The bottle of purified water was drained to the very last drop; the end tilted up to the sky and then shaken erratically. Evelyn gasped, wiping her damp brow on the newly stitched sleeve of her vault suit. (Thank you, Wadsworth). Traveling during midday under the hot wasteland sun was always a poor choice to be made. Charon looked over to take notice of her sticking her tongue inside the neck of the bottle, absolutely desperate for a hint of hydration. He rolled his eyes and rummaged inside his own bag.

"Here," he rasped.

Evelyn took the offer; the scratched-to-hell plastic bottle was unscrewed, her breathing labored and pits sweat-stained.

"Thanks," she sighed in return.

With a raise of the rim to her lips, she took a giant swig. It wasn't water. It was fucking soup. It was blown like a rocket off a launchpad out of her nose all the way down her front. Charon gave her a look like she had gone fully mental. She gawped, her mouth half-full of slime, her voice horrified.

"I fough eh waz wadeh!" (I thought it was water!)

"It is not."

"Weh ehz eh nawd?!" (Why is it not?!)

He just shrugged.

"SHAWON!" (ASSHOLE!)

"Keep quiet," he growled, his head snapping around at some imaginary sound. "I advise we keep moving."

The suggestion was promptly ignored as she threw handfuls of goop off her chest to sling it on the pavement; her shrieking curses loud enough for everyone and their dead mother to hear until he finally soaked her with some dirty water from his stash.

Charon forced them onward well into the early call of dusk, eventually sidetracking them from the outskirts of the ruins to seek shelter. An absurdly large sewer grate was observed from an appropriate distance (behind a dumpster) for threats.

"Do not leave this spot," he cautioned before stealthily creeping forward to investigate alone.

She watched him step in and then come right back out. He waved her forward, pressing the weight of his hand into the dip of her lower back when she came to step past, his head on a tight swivel for any potential lurkers. Evelyn gasped as her boot sunk into an opaque, sickly-green, stagnant puddle. Her shriek was very quickly cut off by his enormous hand.

Charon snarled, "Do not do that."

She pulled away and retched. (How awful of a smell!)

"Really, the sewers?!" she snapped, her voice echoing down the miles of tunnels that led to only God knew where.

He again clamped a hand over to stem her shouting. "It is safe. I have been here before." He then added after she gave him the side-eye, "Recently."

"Guess that's promising," she muttered, performing her best ballerina pirouette around the various puddles of piss and shit.

They camped around a previously established firepit that consisted of concrete cinderblocks and a barrel filled with tattered books. She observed the big guy set down his things and scrape away the ash from a long-dead flame.

"This was you?" she asked.

He nodded. A few hardly legible books were ripped away from their spines and expertly towered for an easy light. The fire was soon cackling away while she combed through the rest of the literature pile for anything salvageable enough to read (and save).

"I will return," he announced, walking down the line to prep a few traps for any unwanted guests.

She shoved her nose inside a novel.

"Are you hungry?"

She startled. He had come back and had taken a seat on the opposite side of the fire from her. She hadn't even noticed his reappearance.

"Actually," she began as gently as possible, closing the book for another day, "I wanted to tell you…"

His face was utterly blank, but she somehow felt he was hanging on to every word she said. She licked her lips. She could do this. She couldn't possibly go harboring suicidal thoughts over a fucking meal-

"…that I would like to cook something for us instead!" she rushed, her hands clapping together like a magician performing a trick. Poof! (Here's the rabbit!) "You know, as a return-the-favor sort of thing."

He handed over his bag to her. He didn't impart a single word.

She quickly got to work. A small metal pan from her own bag was propped over a bed of hot ash (with a little accidentally sprinkled over as wasteland seasoning) and she carefully considered the contents he had brought along for something edible-worthy. A sizzle of molerat fat. A slab of brahmin. A few dashes of something that smelled aromatic from a little tin in a side pocket. She caught sight of the silent bodyguard meticulously cleaning his side pistol; the slide snapped back into place. He wasn't paying her cooking any sort of mind.

Whatever her creation, it at least smelled a thousand (no, a billion) times better than whatever Charon had thought he had made. She sliced the meat into strips and gave a heaping portion to the ghoul, not sparing another moment as she shoved a hot piece in her mouth before it had a chance to cool. The burnt tongue was totally worth it…it may be her best work yet. She greedily sucked the grease from her fingertips and looked over. He, too, was scarfing it with his bare hands. Success!

"So." She smacked her lips, a cheeky grin beginning to form. "How is it?"

Charon raised his eyes, the shadow from the flames casting a dark blanket across his brow. He shrugged, giving his attention back to his meal as he finished wolfing it down. "It will suffice," he rasped.

