Just To Fan The Flames
Title : Just To Fan The Flames
One shot, complete
Fandom: Fallout
Characters: Charon, female Vault Dweller
Rating: T for adult themes, nothing particularly explicit
Charon paced the upper story of the burnt-out shell of what had once been a family home, shifting listlessly from one glassless window to the next. Now and then a monstrous fire ant would skitter past with disturbing grace, one memorably hefting half a brahmin in its mandibles with no apparent strain, but none showed interest in the house where Charon and his employer were currently sheltering. No matter how vigilantly he scanned his surroundings, it seemed the deserted streets of Grayditch were determined not to give him an excuse to unholster his shotgun and lose himself in violence for a little while.
The first handful of hours it had been good to have some downtime, and his employer had practically collapsed onto the dirty mattress they'd found without even taking her boots off, which meant that he could enjoy the break without having to jump every time she snapped her fingers. But the first night had passed, then most of the next day. His employer stirred once to swallow some tablets from an unmarked bottle and use the bathroom, but otherwise stayed in bed with no mention of when they might start moving again. The interminable standing around and watching for non-existent threats made him think of Ahzrukhal and all those wasted years in the Ninth Circle, which in turn made him think about everything that his previous employer had forced him to do.
Before long Charon's mood had darkened to pitch black. He wanted to shoot something. Now.
Instead, he took a break from his pointless circling and went to check if his employer was still breathing. The afternoon light streaming through the boards nailed across the window showed that she was, her chest rising and falling with the deep and steady rhythm of sleep. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her mouth parted, faintly snoring. She might have looked peaceful if not for the line between her brows and the bruiselike shading of her lips and the thin skin beneath her eyes.
He had never seen someone look so exhausted while they were sleeping. She'd made vague references to a problem with her heart, and she'd always had the stamina of a gnat, but just now she looked bad enough that he wondered if they'd be leaving Grayditch at all.
Either way, it wasn't his problem. His only current order was to keep his employer safe, and contract or not he could hardly reach inside her chest and force her heart to keep beating. He turned to leave, meaning to resume his mind-numbing watch and leave her to wake up or not, but the tip of his boot caught the edge of the doorway molding and tore it free with a dusty crack.
His employer's eyes slitted open immediately. Charon swore inwardly and turned back to face her. He braced himself, but she appeared more disoriented than angry, settling her gaze on him with clear effort.
“Could you,” she said, and had to stop to run her tongue across her lips. “Could you please get me a glass of water, sweetheart?”
Charon stiffened. His employer had never called him anything remotely resembling a pet name before-and he had never once heard her say the word 'please.' One look at her foggy expression and he guessed that she had no idea what she was saying, possibly even who she was saying it to. But a disturbingly phrased order was still an order, so he left to fetch a bottle of water from her knapsack.
Nestled beside the bottle was an ancient can fruit cocktail his employer had scavenged from God knew where. Seeing it made him realize that he hadn't seen her eat anything at all for at least two days. After a moment of consideration he picked up the can and peeled off the pull-top lid. Somehow, the syrupy fruit inside had retained its artificially bright colors despite the passage of two centuries. Charon didn't want to know what kind of preservatives could accomplish that feat, or guess what they might do to a human body, but no one wandering the wastes could afford to be very picky.
Grabbing the can, the bottle of water, and a spoon, Charon returned to the dimly lit bedroom. His employer appeared to have perked up a little while he was gone, and her usual cool, slightly arrogant expression had settled across her features. He crossed the distance to her and set everything down beside the mattress. She took a deep drink of the water without lifting her head, spilling it down her chin and neck as if it weren't nearly impossible to find purified water outside the rare established communities, none of which where anywhere close by. Charon's employer wasn't normally careless. Then again, she didn't normally look like death warmed over, either.
She set the bottle back on the floor, noticing the can of cocktail as she did, and glanced at him with one eyebrow lifted. “That's thoughtful of you.” She carefully leveraged herself up onto one elbow and ate a spoonful of fruit, then added without looking up, “You know, I always assumed you hated me.”
