He didn't see much of her for the whole next day. That suited him well enough- it was, for once, quiet. The floating robot went about picking up after himself, muttering things in its synthesized voice that he ultimately paid little mind to. It brought her water and food while she completely shunted her existence from the world. He was only ever in her company while she left to use the head, and even then, he could feel her resentment towards him. He was performing his duty to her in keeping her safe- the walking scum he had tried to kill ducked into a building whenever they almost crossed paths. No one would threaten her with him at her side; she was lucky to have survived this long on her own.
Sometimes, he heard voices drifting from under the crack of her door. They would repeat, fast-forward, play back. He heard her cry.
He left her alone. It's what she seemed to have wanted.
By night, when he was certain she was lost in her dreams, he peeked inside just to ensure she was still there. She was. Asleep, her back to the door and curled in a tight little ball, the shitty pistol she kept laid out on her desk. He checked the magazine. It was empty. He used the workbench, crafted some ammo. It had been a long time since he had the privilege to do as he pleased...it did not go without appreciation. She was much more favorable compared with Ahzrukhal. He checked on her again. Still asleep. He ate some food- she said he was welcome to. A book was taken from the shelf, the pages fluttered open, he skimmed the words without actually reading them.
A third visit- she had turned over. He took her bag, retreated to the couch, went through her things. A book, full of inked scribbles, some pictures he couldn't quite identify...he squinted at something that very much resembled himself with the scrawled word, dickbag, beside it. A pair of black socks. The end of what was once her sledgehammer...he assumed it had not lasted very long due to improper maintenance. A...rock? Smooth, flat...and still a fucking rock. A pair of binoculars was the most interesting, and he inspected them carefully. They had night-vision scope capabilities, and he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into modifying them. It was probably the only useful thing she had.
The curved handle of his knife was met at the very bottom. He slowly pulled it out, somewhat in disbelief that she still had it. She didn't outwardly use it. She had said she preferred that he had kept it...it was set aside from the remainder of her things.
He looked up, seeing a handful of white pinpricks through her roof until they eventually became streaks of red and gold. She came down in a different outfit, a simple green jumpsuit, her hair wild around her face. The bruising he had (supposedly) left her was nearly the same hue. She seemed to be in a much lighter mood.
"Wadsworth usually does laundry on Tuesdays. He said you look like you smell- abysmal." She scratched at her scalp. "You can take a bath, too, while he does it. Do you have any other clothes?"
He shook his head. He practically wore his uniform as a second skin, only occasionally going for a dip in the Potomac to wipe away the gore. The ghouls in Underworld were all used to the smell of themselves, anyway. She was still blathering as he stood to begin stripping, unbuckling his armor and setting it down on the table she had replaced.
"I can see if Moira has anything for-oh my God-!" She spun around after he undid his belt and started unlacing his boots. "Um, hello?! I didn't mean right now! You couldn't wait until I left?!"
His fingers paused in lowering his pants. He blinked at her abrupt bashfulness. "You did not mind the last time."
"Well, yeah," she blubbered, still refusing to look at him. "That was totally different!"
He did not see how.
Her eyes flit over, and she squeaked, "Okay, um, just, just- take your time, I'll be in my room. Let me know when you're done, and we can see if Moira has some gear that'll fit you."
He watched her hurry up the steps, heard the closing of her door, and was left completely nude in her living room. He took a great deal of time soaking in the tub (even if he didn't completely fit). A box of salts she had been most excited over was peeled open and curiously sniffed. There was still a faint trace of its former potency, so he shrugged to himself and dumped the entire thing in.
The robot took his clothes with a disdainful absolutely atrocious, and when the warm water had finally lost its appeal by becoming cold, he marched up to her door and pounded on the frame, water droplets pattering the floor at his feet.
"Finally," she muttered from behind, thrusting it open to then slam it back shut. "Where are your clothes?!"
"Being washed," he grumbled. He had told her he only had one pair.
After a few moments, her door gave the barest of cracks, and her hand came out holding a ratty dark blanket for him to take. "Here," she insisted.
