Archive of Our Own

The stool groans underneath her as she shifts, the sounds of the saloon around her an oddly comforting song— low, murmured voices shot through with the occasional barked laugh. Warm. Alive. Human. Just like the vault cafeteria on Sunday afternoons.

Not that there’s going to be any more Sunday afternoon lunches in the cafeteria, not for her anyway. She scoffs thinking about it. Shifts on the stool, her legs tucked underneath her.

She picks at the label on the Gwinnett brew in front of her, so old and tattered that she can hardly make out the face of the man on the bottle. Mr. Gwinnett, she presumes. The name is vaguely familiar to her, but she can’t recall from where. The label shows signs of water damage— wrinkled and mottled, like the beer had been cold, once— collecting condensation like the vault tunnels used to, growing green moss that Stanley used to scrape off with a long-handled shovel.

It’s not cold now.

She hadn’t even had the caps to pay for it. Nova had taken pity on her, sliding it across the bar without a word when she’d sat down to wait for Moriarty. When she’d looked up, questioningly, Nova had shrugged. “It’s cheaper than water,” she’d said, before disappearing upstairs with a client.

She picks at the label.

The ancient glue comes undone under her blunt nails, already packed with dirt from the few days she’d been above ground, stumbling blindly through the wasteland. Out here— water is a precious resource, something she hardly ever had to think about back home. In the vault, water rations were a given, and they’d always had more than enough. Especially with the dwindling population.

The coated label sticks to the pads of her fingers. She flicks it free, the shred of paper disappearing over the side of the unattended bar.

Nova is still upstairs.

Moriarty is— somewhere. Nova had shrugged when she’d asked when he’d be back. Not his keeper, hon.

She sighs, tilting her head back to look at the ramshackle ceiling. If she squints, she can see the shaking of dust spilling down from the rafters from the floors above.

Nova had had little to say about her father, though Simms had pointed her in this direction after a little desperate pleading. Nova had confirmed her father had been there, but— Moriarty didn’t like her listening in on patrons, not without being paid. But with a sympathetic look— the same one Nova had given when she’d slid the beer over, a look that said, I was like you, once— she’d said, I saw him alright. He was handsome. Kind. Not a lot of men like that out here, these days.

Had a daughter about my age. Guess that’s you, huh?

She reaches for the beer. The taste is bitter and heavy, like old, sour bread. Her face scrunches as she drinks it, but, well— it’s not like she has a lot of other options.

She hears a door open, the sheet metal slamming back against the wall, a burst of sound— but when she twists, it’s just another dirty wastelander, not the man she’s looking for. She sighs, settling back to the beer. She feels the flush already gripping her collar, the light feeling one she recognises from the few times she’d been privileged enough to drink. Hardly ever. Once, at Amata’s eighteenth birthday, and a few times at her dad’s— Jonas sneaking her a few sips, her dad pretending he didn’t see it.

She finishes off the beer, swallowing down the bitter liquid with a scrunched face.

For mid-afternoon, the saloon is busier than she might have thought. But, she supposes— it’s not just alcohol they’re after. She doubts this town has a community center like the vault did, a place for people to meet and commune without the ravages of consumerism. Spoons clink against handmade bowls, chairs scrape across metal flooring. Laughter spears through the room.

Her eyes fall straight ahead of her, a corner she’s been trying not to look at. And failing, desperately. Every few minutes her eyes fall back on him. The man in the corner.

Who’s that?

Oh, Nova had said, like she’d forgotten the man was there. That’s Charon. He works for Moriarty— but don’t bother with him, he won’t talk to you.

Her eyes settle on the man again, sitting in an old metal chair, against the far corner of the bar. Backed up to a shelving unit loaded high with junk. She knows it’s impolite to stare, but she can’t help it. He’s—

Her fingers itch to have something to do, so she wraps them around the empty bottle again.

The man in the corner doesn’t look hardly human anymore. His skin is mottled with scars, half-melted flesh, hardly a spattering of dark hair on his head. Her eyes dip to the collar of his leather jacket, the one ripped sleeve showing off a strong bicep, covered in scarred flesh. She wonders how far down it goes. She wonders if it hurts.