Charon said nothing. After a minute, his employer set down her spoon and tried to meet his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed elsewhere, and after a short time she gave up the effort.
“Do you hate me, Charon?”
Her tone was light, but Charon recognized a conversational land mine when he heard one. “My feelings are irrelevant,” he said carefully. “You hold my contract, therefore I am honor bound to do as you say.”
“Golly, stop, I'm blushing.” She grabbed the spoon and sliced a peach chunk in two with a sharp jab. “You sure know how to make a girl smile.”
Charon silently cursed the shoddy door molding that had somehow spawned this conversation. Mindless patrolling had suddenly gained new appeal. “If you wish for me to say something complimentary, you need only order me to do so.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then she laughed. “Order you to be nice to me? That's the absolute most pathetic thing I've heard in all my life.” She chuckled again, shaking her head, but when the thin light fell across her face he saw that she wasn't smiling. “ That's it. Hand me that shotgun, Charon, I'm through with this world.”
Without hesitation, Charon drew the shotgun from his back and held it out to her. She scoffed and pushed it weakly back toward him.
“That was hyperbole. What we frivolous smoothskins like to call 'Just Kidding.'” She peered up at him, chewing her lip. “Is that a side effect of that brainwashing business, or were you born humorless and scowling?”
Charon consciously resisted the urge to deepen his frown in response. “If you wish for me to--”
“Stop,” his employer interrupted sharply, putting her hand on his arm. “Just stop right there before I change my mind about the shotgun.” Her fingers caught the strap holding the armored plate to his forearm and tugged. “And sit down, for heaven's sake. You're so tall I feel like I'm five years old and getting lectured by Daddy for leaving my toys on the floor again.”
She used her grip on his arm to pull herself into a sitting position, then patted the mattress beside her. Watching his employer carefully for any sign that he was misinterpreting her intentions, he lowered himself to sit on the farthest edge of the mattress and placed his shotgun beside him on the floor. This was not a situation he was prepared for-no clear instructions, nothing to blast to fragments; just the vague sense that any move he made would be the wrong one.
His employer, for her part, ignored him entirely and set to finishing off the cocktail with zeal. Charon tried not to fidget as she spooned half a neon-pink cherry into her mouth and crushed it between her teeth, swallowing with obvious pleasure.
“Mmm, the cherries are always the best part,” she said, licking the last of the syrup from the spoon and setting the empty can aside. “I think that's why they only put one or two in each can, just to fan the flames of anticipation. Don't you agree?”
Charon shrugged, keeping the motion small so that his shoulder didn't brush hers.
She looked sidelong at him. “This is driving you crazy, isn't it? Sitting so close to me?”
Charon swallowed back the saliva that filled his mouth and tried to think of how in the hell he was supposed to answer that without getting himself into even hotter water.
Just when he was about to speak, she spared him the need. “I bet it's all you can do not to just grab that gun and blow my head off like your last boss.” She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “That's okay. That's fine. I'd probably feel the same if I was in your position.”
Shooting her was not what he'd been thinking about-wasn't even a distant cousin to the things he had been thinking about-and his head started to ache at the mere mention of doing violence to the person who held his contract. He was not remotely in a hurry to correct her, though.
Things were quiet for a while, Charon resting one hand on his gun and watching the doorway in case some sainted creature decided to try to attack, his employer just sitting with her chin on her knees. The shadows had stretched halfway across the room before his employer spoke again.
“Would you believe that Ahzrukhal offered to sell me your contract for half price if I slept with him?”
Charon believed it easily. If his current employer had any idea of half the things Ahzrukhal had done while Charon was in his service, she wouldn't be surprised either.
“Of course, he also offered to waive the price entirely if I killed that nice waitress from Carol's Place. I think there's an insult there, if I care to look for it.” She unfolded her body, leaning her shoulders against the wall and crossing her arms over her stomach, turning her face toward him as she did. “So...” He didn't like the look of her smile, the predatory glint in her eyes. “Do you think I did it?”