Her jaw almost unhinged. "…are you telling me it's bad?!"

"It is not good," he said rather bluntly. He had taken her snow-white bunny and shot a fucking hole through it, spattering gooey bits and springy fluff right in her face. (Ta-da!) His thick fingers settled over his knees; he not-so-subtly stared at her chest. "We are alone."

A cruel, disbelieving laugh barked from her lips. He suddenly looked positively annoyed.

"Sorry, not in the mood," she snarked, ripping her blanket free from her pack to angrily swaddle it around her shoulders. She kept her back to the fire and curled in the tightest possible ball; a seething worm. "Goodnight."

The toe of his boot was her wake-up call the next morning.

"It is early," he deadpanned as she struggled to wipe the drool from her cheek.

He didn't so much as grump another word to her until they came to the bank of the river. She picked up a flat rock and attempted to skip it across the water. It sunk on first contact. He snorted at her lack of skill.

"Don't see you doing much better," she mumbled as she went to pick up another. The echoing sound of water slapping across the way made her glance up- nine skips. She turned to the ghoul, her prized stone falling out of her hand.

He was already walking alongside the bank, his gruff voice calling over his shoulder, "We should continue."

An impenetrable fortress of concrete walls and large, steel doors (the size of Megaton itself) met them a ways down.

With excitement, she pointed at it. "Is that it?!"

"No," was all he simply said.

"Oh…" They passed it by at a safe distance. She craned her head up to peer at its enormous stature. "So, what is it?"

Again, his answer was plain, his eyes only briefly glancing over. "Brotherhood."

"Oh." She stuck her tongue out at it. "Figures."

Charon made no snide remark or likeminded comment, his boots creating deep impressions in the sand that she tried to match with her smaller stride, her legs stretching to an awkward gait as she married their prints together. He came to a stop and finally noticed the smaller indents squashing the middle of his own. He didn't appear too impressed, for he only shook his head and grumbled something she couldn't transcribe.

A ramshackle boating shed became their last stop to rest. Charon had already begun whipping up some eldritch-horror-on-a-plate before the sun could fully set, and she cleared her throat as he threw a pinch of bloatfly scales inside the mix.

"I'm not really that hungry," she admitted weakly.

He paused with his actions, his entire body frozen stiff before he seemingly rebooted to life and tersely rasped, "Very well." He automatically went to dump the contents out to their natural, purgatory habitat.

Her hands flew up. "No!"

He snapped his utterly sour expression at her. "You do not want it."

She didn't. "I mean, just not right now," she backtracked. (The biggest bullshit lie her mouth had ever spewed). "But I'd love to have it later…if that's okay. That's all I meant."

At the sight of him slowly bringing the pot back and unsurely looking down inside of it, she knew she would happily shove that shit down her throat until it put her in a grave.

He reluctantly gave a self-conscious bob of his head. "I will wake you when it is finished."

And he did. The putrid smell alone was enough grounds to evacuate the shack, but she forced herself to sit upright, wipe the heavy sleep from her face, and slurp it down until not a single drop of existential dread remained.

By the third day, they came to the shoreline of an absolutely massive-er, what exactly was-?

Charon stepped up a small formation of rocks, directing a knife hand at the sight before them. "Rivet City," he informed her.

She came up beside him, blinking against the early afternoon sun at the piece of Pre-War history she was about to step foot on. "Whoa…what is that?!"

The beaming golden rays illuminated the sides of the hull; discolored patches of sheet metal adorned the entirety of its bones from bow to stern, the length and height of the aircraft carrier unlike anything she could have ever imagined. A few radgulls cried as they flew overhead; a woman was seen dumping something overboard, enticing the flying sky rats for a meal if they divebombed quickly enough. It groaned, the sound echoing like a great beast emerging from the deep, endless black waters of the ocean. It was old, it was tired, and yet it had new life breathed through it once more.

"So cool," she said, awestruck.

Charon rolled his eyes and continued to be her guide up until the base of a metal platform. He turned and crossed his arms, inclining his head for her to proceed alone. "They do not allow ghouls," he repeated from before. "I shall wait here until you return for me."

Evelyn mimicked his stance. "Wait, you're seriously okay with me just going at it by myself?"

"There is no choice," he growled, his anger beginning to simmer. He looked down at her, his eyes hard. "I trust you will be cautious."

She looked across the river to the daunting ship. For once, she could do what she wanted and go wherever without the looming, violent shade at her back. No one would stare, no one would talk, no one would make her feel like she was completely alone in a crowded room.

He was unblinking, waiting on her to leave him to his post.

