One Year Ago

2287

Charon...if I ordered you to kill me...would you?

A violent smack! A cracked tooth; a gasped sob.

So, you can't harm your 'employer'... What the fuck does that even mean, Charon?! Just what the fuck are you?

A tap at his elbow, a nonverbal order to stand down. Charon withdrew his fists, bloodied and battered; the wincing sore from pelting another man's skull was almost a sweet cry of mercy. He focused on it, relished in the smarting pain throbbing across his knuckles. It provided something to hold on to when memories of her came across his sober mind. The ferryman craved for nothing more than a stiff drink and a spray of lead in this fuck's face. The dank underground railway station he was standing in suddenly grew stalks of dead grass; the faces around him became charred remains of trees; the man on his knees, now unrecognizable of what he once was, grew long hair that soaked in the sun.

And why the fuck not?! Why can't you just fucking tell me! I'm trying to fucking help you, you fuck! Do you like being somebody's fucking dog?!

Evelyn had never asked where he came from...she had never asked a personal detail about his life. He never knew why, when she seemed to just crack open Cross like a fucking mirelurk shell within a month of them being together... But she would ask about the boundaries of his contract; she would question his loyalty deemed by a scrap of paper with some pieces so illegible she doubted even he knew what it read. She would poke, prod, and become so upset with his eventual stony silence that she would storm off, not caring to look back to see if he would follow, but he always did.

"If you'd been a smarter man, you would've just fuckin' shot me." Cross' deep, raspy voice drew him momentarily back to reality. To the smell of cigar smoke, to the hushed crowd watching the display with hungry eyes and tight mouths, like vultures waiting for a chance to pick at the remainder of the carnage.

I don't want your company if you don't want mine. I...I want you to be happy. If I don't make you happy, then I'm not going to force you to stay.

Happiness.

The meaning of that word had long been lost to him, if it had ever been found, to begin with. There was no such thing as one's self-satisfaction. There was the contract, the employer, and the loyalty that intertwined the two inseparably. For over two hundred years, that was all Charon knew...until a scraggly kid with a goofy smile stumbled into a shithole bar where he had been shackled and sought to break his chains.

The Lone Wanderer had taught Charon the meaning of happiness. Of how to throw a grin, or chuckle at a stupid joke, or appreciate the fact that there was a tomorrow to look forward to...and when that fucking kid decided the entirety of the damned souls of the wastes were worth the very fibers of his life being reduced to ash for clean water...he did not think he would ever experience happiness again, and did not care to.

And then...Evelyn. A woman with a fiery temper and a smart mouth, with the punch of a goddamn power fist, and the courage of a fucking mouse. Just when the grump of a ghoul had been starting to refill the mold of his standard, pissed-off-to-hell self, she had come swinging through the door with a baseball bat of a smile, cracking at his stony exterior for a peek underneath. She got the whole goddamn home run of his life; Charon did not look to a woman for sexual pleasures, much less...love.

"Shall I end him?" Charon's voice left his mouth unwillingly. It was an automated response when his body was still grounded, but his mind was adrift.

Cross let out a noisy sigh. "Nah." His large palm groped along the backside of his pants, unholstering his gun. "I got it."

Bang!

The crack from the shot echoed loudly, almost painfully, within the confines of that dive of a bar. The sploosh of brain matter fanning across the grimy tile seemed to become another addition to the aesthetic of the room, swishing around the burnt-out cigarette butts and shards of broken beer bottles. The body slumped, a fair warning to anyone else who sought to stick a knife in the Black Cazadors ringleader's back.

The ferryman was left standing to the side, staring into an unseeable void where the perp's head had just been. It was so...unfair. Two hundred years of killing, murder, screams, bloodlust, and insurmountable anger...all for just one night alone with her. A night tangled in sheets, and breathy moans, and desperate kisses. When he had chastised her silly nature in blowing her lips across his body, when she had rode him with his head clasped between her hands, their foreheads touching as she breathed over him I love you.

All of it, gone, because he was bound to a piece of paper with an invisible chain choking his throat, swallowing his most deeply desired wishes, and smothering his fierce affection for her care.

Another tap at his arm; Cross' eyes were burning into the side of his head. "You still care for that fuckin' drink?" His way of saying you got that fucking look on your face, we don't have to stay.