He waited a long time, but she showed no mercy in letting him escape answering this time. “No,” he said
at last. “Greta was still alive when we left Underworld.”
She laughed. It might have been a nice sound if not for the edge of cruelty in it. “Clever evasion. But it's not going to work.” She inched closer, so close that he could feel the warmth of her arm where it had been in a patch of sunlight. She asked him again, this time enunciating each word like she was hammering a nail into place. “Do you think I slept with Ahzrukhal?”
A vivid image flashed unbidden in his mind: his employer, back arched, lip caught between her teeth, Ahzrukhal's putrid fingers bruising her soft, bare skin...
“No,” he said through gritted teeth.
For a long minute she just kept on watching him with that fiendishly amused expression as he struggled to keep any hint of emotion out of his face. Then the smile fell away, and she only looked dead tired. “I think that's the closest thing to a compliment I'll ever get out of you, Charon.”
She put her hand on his shoulder, making every muscle in his body go tense, but she only kept it there long enough to get her feet under her and stand. Charon moved to do the same, sensing that escape was at hand. Then she waved him back down.
“You haven't slept in ages. I can keep an eye on things for a while. Why don't you just stay here and rest?” She stretched luxuriously, going up on tippytoes and lifting her arms above her head. The movement made her blouse ride up, displaying a smooth swath of her stomach.
Charon fairly scrambled to his feet, wanting nothing more than to chase down the next fire ant that showed its head and reduce it to spare parts. “This place isn't safe. I need to keep watch.” He swept his shotgun from the floor and made a break for the door.
His employer blocked his way, hands to her hips. “I'm sorry, that must have come out as a question,” she said coolly. “Relax, Charon. Get some sleep.”
After he reluctantly sank back down to the mattress, she turned on her heel and left the room. Some time later he heard the soft impact of something (her fist?) hitting the wall, and a murmur so low it was barely audible. “Pathetic.”
Charon tried not to allow himself to wonder what she meant, but no matter which way he turned his head, the mattress smelled like her. It was a long time before he closed his eyes.
One shot, complete
Fandom: Fallout
Characters: Charon, female Vault Dweller
Rating: T for adult themes, nothing particularly explicit
Charon paced the upper story of the burnt-out shell of what had once been a family home, shifting listlessly from one glassless window to the next. Now and then a monstrous fire ant would skitter past with disturbing grace, one memorably hefting half a brahmin in its mandibles with no apparent strain, but none showed interest in the house where Charon and his employer were currently sheltering. No matter how vigilantly he scanned his surroundings, it seemed the deserted streets of Grayditch were determined not to give him an excuse to unholster his shotgun and lose himself in violence for a little while.
The first handful of hours it had been good to have some downtime, and his employer had practically collapsed onto the dirty mattress they'd found without even taking her boots off, which meant that he could enjoy the break without having to jump every time she snapped her fingers. But the first night had passed, then most of the next day. His employer stirred once to swallow some tablets from an unmarked bottle and use the bathroom, but otherwise stayed in bed with no mention of when they might start moving again. The interminable standing around and watching for non-existent threats made him think of Ahzrukhal and all those wasted years in the Ninth Circle, which in turn made him think about everything that his previous employer had forced him to do.
Before long Charon's mood had darkened to pitch black. He wanted to shoot something. Now.
Instead, he took a break from his pointless circling and went to check if his employer was still breathing. The afternoon light streaming through the boards nailed across the window showed that she was, her chest rising and falling with the deep and steady rhythm of sleep. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her mouth parted, faintly snoring. She might have looked peaceful if not for the line between her brows and the bruiselike shading of her lips and the thin skin beneath her eyes.
He had never seen someone look so exhausted while they were sleeping. She'd made vague references to a problem with her heart, and she'd always had the stamina of a gnat, but just now she looked bad enough that he wondered if they'd be leaving Grayditch at all.