She slips off the barstool before she can really think about it, the beer making her bold. The flush has reached her face, now. She’s not anywhere near drunk, not like Beatrice at the Founder’s Day celebrations, or Stanley at every holiday party. But she knows she’s not as sound of mind as she could be, as she stumbles across the floor to the man in the back corner.

“Hi,” she says, when she reaches him, biting her lip.

Charon is slow to look at her. Even sitting down, he’s taller than her. He moves like a statue— so slowly and solidly she imagines she might hear the crack of marble when his face turns in her direction, as his eyes fall on her.

“No,” Charon says.

Heat creeps up her cheeks from the instant, unconsidered rejection. But she hasn’t made it this far without being at least a little stubborn. Before he can turn his head away from her, she gears up and tries again.

“I just—”

His words are clipped when they leave his mouth. “Talk to Moriarty.”

Her mouth falls slack. She turns back to the bar, unattended. Nova upstairs, Moriarty— “But he’s—”

“Talk. To. Moriarty.”

“He’s not even—”

“I don’t care,” he says.

“Won’t you at least let me get my question out?” she says in a rush, an irritated huff.

It’s then that he looks at her. A long, assessing look— one that makes her flush for entirely different reasons from the beer. She feels small under his gaze— from her dirty, mud-stained boots to her rolled sleeves, she knows she stands out among the sienna cloth of the other wastelanders. Even the teenagers lurking by the Brass Lantern, with haggard faces and tobacco-stained fingers, had seemed older than her, somehow.

A sight for sore eyes, Simms had called her. A little flower, Moriarty had said.

And then, so quick she almost thinks her brain is playing tricks on her— a hint of a smirk passes his lips.

“No.”

“Unbelievable,” she huffs, throwing her arms up. Most of the people here haven’t minded her wide-eyed, endless questions. Not even Moriarty— though he’d wanted her to pay for the privilege of answers.

She marches back to her seat. She’s barely slid onto the stool again when she hears soft footsteps descend the stairs, clinking heels against the metal. When she turns, she sees Nova stepping off the stairs, her thumb brushing across the corner of her mouth.

“Anyone come for a drink when I was gone?” Nova asks, sliding over to the other side of the bar.

She nods. A man with goggles perched on his head— seeming familiar enough with the bar he’d barely spared her a glance when he’d grabbed another bottle— had come by right after Nova had left. “He left the caps on the register,” she says. Nova winks at her, scooping the caps up and counting them.

A chair scrapes across the floor, and her eyes fall back on the back corner of the room. Charon’s gaze is still firmly on the door, his mouth pressed into a thin line. A shotgun across his lap. His fingers are the only thing about him that’s moving, she realizes. Tapping lightly against the barrel of the gun.

“What?” she says, turning sharply to Nova.

“I said,” Nova says, more feigned annoyance than real, “What’s on your mind?”

“Oh,” she says, “uh—”

Her eyes fall back on Charon. His fingers, too, have gone still.

She bites her lip, looking towards Nova. The woman’s hair is tousled, shorn short enough that someone could get a good grip in it, if they really wanted to, but not enough that someone could yank her by it. She wonders if that’s by design, as per her profession.

“Is he—” she says, her eyes flicking to Charon and then back to Nova, “you know— like you?” A whore. The word refuses to leave her lips, though Nova had called herself that not two hours ago.

Nova’s eyes fall on Charon before they double back to her. “Charon?” she asks, incredulously, a scoff on the tip of her tongue. “No. I can’t imagine any amount of leverage— contract or not— that would get that man on his knees.”

“Oh,” she says, feeling an odd— twinge of something. Disappointment? She shakes her head. No— it’s just the same sensation of rejection she’d gotten from him earlier. Maybe it’s unfair of her to think she’s worth anyone’s time, even a— a prostitute’s.