For once, she didn't want that. A wry smile came to her lips, and his eyes narrowed. She suddenly said, "…what if I had an idea?"

All rational instinct screamed- this was a bad idea.

From head to toe, he had been wrapped and bandaged and swathed with strips of her blanket that she had taken her knife to, dampening his sense of touch and obscuring his sense of sight. The fabric smelled like her. He must look completely stupid.

"Can you see anything?" his employer inquired, only slightly muffled.

"No," he answered.

"Hmm…" A touch of her hand inside his own. He didn't pull away despite how tight his nerves became stretched. "Here, I'll guide you."

She shuffled him forward- he dutifully followed. He couldn't tell where he was going. A click of a button. A static voice. An intercom. They must be at the bridge. There was a horrible shriek of metal, almost as painful as the pounding urge in his skull to look, what if there was an enemy-

Footsteps. Rivet City security. They must be at gunpoint, for he felt her fingers tighten. He very much wanted his gun in his hands and this stupid thing off his head.

"Now stay right there," a voice called out. A man. "State your business."

Her thumb brushed along the leather of his palm. She was nervous.

"Um," she began. "I'm looking for my father…I was told he came here?"

"Your father? Who is he?"

"James? He's from a Vault."

It was irritating, not being able to see the situation unfolding. Not being able to catch her worried eyes. She tightened her grip; he subconsciously squeezed her in return.

"A Vault? I don't know who you're talking about-hey now, wait a second, are you that kid on the radio? The Lonely-uh-"

"The Lone Wanderer," she corrected. "I didn't pick the name."

"Well, you don't look to be alone," he quipped. "What's wrong with him?"

"Uh." Evelyn coughed. "Molerats." Charon lifted a brow muscle, the expression unseen. She then quickly added, "Big ones, like, enormous. So freaking gigantic." She took her hand away; she must be miming with them. "And it was, uh, after the fire- you know, the fire...the fire that burned- um…he's very lucky to still be alive. He's my companion...Grog."

Grog?

Who was this Grog he was impersonating? An old acquaintance? Combative partner?

...relationship?

(He will have to kill him)

"Oh, well, my apologies," the man replied with a somber tone.

He felt Evelyn place her hand on his bicep. "He's hard of hearing, unfortunately, and also completely mute, and blind! Did I mention that? Like I said, molerats...the fire…I'll spare the details."

A minute passed, and then, "Come on, and welcome to Rivet City."

They started forward again. This stupid smoothskin had somehow managed to smuggle a ghoul in. His stupid smoothskin. Their boots clanged across the metal walkway; a radgull cried out just overhead.

BONK!

Charon snarled as his head rang like a church bell calling for the hour. He doubled over and rubbed at the fabric covering his forehead. He must have hit the low overhang of the hatch.

She gasped, "Oh, shit, sorry!"

Her hands were suddenly all over him- touch here, press there, are you okay? He merely grunted.

She coaxed, "Come on, there's a step-"

Another hatch. He reached his hand up and felt along the edge of the cold metal and slick condensation that dripped to the floor. He ducked and stubbed the toe of his boot on the lip, making him stumble. He had no idea of his sense of direction after that.

"Sorry, excuse me, pardon us-" Evelyn called out. He could hear the whispers about them, this seven-foot mummy being pulled around by this pretty, young woman. "He's blind, sorry, and deaf."

A squeak suddenly escaped from her lips. He instantly froze.

"It's a tight squeeze in here," a man drawled.

Charon's head swiveled to the voice with a sickening crack in his upper vertebrae. He may not be able to see, but he could feel. With a lightning quick step forward, he shot his forearm out and felt the tender underside of the smoothskin's neck, bracing it against the hull until he felt something give in the trachea. The smoothskin's feet dangled from the ground, the boots scuffing the metal; his hands scrabbled at the thin blanket over his arm, his throat gargling.

"Charon, no! Drop him, drop him!" Evelyn commanded, yanking at the leather of his belt.

He obeyed, and there was a thunk followed by a loud wheeze of air being swallowed. He was then tugged into moving again; a close of a door, a spin of the hatch.

"You're blind, deaf, and mute, remember?!"

They must be alone. He unwrapped the makeshift shawl from his face, his scowl no less than lethal when he was finally able to lay his eyes on her. She had squirreled them away inside a room full of filing cabinets. He could hear footsteps traveling up and down the halls.

"This is not working," he said flatly. "I cannot protect you in this manner. I do not advise it."

"It got you in, didn't it? What else was I supposed to do?!"

He assessed her condition. "Did he hurt you?"

She huffed and crossed her arms. "No. He just pinched my ass. Total creep."

He would find him. He knew what he sounded like…particularly in pain.

