simple wish to die.
He then saw her on a small hill just past Northwest Seneca station, that color of blue. Still a target, just outside of range. She watched him, her hair dancing in the breeze. He knew he was staring, and he shouldn't have, but he did until she finally disappeared from view.
Come find me. He had seen it on her face, even though there was no expression made. It'd be easy; she'd leave tracks a mile wide like a drunken yao guai. If he'd been quick enough, he would've caught her in the bottom dip of the ravine, cornered her into the rocks and water with nowhere to run or hide. He was unsure what he would've done.
He sees her again in another week. The Anchorage Memorial. She's bandaging her arm, oblivious to everything and everyone around her as she dresses the laceration.
Found you.
He draws his gun, steps up so quietly he cannot even hear his own heartbeat inside of his chest, and comes to a stop within two feet of her. Her tongue is out to the side, her brows stern in concentration. Her jacket is removed, the tear in the sleeve mirroring her wound. He lets her finish, she raises her head, and she startles in place as she finally notices him.
She doesn't say anything, just stares at him with those owlish eyes, so blue. That skin is very much alive, tickled pink, her lips slightly parted, breathing shallow and rapid. A glance at the weapon pointed at her, and she finally realizes.
He could have killed her anytime he wanted to. But he didn't.
"Just what the fuck is your problem, anyway?" she asks, her voice trembling with distress and... something else. "If you're going to shoot me, then just fucking do it."
His fingers yank her zipper down just enough to squeeze a palm under the fabric and grab an entire handful of her. She's on the tips of her toes, almost trying to climb him like a summit with her lips at his mouth and her hands intertwined through the straps of his armor. She's tugging, trying to rip it right off, but she only manages a gasp of lustful frustration that makes him thrust her up against the memorial.
He doesn't know what he's doing...he's not sure if she does, either. His pants are much too fucking tight and the dip of her body rubs against him perfectly as he grinds her into the unrelenting stone. She's whining and moaning and whimpering in his ear, perfectly ruined by the all-too-close spray of gunfire just at their backs. He drops her and instantly arms himself, dealing with the few raiders that had survived a run-in with the native mirelurks.
When he turns back around, she's already gone, her taste still fresh on his tongue.
Anchorage Memorial had been anything but a very simple walk through the park! Once again, Moira had somehow outdone herself when it came to reckless vaultie endangerment, sending her deep within a hoard of mirelurks to plant a probe inside their nest.
The Stealth Boy she had used was her first trial run with the device- it was extremely disorienting, not being able to see your own self, and so she had scraped her arm on the sharp edge of a broken metal railing. The scent of blood flurried them to her location, forcing her to pitter-patter around like a panicked mouse until she had shoved the device inside a clutch of eggs (and inwardly cried at all the precious loot left neglected). The crustacean smell had been so nauseating, she was sure not to eat another mirelurk cake for the rest of her years.
The fresh air of the wastes (if that wasn't an oxymoron to say in itself) did little to help clear her assaulted nose, and as she played doctor and thought over what sort of snippy remark she would give to Moira, she was once again met with him. Although, unlike the previous encounter at Northwest Seneca, he was much closer.
Close enough to trade tonsils and ohmyGod-
She never thought herself one for exhibitionism, but...he could have stripped her then and there and taken her like two wild animals caught in the heat of the moment (if it hadn't been for the rude interruption of death by maiming). It had been enough of a distraction to pull the velvet wool from over her eyes and stuff it in her mouth till she was home, chewing it over and over to savor that remainder of musky flavor.
Her breast tingled at the thought of how his very large hand had perfectly cupped over it, kneading it with the worn leather of his glove and smearing some gun oil on her bra, the rough exterior of his skin lighting a flame wherever it traced. The base of her groin was so swollen it ached- she braved the common restroom area, dumping a few buckets of cold irradiated water in the public grimy bathtub just for some fraught attempt at relief. It didn't help much...and she had to put her vault suit back on afterward, inherently aware the crotch area had been previously soaked.
Winthrop was taken from the high shelf and tossed in the bin, replaced with a much larger, much more threatening sort of man that made her cheeks blush anytime she thought of him. She had somehow developed an intense crush on a seven-foot wall of gristle and death...a part of her was relieved she had the sense to scram before it went too far, but damn the part that screamed at her to have fucking stayed (or stayed fucking, more appropriately).
She was rewarded for her crustacean tango with a new hat- it was ugly, but at least it covered enough sun from her eyes- and a few Stealth Boys (and a complimentary stim for the cut on her arm...at least, she thinks it was a stim). They all went into her locker to be later inventoried as useful items that she actually wished to keep, sitting alongside the 10mm pistol...
Don't let her get away!
She's a hostile! Take her down!
I...I can't come with you, I'm sorry.
The gun was slammed back inside, fresh tears smarting her eyes at the instant replay of it all. Charon was all but forgotten as she crawled to her bed, snuggling under the scratchy blankets as she looked up to the colors of the setting sun through her holey roof. She fell asleep wondering if there was ever a time in her life when she truly didn't feel alone...she couldn't think of one. She dreamed of massive hands holding her down, gun smoke wafting from his mouth into hers as they kissed, before he cracked her neck and laid her face down in a puddle of piss.