“Well, do you ever— you know…” she trails off, morbidly curious. Her eyes trail down to where his collar opens, the bare hollow of his throat exposed. “With him?”

“Fuck him? No,” Nova scoffs. Her eyes cross the table, a playful smirk on her lips as she draws out a cigarette. “Why? You offering?”

“What? No!” she says, flushed.

It’s not like— it’s not like she has the caps, even if she had the inclination to pay for it.

Which she doesn’t! She’s lonely, but not that lonely. At least— she tells herself that, her nails digging crescent welts into her palm.

Nova snorts. “I don't want to sound shallow or anything, I mean, I'm a whore, my standards aren't exactly high,” she laughs breathily. “But there are places even I won't go, even if—” Nova purses her lips, glancing back towards Charon. “Even if he wanted to, which I’m not sure he does. He’s never—” Nova shakes her head. “Ghouls ain’t worth the radiation. Even ones with that kind of muscle definition.”

That she can see. Practically right through his skin in some places, actually. It’s actually sort of— distracting. Striking, even. Miles of scarred skin, ghost-white eyes looking anywhere but towards the bar, like they’re the center of a supernova about to explode, and he doesn’t want to get caught up in it.

“Is that why he looks like that?” she asks, leaning in, her voice low. “Radiation?” Her eyes flick back to Charon, his eyes dead ahead. She knows it’s impolite to ask, but— what the vault had told them about nuclear fallout had been closer to armageddon than… muscular, scarred arms.

Nova pauses, her cigarette dangling from her lips. She flips the lighter shut. “What— you’ve never seen a ghoul before?”

“A— what?” she says, the word on the tip of her tongue.

“Oh you are new to the wasteland,” she says, a huff. “I thought, by the way your daddy talked—” she trails off. “Nevermind,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s a ghoul, honey,” Nova says, nodding her head in Charon’s direction. Loud enough that the sound travels across the room. But Charon doesn’t turn his head towards them, even when her eyes bore into the side of his head. “Post-humans I hear they like to be called,” she says, almost mockingly.

She snorts, lighting the cigarette. She takes a deep breath, sucking in the smoke. It filters from her lips when she exhales. “Though, in the years I’ve worked here— Charon hasn’t hardly said a thing to me.”

“Oh,” she says. “It’s not just me, then.”

“You tried to talk to him?” Nova asks, more a statement than a question. She nods anyway. Nova exhales again, smoke filling the air acridly.

“What’s his story?” she asks, curious. The word Nova had called him feels strange and off-putting on her tongue. Ghoul. The word uncharitable and offputting.

Nova takes a long drag from the cigarette, tilting her head back to blow the smoke into the already-thick air. “I don’t really know,” she admits. “He’s been here a long time. Fifteen years I heard. Moriarty bought his contract from some guy in the Underworld— that’s the ghoul city in D.C.— back when his pa was still around, running the place.”

Nova purses her lips, and then leans in close. Close enough that she can smell the clove cigarette on her breath. “The official story is that Colin’s pa was killed in a raider attack. But rumor has it that his untimely demise was right after Colin brought his new bodyguard into town.”

She shivers, her eyes falling back to the man sitting in the corner. “You think Charon murdered his father for him?” If Charon heard their conversation, if he cared about the rumors— he surely wasn’t showing it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nova shrug. “I don’t know. But I’ve seen Charon do more than a few nasty things for that bastard, so who knows.”

Before she can ask what sort of things? the door bangs open again, this time kicked with a sturdy boot. She shoots up on her stool, Nova straightening up against the counter, both women turning towards the door.

She doesn’t have to see the man’s face— hidden behind three plastic milk crates filled with clinking glass bottles— to know it’s Moriarty, huffing and puffing as he carries them through the saloon. He drops them at the foot of the bar, sweating profusely.

“Can’t even get good fucking help these days,” Moriarty spits, sending Nova skittering away. His sharp eyes fall on Charon, practically spitting the words, meant to cut. “Not an errand boy,” Moriarty mocks. She sees Charon’s mouth twitch downward almost imperceptibly. “What the hell did I even pay for you for? It’s not like anyone in this town has the stones to rob me.”