He complied, wrapping it around his waist and holding the ends together with one hand. She hesitantly widened the space, seemingly relieved at his modesty.
"Look, I'll just bring whatever largest sizes she has," she said, weaving side to side for a way around him. "Um, excuse me?"
"I will come." He did not like the idea of her being alone, and the incident from the previous night only reinforced his concerns.
She waved a hand at his body, her skin nearly as red as his own. "Not half-naked, you're not!"
"Then I shall grab my clothes."
"But you just said they're being washed," she exasperated. "It won't kill you if I-"
"I will join you," he rasped, turning away to retrieve his sopping uniform. His arm was grabbed at the bicep, and he raised a brow at her assertiveness.
"No," she said firmly, finally putting her foot down. "I'm going by myself," she reiterated. "You are more than welcome to stay here."
Charon scowled. "Is that an order?"
Her patience snapped. "I swear to God, if you say that one more time, I'm going to make you take that contract and shove it down a mirelurk's throat!"
He stared at her, silently, and then, "Is that an or-"
"Shut up!" she snarled, turning around with her hands thrown in the air. She very much liked to enunciate her point with them. "I honestly prefer not to have you at my side twenty-four seven, or, even better, how about never!"
The muscle of his brow twitched aggressively. "You are my employer; it is my duty."
"Yeah, well, as your 'employer', I hate it," she scathed. "I was only looking to free you from that slimeball and maybe have some sex."
She gasped, slapped a palm to her mouth, and the room felt very small. Her face grew so bright with blood he was worried it would pop. That would not spell good for her health.
Charon glanced at the bed that was pushed against the wall, feeling his mounting erection tenting the blanket. She once again gave him that look- a parted mouth and eyes nowhere near sane. He dropped his decency.
"Fuck it," she breathed, her hand coming up to pull the zipper of her jumpsuit down swiftly.
The metal frame of the bed shook and squeaked with every movement of her. She shimmied her clothes off while he pulled her boots to the floor, his over-eagerness already fisting his cock and widening her thighs with one leg wrapped around him. His other fingers held her at the waist, the tip of his dick meeting that warm, wet invitation that made him breathe tersely through his nose.
"Fuck, wait-" Her lips ghosted inside his temple, the breathy exhale of her voice absolutely mesmerizing and filling his lungs like hot lead. "Let me do it."
The muscles in his core trembled, the fine line between an order and instinct conflicting pain and pleasure like mortar shells on his psyche. She fiercely held on to his forearms as she slowly worked down, his cock rewarded with a mind-numbing squeeze from her efforts, but it was then just as quickly taken away. She did it again, and then again, each effort drawing more of himself inside. He was aware his hands were shaking; his breathing labored. He didn't know how much more he could take.
"Okay."
He barely heard it, but heard it he did. Like a violent whiplash, his head came forward to thrust his tongue in her mouth and slam her down till her ass smacked his balls, the sensation rolling his eyes in his skull. The sound that bled from her mouth into his was choked- pain. He instantly lifted off.
"Ow," she slurred. There was no more hazy glaze-over to her eyes, no more half-lucid tongue kisses. She was wincing and gingerly moving away. "Sorry..."
He took the hit- it was immediate. A lash at the front of his brain, a pulsating grenade decimating all coherent thought. He suppressed a groan and rubbed at his eyes- he's had worse...a lot worse. She was speaking, she was apologizing, it confused his already addled mind. He strained to listen, for it could be important.
"I guess it just takes some getting used to...sorry if I ruined it," she said a little sadly.
He rapidly blinked to look at her clearly. He had hurt her. He knew that much. She did not seem to notice that she had done the same.
"Do you require anything?" he asked, widening her a bit to inspect for injury.
She threw her eyes away, retreating from him with the curl of her body into herself. "No...I'll be fine." Her fingers fiddled with some stained water droplets on the sheets. "...was it at least, nice, for you?"
He remembered she had asked this the last time. He didn't really quite know what to think of that.
"Yes," he answered bluntly.