The sour smell of the atmosphere was inhaled to the rock bottom of his lungs. Charon slowly closed his lids in a lazy blink and finally turned to address his only friend left in this world. "I wish to leave."

The Present

2288

Charon pivoted his head to the faint waft of a cigarette. Cross was indulging in his old smoking habit. The crimson ghoul sighed irately, filched the packet of smokes the merc had just purchased, and chucked them far over the water they walked alongside.

"You fuckin'-" the merc began, but the deathly glare imparted to him made him turn away with a growl, "-fuck."

A packet of bubblegum was produced instead, and the grey ghoul begrudgingly took a piece, popping it into his mouth. A bubble was blown, popped, and rechewed. They continued in mutual silence for the next few hours. Braxton was a long walk to be had, and neither really had too much to say.

Well, the merc had something. "I kissed her."

Charon snapped his head around, taking a large step over an unidentifiable puddle. "The recruit?"

"Yeah." Cross pulled out a pair of binoculars, roving them around without really caring to actually look. They both knew these roads well and were highly skilled in terms of survival. The ghouls were a great combination with their collective experience and knowledge. "...was fuckin' awkward."

A snort. "She is not Evelyn."

The binoculars were slowly lowered. That wasn't what he wanted to hear from an amicable conversation with his fellow ghoul. Charon knew him probably better than he knew himself, at this point. Cross would have much rather been told you are out of practice or you were nervous. No. Charon spoke nothing but the truth.

"I do not think you will be able to move forward, until you are ready." Another gut-driving epiphany. "...but it is something." And with that, Charon continued in his march.

Cross just remained in place, watching his companion walk away so resolutely. This was the one time of year the ferryman didn't drink- he needed to have a clear head when he journeyed through the wastes if he was to make it in one piece to visit her grave.

To visit her grave.

A loud sniffle, and Charon half-turned to the merc rubbing at his eyes. He internally sighed. It was going to be a long trip this year.

"Are you certain this is what you wish for?" Charon asked uncertainly.

In a way, he was a little nervous as to what this visit might unbury. As cold and calculated the merc portrayed to be on the outside around others, he was very much an emotionally and mentally unstable man when left to his own devices. It was one of the main reasons Charon had so disapproved of his relationship with Evelyn in the beginning. The bounty hunter had a lot of weight to bear, and she shouldered his burden despite her own heavy load. It's just what she did, with nothing in return but a patient smile; it was why they both fell for her so easily.

Cross was deaf to the question. His attention was absorbed with an empty cracked tequila bottle, discarded by its former patron to be left in the dirt.

Ya want to get drunk, and go have sex?

It had always been tequila with her. It had been their last night in Saint Silverton before everything had taken a massive landslide for the worst. They had both taken a few too many shots for their own bodies to handle properly; he remembered he had started to strip her in the hallway before they had even made it back to their room. They had ended up fucking in the empty tub. He had railed her from behind as she added to the cracks in the ceramic. Charon had knocked on their door, his arms full of her clothes and his expression nothing less than disappointed. Cross had only taken her garments back with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. He had been awake despite it being four in the morning, perusing through her journal as she dreamt. He had told Lydia he would finally teach her how to shoot that 9mm with some decent accuracy. He had been planning on taking Evelyn to a secluded swimming hole that was radiation-free, watch her swim naked under the stars and make love to her on the rocks still warm from the sun. How differently that all could have played out, if he had simply told her what he had already been feeling, but didn't recognize to know.

I love you, too.

"Cross."

The grey ghoul raised his eyes; the world they were seeing was so very different from the landscape they were standing in. Charon opened his mouth to repeat his question, but then hesitated. Cross needed this, more so than he did himself. For these past ten years, Charon had been rowing the oar of their battered ship. They no longer had their navigator in the crow's nest giving poor directions from a salt-crusted map. They were on their own; they had been on their own. Charon had to keep sailing forward due to having no will of choice while Cross was too busy throwing his lifeline to the depths, hoping that ocean-eyed siren would ensnare his rope and pull him under. Charon had promised her he would care for him, no matter what happened. He was still keeping that promise, and would, until either of their dying days. If he could get him to Braxton...if he could make him finally realize she was gone-

The smooth leather of his gloved palm came up to rub the backside of his neck. He had never divulged these stories to the merc before, but they seemed extremely appropriate, now. Perhaps it was because Charon needed a little bit of her, too, to get through this.