He kicks the crates, making her flinch. “Fucking useless piece of shit rotter,” Moriarty says. Around the room, the patrons hardly take notice. She swallows— it must be a usual occurrence. “Could have had a fucking slave for a third of the caps I paid—” Moriarty lets out another colorful string of swears that are entirely new to her ears, before barking out, “Nova! Get your sweet ass over here and unload!”

“Yes, Colin,” she says, calling out from whatever back room she’d hidden away to for the better part of his tirade. When Nova slinks back into the room, her eyes are closed off. Afraid. Her smile tight, like Amata’s always was when her father had pulled her aside to berate her.

Bitter bile claws at her throat, a hatred for the man bubbling up higher than it had before, when his sickly-sweet smile had said, It's called economics, kid.

She resists the urge to reach across the table and curl her hand around Nova’s reassuringly. With a man like Moriarty, it would probably do more harm than good. Showing you care always does.

When he straightens up, his cheerful demeanor is back— his only tell being the tightness around his eyes. He pushes back his sweaty flop of silver-pale hair. “You’re back, lass. Come up with the caps? Or are you going to have a go of it on your own?”

She shakes her head. “I was hoping— uh— you might have some work for me to do?” she asks. She’d asked around town, but the only person willing to offer her a job had been Moira, the woman from the general store. And Moira’s job would have taken her days, if not weeks. She doesn’t have that kind of time, chasing minefields and grocery stores and risking permanent damage via radiation.

“I could, uh,” she says. “Mind the bar or something while Nova’s… busy?”

She sees Nova’s stiff form, unloading the green milk crate across the room, kneeling by Charon’s feet as she fills the shelf.

“Well, well,” Moriarty says, dragging his eyes across her form. It makes her uncomfortable, and she thinks that’s the point. “I’m not in the habit of making competition for my own whores, but—”

She flushes, swallowing.

Moriarty drags it out. He’s got an exploitative smile on his face, almost like he wants to find out how far she’s willing to go.

And how far is she willing to go?

What would she do, if pushed, to find her father?

But the relief comes like cold water when Moriarty chuckles, “—I might have a job for you. If you’re willing.”

She swallows, nodding.

“One of my whores owes me quite a bit of caps,” he says. Her eyes flick to Nova. “Not her, petal,” Moriarty says, like he might have said idiot. “A real junkie bitch,” the venom in his voice real. “Name’s Silver. Used to work for me before she ran off with my caps after promising to get a good run of Jet and Psycho to me. Get the caps back from her and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Half those words don’t mean anything to her. She assumes Jet and Psycho are some sort of chem, but it’s not like they had anything stronger than Med-X in the vault.

She opens her mouth to agree when her eyes flick to Charon, still staring far ahead. She asks, gingerly, “Why can’t Charon do it?”

She feels the ghoul’s eyes on her when she meets Moriarty’s gaze, a false smile is plastered on the man’s face. If Charon can’t do it, what chance in hell does she have? “Well,” Moriarty says, “I don’t want the girl dead,” he says, like he very much does not care either way, “just lighter on caps.”

The burn of Charon’s eyes is on her when she looks over Moriarty’s shoulder. There’s something dark and warning in his eyes when she meets them. But— still. She needs this. She meets Moriarty’s eyes, swallowing. “I’ll do it.”

The sun is blinding as she descends down the hill into Springvale. Cracked asphalt catches on her vault-issue boots as the toothpick-frames of the homes come into view over the steeply-sloping mounds of dirt.

“C’mon,” she half-whispers, hyping herself up to the task. “Don’t— don’t think about it too much. It’ll be just… just like the movies,” she says, under her breath. “They’ll fold under pressure, they always fold under pressure,” she says.