When it appeared she had nothing more to say, he stepped over the pile of her clothes to retrieve his own from downstairs. The robot threw a complaint at his back while he fastened zippers and shrugged his (now flaccid) manhood inside cold leathers. He then came back up, hesitating as he walked in to the sight of her crying.
She had her knees to her chest and back to the wall, her eyes puffy and face splotchy. "Please close the door. I want to be alone."
It was as clear as an order as he'd ever heard her give. He went back downstairs, sat on the couch in his damp attire, and briefly wondered what exactly she had grown upset over.
Oh, shoot, I totally forgot!
But how?! This is what we do every first Friday of the month! She's stunned, truly. They'd never miss holovid night, not once.
I kind of got this thing going on with Wally Mack tonight, but-
What? Wally Mack? The Wally Mack? That asshole who threw that baseball at the back of my head last week Wally Mack? Are you serious?
He honestly feels really bad about it-
Bullshit. You know he doesn't. He's just saying that to get in your pants. She can't believe it. Her best friend. Her once great protector. The girl who ditched all the other mean kids in class to come sit by her at lunch and read comics with. She was being ruined. Ruined by them.
Look just because you aren't getting with anyone doesn't mean you have to be mad at me for it!
She's silent.
Oh, oh my God, Evelyn, you know I didn't mean that...
He was just sitting there, waiting, like he always does. That fucking ghoul she doesn't know what to do with. Does she get rid of him? Tried her best, wanted to be a good person, got in way over her head? She wanted nothing more than to ask her dad, who was still out there, alive or dead.
Charon stood as soon as she came down the stairs. He didn't wear a single emotion on his face (unless it happened to be irritation). Nothing from the past half hour could ever transpire from him. He's a fresh chalkboard she can scribble on, just for him to take the brush and wipe it all away. Clean, stainless. She often ponders what Ahzrukhal made him do.
She moved past, he expectantly followed. She has an invisible tether laced around his neck; at any point she can just twirl it around a finger, pull it tight. He'd have to obey, the only sign of defiance being his eyes. He could kill a man with a single stare...she was sure of that.
She wanted to try again, get it done right, this time. She wanted to strangle him with his own stupid fucking cord. She wanted to know what was wrong with her...Amata never made it sound this way. She wanted to talk to someone, have her insecurities heard and understood, but she was sure she would be ridiculed, for no one else ever voiced them.
A pause. The blade he had given her was on the table...so was her bag. He went through her things?!
"I see you found your shit," she said snippily, thrusting the fridge open to nab at a very lonely carton of Salisbury Steak. There were no two ways to go about it...the caps were running low (that giant fucker ate a lot, forget house and home, he would eat her out of town!) and she was going to be forced to take on a job.
She tossed it on the counter, lit the stove, clacked down an unseasoned pan. He just stood off to the side, silent. The slimy what-was-once-meat was slid onto the hot surface, the loud sizzling pops splattering some grease on her hand. She could feel his eyes weighing her down.
"You did not like it," he rasped matter-of-factly.
"I'm not a prostitute," she replied, refusing to chip away her cold shoulder.
"I did not think you were."
The bent fork she held to turn over her steak was dropped, clattering to the floor and playing hide-and-seek under the stove. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You were just being nice?"
There was a slight shift of his weight on his feet. He didn't have a response for that. It was the first time she'd seen him so uncomfortable.
"Oh," she mumbled, busying herself with looking for another utensil. A spoon was drudged up, and she fumbled with unsticking her burnt meal from the skillet. "...it's a cool knife...but you'd probably use it better than me, anyways."
When she shyly roamed her eyes over, he nodded. He had been replaced with a blank canvas again.
"Very well."
The steak was charred. A small nibble determined it inedible, even to her standards. With a cough from the thick smoke that was beginning to cloud the small space, she dumped the entire thing in the sink and ran some water over it. She suddenly wasn't very hungry, anymore, the entire swarm of rekindled butterflies choking her appetite.
"Do..." She curled her bottom lip beneath her tongue. He stared, and she could already feel his teeth sinking in. "Do you maybe want to try, again?"