"Do you know how Evelyn had acquired that sniper rifle, the one with the thermal scope?" There was a tug of a smile at his mouth. It was a good memory.

Cross blinked. "No. Figured it was yours."

A turn back down the road, a nonverbal indication to continue forward. "There was this man, who had placed a bet.."

Ol' Webbers leaned back in his creaking chair, observing this creature that downed a Nuka-Cola like there was nothing else left in the world to satisfy her. To be fair, there may not be.

A gasp, and she let out a strange, small burp that vibrated from her chest. "Excuse me," she said politely, and the ghoul shook his head at her as he dragged on his smoke.

"So..." He widened his legs and crossed his arms. "You're the smoothskin that everyone was talking about."

So, you're the smoothskin, huh?

Thomas, why the hell did you let a smoothskin into this city!?

Braxton is a dangerous city for women, especially pretty ones like yourself.

The empty soda bottle was set on the small, dented table between them. "...sorry about Braxton. I didn't-"

The ghoul lazily waved away her excusing apology. "Don't matter to me now. Actually, I should probably be thanking you. I would've never opened this store if I hadn't left that mole rat nest of a city."

She thrummed her fingers on the table as the silence stretched, and he continued studying her behind that hazy fog. The first and foremost important questions were threatening to split the seams of her skull, but it was having the definite answers that scared her the most. A tooth snagged at the pink flesh on her lower lip.

"Do you know, what happened to Cross? The bounty hunter ghoul? Or, Thomas Ridges?"

The old ghoul stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette, spent down to the filter. They watched the dance of smoke linger in the air for a moment, before meeting their eyes head-on.

"I don't know about this Cross. Thomas, though..." The ghoul scratched at his elbow, a flap of skin threatening to flay away under stubbed fingers. "Seemed to disappear after the whole thing. It was all very, confusing, that night. Creatures the size of deathclaws, ghouls shooting at their fellow ghouls, the fire, the smoke." A wet cough bubbled in his throat. "Place was just a mess. I got out of there, and didn't look back." His stare was unflinching. "I suggest you don't, either."

She folded her hands in her lap. No news...was at least better than bad news. There was still hope, maybe? Hope that Cross was out there, somewhere, with a dumb joke and a stupid grin. Hope that Charon was still waiting to give her an earful for the whole fucking ordeal. Did they still love her? The thought drove an ice pick through her heart, and she clamped down on her tongue before she welled up in tears as a sobbing mess before this strange ghoul.

"Uhm-" she started out shakily, taking a deep inhale through her nose. An angry glance off to the side. A drop of salty grief dripped onto her lap.

The ghoul reached out across and wordlessly offered her a smoke. Without much thought, she took it between quivering fingers, bringing it to her mouth with a mumbled thank you. Evelyn did not smoke, in fact, the smell normally crinkled her nose with disgust...but something about the sweet, woolen taste of it on her tongue seemed to settle her already splintered nerves.

I hope you're both okay. Somewhere, in the dark recess of her selfish desires, what she really thought was, I hope you're waiting for me.

"This Cross...friend of yours?" Ol' Webbers struck a match, holding it to the tip to light her smoke. With a click of the bone in his wrist, he wafted the flame through the air, promptly snuffing it out. He eyed her rust-colored collar. "Or...something else?"

Evelyn took a small inhale, coughing into a fist and missing the ghoul's amused smirk. "No, we, uh-" Fucked like rabbits and faced Hell together. "...we were close."

A creak of his caned chair as he shifted, the weight of his stoic expression resting on her already tired shoulders. "Not close enough to keep you out of the city?"

The burning blaze of her eyes was enough to dim the orange ember of her cigarette as she took a drag.

The ghouls there ain't friendly with smoothskins, trust me, I know.

Ol' Webbers was unperturbed by the hostility she radiated. He had been a married man for over thirty years before the bombs fell; he was as much an old man then as he was now, wise to the ways of a scorned woman and her spiteful nature. He was also, unfortunately, well familiar with the hopeless gaze of a widowed lover; what that ghoul did to deserve something with a face like hers was his best guess.