And if not… well, she’s always got her baseball bat. She tries not to think about the sickening crack of the bat coming into contact with Chief Hannon’s head in the Overseer’s office when he’d yanked her arm so sharply she thought he’d pulled it out of its socket, or the wet splatter of Radroach guts on her face, in her mouth. Slimy like—

Slimy like—

She shakes her head. It’s not going to come to that. Smashed brains on vault floors, Jonas’ blood seeping into—

“Snap out of it!” she says to herself, irritated.

The houses down the main street are little more than ash and bricks, old frames held up by sheer will. The farther down the street she goes— the more intact the houses are. Almost like they’d been farther away from a nuclear blast.

Ducking into each of the ruins to look for signs of life, she feels like the overseer at election time, canvassing door to door just to remind people who to vote for. After all— who is indisputably the most important person in Vault 101? He who shelters us from the harshness of the atomic wasteland, and to whom we owe everything we have, including our lives?

She rolls her eyes. It’s not like anyone ever ran against him. Won on the platform of Vault First. As if there was ever any other option.

She already knows what she’s going to find when she sees the house just half a block from the looming school in the distance, the only half-livable structure for a mile, at least. It’s a wonder she didn’t see it days back, stumbling through the ruins of the town, fresh from the vault.

The windows are boarded up, but the door— patched with pieces of what looks like roof shingles— is intact. She knocks.

It takes a while, but eventually, the door creaks open, just a few inches. Suspicious, beady eyes narrow at her. When the girl speaks, pale, dishwater-blonde hair falls across her face. “What d’ya want?” the girl asks. Woman. She’s older than her, older than Nova, too, probably. But not older than thirty, no matter how her gaunt cheekbones make her look.

She shifts on her feet. “Are you Silver?”

The girl’s eyes widen, giving her away even as she spits out, “Who wants t’know?”

She’s got a twinge of an accent, like in one of the old westerns they had on holotape. Elongated vowels, stressing the first syllable when she speaks.

“Moriarty—”

The door slams shut in her face.

“Wait!” she calls out, pounding on the door. “Please!”

There’s no response, her knocks falling silent. She groans, pressing her forehead against the door. She’s about to slump against the door when she hears a muffled, “That cocksucker can’t have my money,” Silver says. And then, far quieter, almost so quiet she can’t make it out. “Please don’t try and make me give it up. I don’t— I won’t—” she says, trailing off.

“He says—”

The door is yanked open again, almost to both their surprise, Silver’s wide-eyed look mirroring her own. But rather than slam it shut again, Silver says, irritated, “What did he say about it?”

Daring her to speak up in the man’s defense. When she doesn’t, Silver crosses her arms. She’s wearing the same sort of faded wasteland garb that’s so prevalent here, a beige cable-knit sweater, patched and holey, over faded trousers.

“I bet that sack of shit told you I was a junkie, huh?” Silver says, shaking her head. “He owes me,” she mutters, almost to herself, “that sick fuck.”

She shifts on her feet. “What— uh, what did he owe you for?”

Silver purses her lips, looking unsure if she wants to tell. But after a moment, she says, “I told him I was out. Done. I was tired of fucking all those johnnies, fucking him—” Silver shudders, like the thought makes her skin crawl. She looks over her shoulder, towards the wasteland. Tears seem to prick at her eyes, biting her lip to avoid them spilling over. “He said it was okay,” she spits the words. “He said I could take my earnin’s and go, but I had to— to fuck him to seal the deal.”

Her eyes harden, spitting into the dirt. “Next morning he says I can’t leave, and I owe him the caps anyway.”

Already she feels her will fading. She closes her eyes, sighing. Fine. Fine. It’s not like she wanted to take this girl’s caps anyway.

“Alright,” she sighs. Maybe it’s not true, and the girl’s got enough of— what was it, Psycho?— to kill a horse in there. Or maybe it is, and Moriarty is just as much of a piece of shit as she thought. “Just— get out of here, okay?” she says, scuffing the toe of her boot in the dirt.

Silver stares at her, her pale eyes almost as pale as her hair. Bloodshot— with chems or radiation, she doesn’t know.

“That’s awful good of you, kid,” Silver says slowly, suspiciously, like she can’t hardly believe it.