She cut a hand through the air. She was very dramatic. "This place is so confusing. There are signs everywhere, so I'm just following the one for the science lab. I'm going to go out on a fucking limb and say my father would be there, or at least visited." She was stomping all around the room. Very dramatic. "Or maybe not- maybe he fucking died on the way here and this was a complete waste of our time!"

He didn't say anything. She brusquely wiped a tear from her eye before it could roll down her cheek.

"Sorry, none of this is your problem," she finally lamented. "...or maybe it is."

"It is," he agreed.

Her eyes were woeful, her voice a whisper. "I keep telling you it doesn't have to be."

They remained silent for a moment before he began to wrap his disguise around his head once more. She took the nonverbal cue and opened the hatch. Her hand returned to his.

(He again allowed it)

"Another door," she informed him after some more wandering in fucking circles.

He was much more adept this time in striding through despite his large frame making it difficult, even without the impediment.

"Hold on." She halted him. "Just wait here. There's a shit ton of stairs. I don't want you to fall."

Her hand fell away, but not before he tightened his fingers for a split second around her own. There was a stomping of steps down and away. He strained his hearing for any sort of distress in her voice once he pinpointed her from across the room. There was soon a lot of it. He unsheathed his knife and slit an opening for his eyes. He was on a platform, standing at the edge that looked down upon a large section of the ship. His brain passed over the images of machinery and people until it came to land on his employer speaking tersely with a smoothskin in a lab coat. He made for the stairs.

"I have to go now," Evelyn snapped as she stalked past the woman.

She was distraught. She was crying. He reached over a shoulder for his shotgun just as she noticed him approaching. She gasped, wildly looking around the room for anyone that may have noticed.

"Charon!" she feverishly whispered, rushing to take him by the arm to spin him around. He didn't, and she heaved. "No! It's nothing! Come on!"

He growled, his eyes drawing down to slits at the lab coat's back that was turned to them. They left the science lab and were once again forced into a two-person group huddle in the room of filing cabinets.

"He's not here!" she snarled. He stood like a statue and watched her tantrum explode around them. "He's never fucking here!"

A fist was thrown. A yelp. A small dent. She had thrown a punch at a locked drawer and was now hissing and cradling her bruised hand to her chest. It was taken in his palm, his fingers kneading around for any hint of a break. She winced as he applied some pressure with his thumb.

"I hate this," she said, miserably. She sniffled. "I don't know why I bother. He obviously doesn't care."

He let her hand back to her side.

She rubbed at her eyes with her fists. "I saw a sign when we first came in about some sort of a hotel. I'll…I'll figure out what I want to do tomorrow."

The trip to the 'hotel' was more unpleasant than the trip to Rivet City itself. She was forced to backtrack and ask for directions and somehow still ended up on the wrong side of the fucking ship. Charon felt his patience thin quicker than his nonexistent hairline, and by the time she had muttered a hundredth shit, wrong door, he revealed his peephole to the world and began to subtly shove her in the right direction.

"Okay, okay!" she hissed after he pushed her to the right. "I see it now! Jeez!"

The hour on her Pip-Boy read that it was late; a Mister Handy behind a service desk rang up their accommodations for the night. He spun the hatch closed (and tight) and turned around to find her completely naked.

He growled. This was unfair. "You realize where we are?" he asked caustically.

"Yeah, with my deaf, mute, blind companion who is so not a ghoul," she replied with an edge to her voice.

It was good enough for him.

She held up a hand as he came forward with his cock winking out for her to take a taste. "I want to see all of you."

His eyebrow muscles creased together. He didn't understand. "You have before."

She took the end of his belt in one hand and ripped it free from the loops. "Show me again."

He took a step back and complied. She got to her knees and undid his laces, helped him with his boots, took a lick and a swallow of his dick while he fumbled with his armor and weapons and that stupid fucking blanket he couldn't unwrap fast enough.

"So much pain," she said quietly, almost in reverence, as she watched every part of him fall away.

Her fingers traced countless scars; the hardships his body had endured over many a trial, some unjust, most unkind, and all for the sake of someone else. Her lips pressed to the one at his waist; a knotted abomination of tangled muscle. She kissed another; a raised groove on his back that curved like a headless snake. The sight of himself didn't bother him- it hadn't for centuries. His mind was not molded for self-worth; his skin was not his own, not when it belonged to her in all of its rawest forms. Their eyes met; his cloudy but clear, hers seeing but blind.

"Charon, what happened to you?"

He couldn't answer that. Not anymore.

She tasted his mouth as she gently pulled him into bed, the weight of his tip pressed into the edge of her, and then she took him over it.