Either way, it wasn't his problem. His only current order was to keep his employer safe, and contract or not he could hardly reach inside her chest and force her heart to keep beating. He turned to leave, meaning to resume his mind-numbing watch and leave her to wake up or not, but the tip of his boot caught the edge of the doorway molding and tore it free with a dusty crack.
His employer's eyes slitted open immediately. Charon swore inwardly and turned back to face her. He braced himself, but she appeared more disoriented than angry, settling her gaze on him with clear effort.
“Could you,” she said, and had to stop to run her tongue across her lips. “Could you please get me a glass of water, sweetheart?”
Charon stiffened. His employer had never called him anything remotely resembling a pet name before-and he had never once heard her say the word 'please.' One look at her foggy expression and he guessed that she had no idea what she was saying, possibly even who she was saying it to. But a disturbingly phrased order was still an order, so he left to fetch a bottle of water from her knapsack.
Nestled beside the bottle was an ancient can fruit cocktail his employer had scavenged from God knew where. Seeing it made him realize that he hadn't seen her eat anything at all for at least two days. After a moment of consideration he picked up the can and peeled off the pull-top lid. Somehow, the syrupy fruit inside had retained its artificially bright colors despite the passage of two centuries. Charon didn't want to know what kind of preservatives could accomplish that feat, or guess what they might do to a human body, but no one wandering the wastes could afford to be very picky.
Grabbing the can, the bottle of water, and a spoon, Charon returned to the dimly lit bedroom. His employer appeared to have perked up a little while he was gone, and her usual cool, slightly arrogant expression had settled across her features. He crossed the distance to her and set everything down beside the mattress. She took a deep drink of the water without lifting her head, spilling it down her chin and neck as if it weren't nearly impossible to find purified water outside the rare established communities, none of which where anywhere close by. Charon's employer wasn't normally careless. Then again, she didn't normally look like death warmed over, either.
She set the bottle back on the floor, noticing the can of cocktail as she did, and glanced at him with one eyebrow lifted. “That's thoughtful of you.” She carefully leveraged herself up onto one elbow and ate a spoonful of fruit, then added without looking up, “You know, I always assumed you hated me.”
Charon said nothing. After a minute, his employer set down her spoon and tried to meet his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed elsewhere, and after a short time she gave up the effort.
“Do you hate me, Charon?”
Her tone was light, but Charon recognized a conversational land mine when he heard one. “My feelings are irrelevant,” he said carefully. “You hold my contract, therefore I am honor bound to do as you say.”
“Golly, stop, I'm blushing.” She grabbed the spoon and sliced a peach chunk in two with a sharp jab. “You sure know how to make a girl smile.”
Charon silently cursed the shoddy door molding that had somehow spawned this conversation. Mindless patrolling had suddenly gained new appeal. “If you wish for me to say something complimentary, you need only order me to do so.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then she laughed. “Order you to be nice to me? That's the absolute most pathetic thing I've heard in all my life.” She chuckled again, shaking her head, but when the thin light fell across her face he saw that she wasn't smiling. “ That's it. Hand me that shotgun, Charon, I'm through with this world.”
Without hesitation, Charon drew the shotgun from his back and held it out to her. She scoffed and pushed it weakly back toward him.
“That was hyperbole. What we frivolous smoothskins like to call 'Just Kidding.'” She peered up at him, chewing her lip. “Is that a side effect of that brainwashing business, or were you born humorless and scowling?”
Charon consciously resisted the urge to deepen his frown in response. “If you wish for me to--”
“Stop,” his employer interrupted sharply, putting her hand on his arm. “Just stop right there before I change my mind about the shotgun.” Her fingers caught the strap holding the armored plate to his forearm and tugged. “And sit down, for heaven's sake. You're so tall I feel like I'm five years old and getting lectured by Daddy for leaving my toys on the floor again.”
She used her grip on his arm to pull herself into a sitting position, then patted the mattress beside her. Watching his employer carefully for any sign that he was misinterpreting her intentions, he lowered himself to sit on the farthest edge of the mattress and placed his shotgun beside him on the floor. This was not a situation he was prepared for-no clear instructions, nothing to blast to fragments; just the vague sense that any move he made would be the wrong one.