“Well,” she says, dragging her boot through the gauge she’d made in dirt, “where I’m from, we pride ourselves on doing the right thing. At least… I thought we did.”

The two women stare at each other for a long moment before Silver breaks the silence. “The hell’s a girl like you working for Colin, anyway?” she asks.

The itch to snap none of your damn business is pressing, but— her dad didn’t raise her like that, no matter how much she’s aching. She shifts on her feet. “My dad is missing,” she admits. “He came through Megaton a few days ago, apparently, but, uh… I don’t have the caps to pay Moriarty for the information.”

The girl scoffs, but she has a feeling it’s not towards her. “Right,” Silver says. “That's Colin's style all right. He sells information so much you'd think the bar was just a hobby.” Her eyes flick back to her, softening just a bit. “I’m as good as gone anyway, so…” She leans in. “You want a piece of advice?”

She nods.

“Moriarty’s got a terminal in his office,” Silver says. “I once leaned on his shoulder when he was typing into it and he got pissed off and pushed me to the ground. So I’ll bet if he’s got anything on your old man it’ll be on that stupid thing. If you can get back there, the password’s lotsacaps,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Thanks,” she says, feeling only somewhat better about the situation. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she guesses. One step forwards, two back. Jeez, she hopes the rest of this journey isn’t as horrifically slow as getting one piece of information from a stranger.

She must have said that last part aloud, because Silver is looking at her strangely. Almost like she’s an idiot. She knows that look well. Usually from the Overseer.

“Here, uh,” Silver says, her eyes flicking down. “Wait here.”

She disappears into the dimly lit house, reappearing a moment later. Silver shoves a bag into her arms, biting her lip. She takes it on instinct. “You look like you could use it more than I can right now. I stole it on my way out, anyway.” Silver shifts in the doorway, looking nervous, jittery. Almost like Beatrice had when the Med-X she’d been taking for headaches wore off. Maybe the term junkie hadn’t been that far off, after all. But— whatever. She wasn’t going to steal from some girl for a man like Moriarty. “Look, uh. Don’t try to come back here. I’ll be gone by the time Moriarty has time to send someone else after me.”

She slips the bag onto her shoulders, nodding as Silver shuts and locks the door behind her.

She slinks back into town, reaching the settlement just as the sun starts to set over the horizon, honeyed light casting a glow over the shining city.

She doesn’t have the caps to pay for the information.

But she does have the means to get it.

There’s not much of a choice in the end. She just has to be patient.

So she waits. She sets up her vigil outside Moriarty’s Saloon, her back pressed up against the great wall of the city, feeling the radiant heat seep from it and into her bones the longer the afternoon stretches on. She’s good at not being noticed— no one ever cared to notice her in the vault, so why would they care out here?

The faint green glow of her Pip-Boy tells her it's nearly two in the morning when the back door of the saloon opens, Nova hauling two bags of garbage out, scowling and fussing as she does. She leaves the bags at the base of the metal ramp to be collected by the maintenance man, Walter, to be tossed in the pit outside the city before the rosy fingers of dawn touch down. He’d offered her twenty caps for the week if she’d collect the bags for him. But it was too long to wait, too little caps.

And then she waits even longer, pressing her ear to the door to listen even after the saloon goes silent.

The lock falls away under her fingers, a skill picked up from Butch. They weren’t friends. But they’d both been thrown in detention enough times that he’d shown her how to get out and back in before Mr. Brotch came back. They all knew Brotch had known they would leave. But as long as they were back when he came to check on them— he could say to the overseer with confidence they were right where he’d left them.

When the door opens into the saloon, the room is dark, lit only by moonlight streaming in through cracks in the walls, holes in the sheet metal, rusted away— and eerily quiet. Each step she takes, she listens out for the sounds of life— breathing, the groan of footsteps on metal flooring, voices— but there are none.