"...what were you doing down in that Vault, if you don't mind me asking?"

"How did you even know about it?" she countered, unable to keep the scathing tone from her voice.

The ghoul raised a weathered, vein-bulging hand. "Now, now, didn't mean to toss some bait for you to snap at. Was just, curious, is all." Her smoldering gaze was thrown to the side, an exhale of smoke trailing from her lips. "They turned that whole city upside down, from what I remember, looking for you. Heard someone assaulted the mayor, in the midst of it."

Now there was a tiny crack of a smile, and her blue eyes twinkled as she returned her attention back over. "That would be Cross."

"No shit?" The ghoul grunted, stretching his legs and resting his palm over his kneecap. A throaty garble that was meant to be a chuckle bellowed. "That bastard had it coming."

Make her shut the fuck up- a stab of pain nailed through her eyes, and she winced, bringing her free hand up to her brows -she's going to wake the whole fucking city like this.

"You okay?"

As quickly as it had come, it was gone.

"Yeah..." she muttered. What the fuck was that? A memory? I don't recognize that voice. She suddenly felt cautious and slowly sat upright in her seat, placing her half-smoked cigarette in the tray. "How did you know about the Vault?"

"Damn near everyone did, after the ground decided to open up in the middle of the city. There've been some ghouls who went back, after everything was settled, only the Lord himself knows why... I do get one fellow who stops to resupply here every year. Don't know if he makes the city a pilgrimage or what have you, but he's a hard face to forget."

There was a chest-pounding thud of her heart, so painful she was sure it would burst from its cage. "...do you know his name?"

A shake of his head. "No. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever heard the man even speak-"

The back of her chair smacked against the floor as she abruptly stood, palms planted flat on the table as she imploring searched this ghoul before her for a face. His face. "Is he stupidly tall with an expression that reads I'm ready to kill somebody?!"

Ol' Webbers blinked, too stunned to answer. After he regained his bearings, he noticed he had a rather nice view down the front of her partly unzipped suit. "This that close friend, of yours?"

Her eyes crinkled as she bestowed the widest smile, tears brimming the corners like glittering jewels. "Something like that."

"Okay, now you're just makin' shit up."

"I do not, make shit up." Charon threw another log on the fire as the merc laughed loudly across from him. It was good to hear his employer laugh; it had been a long time since he was caught grinning, again. Cross was persistently asking for more stories about his past adventures with Evelyn- a year traveling with her left a lot. "I believe the deathclaw was just as surprised as I was. I do not think it had ever been punched before."

"Nah, I don't believe it. A fuckin' deathclaw?!"

"Indeed."

"Christ." Cross rubbed at the back of his head, a stupid smile on his face. He could so easily imagine it. She would have been yapping like some small dog at this deadly monster, throwing back a fist to nail it right in the kisser simply because it was going through her unattended bag, eating her snacks. "She always liked those damn sweets."

"She did. We had raided a cake factory a month after that...I do not know where she put all of it."

Cross envisioned her curved ass. "Oh, I know." A contented sigh, and he leaned back into his pack to stare at the stars, saying sadly, "I miss her."

Charon crossed his arms, staring into the flames that stretched high into the diamond sky. "I as well."

"...you think you'll ever love another woman?"

Those bright orbs met his own. "No."

It was said with such finality, such determined solace, that the creeping guilt came back like a swift kick to the chest. Cross wasn't falling in love with Russel- it was just physical attraction. Evelyn would always have that spot in his heart, along with his past wife, Amelia. He didn't have the strength to add any others to that list. But he wasn't like Charon, he couldn't just pass the years as a celibate nun because of his simple devotion.

If the roles had been reversed, and they had not crept back out from that Vault, would she be in this same dilemma as they? Would she have simply moved on, maybe gotten married, had kids? Or would she have secluded herself in the mountains, a hermit amongst books to keep her sole company as she was unable to love another man? He deeply, and selfishly would have preferred the latter, and it sickened him to admit that to himself. He wanted her so badly that he couldn't stand the thought of her falling in love with anyone else.

"You think she's out there, rollin' her eyes at us for bitchin'?"

"...it is a nice thought, to have."

The merc looked back up to the endless galaxy; a shooting star lit on the horizon. "Yeah, it is."