His employer, for her part, ignored him entirely and set to finishing off the cocktail with zeal. Charon tried not to fidget as she spooned half a neon-pink cherry into her mouth and crushed it between her teeth, swallowing with obvious pleasure.
“Mmm, the cherries are always the best part,” she said, licking the last of the syrup from the spoon and setting the empty can aside. “I think that's why they only put one or two in each can, just to fan the flames of anticipation. Don't you agree?”
Charon shrugged, keeping the motion small so that his shoulder didn't brush hers.
She looked sidelong at him. “This is driving you crazy, isn't it? Sitting so close to me?”
Charon swallowed back the saliva that filled his mouth and tried to think of how in the hell he was supposed to answer that without getting himself into even hotter water.
Just when he was about to speak, she spared him the need. “I bet it's all you can do not to just grab that gun and blow my head off like your last boss.” She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “That's okay. That's fine. I'd probably feel the same if I was in your position.”
Shooting her was not what he'd been thinking about-wasn't even a distant cousin to the things he had been thinking about-and his head started to ache at the mere mention of doing violence to the person who held his contract. He was not remotely in a hurry to correct her, though.
Things were quiet for a while, Charon resting one hand on his gun and watching the doorway in case some sainted creature decided to try to attack, his employer just sitting with her chin on her knees. The shadows had stretched halfway across the room before his employer spoke again.
“Would you believe that Ahzrukhal offered to sell me your contract for half price if I slept with him?”
Charon believed it easily. If his current employer had any idea of half the things Ahzrukhal had done while Charon was in his service, she wouldn't be surprised either.
“Of course, he also offered to waive the price entirely if I killed that nice waitress from Carol's Place. I think there's an insult there, if I care to look for it.” She unfolded her body, leaning her shoulders against the wall and crossing her arms over her stomach, turning her face toward him as she did. “So...” He didn't like the look of her smile, the predatory glint in her eyes. “Do you think I did it?”
He waited a long time, but she showed no mercy in letting him escape answering this time. “No,” he said
at last. “Greta was still alive when we left Underworld.”
She laughed. It might have been a nice sound if not for the edge of cruelty in it. “Clever evasion. But it's not going to work.” She inched closer, so close that he could feel the warmth of her arm where it had been in a patch of sunlight. She asked him again, this time enunciating each word like she was hammering a nail into place. “Do you think I slept with Ahzrukhal?”
A vivid image flashed unbidden in his mind: his employer, back arched, lip caught between her teeth, Ahzrukhal's putrid fingers bruising her soft, bare skin...
“No,” he said through gritted teeth.
For a long minute she just kept on watching him with that fiendishly amused expression as he struggled to keep any hint of emotion out of his face. Then the smile fell away, and she only looked dead tired. “I think that's the closest thing to a compliment I'll ever get out of you, Charon.”
She put her hand on his shoulder, making every muscle in his body go tense, but she only kept it there long enough to get her feet under her and stand. Charon moved to do the same, sensing that escape was at hand. Then she waved him back down.
“You haven't slept in ages. I can keep an eye on things for a while. Why don't you just stay here and rest?” She stretched luxuriously, going up on tippytoes and lifting her arms above her head. The movement made her blouse ride up, displaying a smooth swath of her stomach.
Charon fairly scrambled to his feet, wanting nothing more than to chase down the next fire ant that showed its head and reduce it to spare parts. “This place isn't safe. I need to keep watch.” He swept his shotgun from the floor and made a break for the door.
His employer blocked his way, hands to her hips. “I'm sorry, that must have come out as a question,” she said coolly. “Relax, Charon. Get some sleep.”
After he reluctantly sank back down to the mattress, she turned on her heel and left the room. Some time later he heard the soft impact of something (her fist?) hitting the wall, and a murmur so low it was barely audible. “Pathetic.”
Charon tried not to allow himself to wonder what she meant, but no matter which way he turned his head, the mattress smelled like her. It was a long time before he closed his eyes.