Even as she stands still in the empty bar, crouching out of sight— the metal building groans around her like the belly of a ship out at sea— something she doubts even exists anymore in this time. Old memories from even older movies. Nothing has made her feel so alien out here as mentioning something from the Old World to one of the residents and having them stare at her, unblinking, uncomprehending. Last bastion of hope, alright.

Alone, without the press of other bodies, grounding— she feels almost like the building sways and rocks around her. Creeping towards Moriarty’s office, tucked behind the bar— she feels unsteady on her feet, like when Vera Keyes struggled down the hallways of the freighter in Love Sets Sail! before the ship was dashed to pieces on the rocks, leaving them adrift.

She’s never been anything but adrift. Unmoored. Untethered.

The office is unlocked. She briefly glances around the room, just to make sure— her eyes falling on the empty chair at the back of the saloon— before she presses inside.

She presses the button on her Pip-Boy, washing the room in an acid-green glow. The back office is crowded, a wardrobe a makeshift privacy screen. The terminal is along the back wall, mounted to the siding. The keys under her fingers clack, louder than anything, echoing through the room. She grimaces with each press.

There are a lot of files she rolls her eyes at, but when she clicks into the file labeled JAMES, she finds two entries. She pauses on the first entry. Dated July 15th, 2258. Two days after her birthday.

Her lips press together as she reads it, exactly as Moriarty had said. Wasteland doctor. Baby girl. Brotherhood soldier. Looking for Vault 101.

The truth is bitter, acrid on her tongue. A pill to swallow.

She’d known it was the truth when Moriarty’d said it, but she hadn’t wanted to accept it. That her father had left her. That he’d been lying her whole life. But she’d always been different, she’d always been treated differently. And now she knows why.

She leaves the entry. The second is dated just hours after her father had left the vault, a few days back. She skims it quickly, tears pricking at her eyes. “Galaxy News Radio,” she breathes. That’s a start. Surely someone would know where that is.

And then she hears the noise. Boots on metal. Heavy, creaking. An aching groan that reverberates to her bones, her heart seizing in her chest. She’s quick to shut off the flashlight, to shut down the terminal.

She knows if Moriarty catches her, he’ll kill her.

And she won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

Why didn’t she just find a way to make the caps? she swears.

She doesn’t even make it out of Moriarty’s office before she nearly runs into him.

Charon.

He looms above her, blocking the doorway from the office. The only way in or out. His eyes nearly glow in the dark, bright like embers. Her blood freezes like ice when she sees him. Like this, she’s able to see his full height. Her gaze only keeps going up.

She sucks in a breath, and says, “Please don’t—”

Don’t what?

Kill her?

Report her to Moriarty?

He hasn’t said a word, his solid presence doing all of the talking for him. Her throat runs dry as she presses back up against the sheet metal siding, fear lacing her heart. She licks her lips. She takes a gamble. “I know you don’t like him either,” she says, her voice a whisper.

But by the way his lips press together, she thinks she’s right. He’s conflicted. Obeying a man he hates, or— letting a little thief go.

What kind of man is Charon?

He makes no move to leave the doorway. But he doesn’t call out for Moriarty, either. Doesn’t reach for the shotgun on his back, or the knife on his belt, pressed up against his muscular thighs. She finds herself staring at them for far too long, feeling his eyes burn into her. Waiting.

She barely presses her eyes closed before she blinks them open, a stupid plan forming on her lips. One she has no real confidence will work. But it’s the only one she has.

“I could…” she starts, her throat dry. Her eyes flick from the belt on his pants up to his burning eyes. “Make it worth your while?”

It’s a stupid plan.

She’s not a whore.

But it’s the only one she’s got.

Charon’s eyes are unreadable, his face carefully blank. She hasn’t heard him say more than four words to her, and yet she’s— falling to her knees for him, with a thud that she feels in her bones. But she won’t move, won’t break eye contact with him until—

—until he meets her gaze, his chin tilting down in a barely perceptible nod.

“Okay,” he says, his voice cracking.

Relief washes over her. Maybe she is a whore after all.

She shimmies over to him, crossing the room on her padded knees. Thank the overseer for her utility suit, she thinks with a breathy laugh. When she presses her palms to the front of his trousers, a canvas darkened by age and grime— she lets out a gasp. “You’re warm,” she says. Hot, actually. Radiating heat from his body like the vault furnace.

Her tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lips. Keep focus! she tells herself.

Her hands roam the front of his trousers, pressing her palm against the thickening cock tucked away. She can feel it twitch under her palm, a sensation she’s always liked, on the few occasions she’s done this. Her eyes flick up to him, his own lips— just barely parted.

Almost like he can’t really believe this is happening, either.

That makes her feel a little bit better about it, actually. Like they’re in the same boat, washed away.

She presses her mouth to his clothed cock, mouthing against the fabric. She knows that it won’t have quite the same effect on him as her tongue on him directly, but— she presses, tasting years of dirt and oils gathered on his lap. That’s when she hears him make the first sound. Not quite a moan, more choked-off than anything.

So she does it again. Her mouth tracing the quickly hardening shaft through layers, wetting it with her tongue. Working him up. She finds that when his cock twitches against her, she meets the movement with a groan of her own. An echo chamber of sensations. She nuzzles the damp fabric with her face, pressing up against his straining cock, the zipper threatening to burst. She reaches for his belt, only fumbling a little in the dark.

The button and zipper come next, and then— “You’re not wearing any underwear,” she says, a flushed, breathy laugh. His cock comes free with the tug of his zipper, thick and leaking.

She hooks her fingers into his trousers, pulling them lower down his hips. His skin is just as radiating hot to the touch as it had been through his pants, if not more so. Warm. Soft— despite the scar tissue that she now sees covers his entire body. She finds herself tracing it up his Adonis belt, her thumbs pressing into old wounds. The sounds that he makes as she does— they hit her own core like a strike of lightning.

Her lips part, her thumb pressed into the V of his hip, digging in— as she meets his eyes. He looks— wrecked, and she hasn’t properly touched him. Without leaving Charon’s eyes, she presses forward to nuzzle his cock, sprung free from his trousers. The head brushes her cheek, smearing precome across the freckles that dot her cheek. And then, she turns her head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

Charon braces himself against the door, the frame groaning as his fingers tighten on it. Her throat is dry, watching him— it's better than the dirty magazine she’d seen tucked away in a classmate’s room, better than the times she’s gotten on her knees for anyone else. And she’s hardly even touched him.

She pulls back, reaching to wrap her hand around the base of him. He’s fairly hairless, no spattering of red hair like the scarce growths from his crown, the skin of his cock matching the rest of him. Scarred, mottled, uneven color and texture. But it’s not like cocks are all that pretty to begin with.

As she begins to stroke him— gently, without lubricant, from her mouth or otherwise— she wonders what that might feel like inside her. The texture of him— she feels it in her core, growing wetter without even having been touched. He knees draw closed to press her thighs together as she watches, mesmerized, by the darkening of his cock, barely visible in the low light— the glittering glisten of precome.

She reaches forward to lap at the head of him— a musky, metallic taste, like the wastes itself.

The groan Charon releases shudders through both of them, and she wants to hear it again. So she laps at him more. A stripe from the base of him to the head of his cock, taking it into her mouth best she can. He’s thick, and long, and she hardly knows how it’s going to fit in her mouth. But she’s nothing if not determined. She suckles at the head of him, drawing musky sap from him that she swallows down.

Saliva gathers in her mouth, dripping down his cock as she strokes him with her hand. He’s thick enough that she can hardly close her hand around him, as she presses down and takes more of him into her mouth, deeper with each pass. She feels as his cock hits the back of her throat, and in choking on it— her teeth scrape along the underside of his shaft, the thick vein there. She means to pull off and apologize— when he moans, a choked-off noise that hits them both.

Her voice is rough when she speaks. “You liked that,” she says. When her eyes look up to him— it looks almost like his cheeks have flushed, though that might have been a trick of the light.

The building groans.

Both of them freeze in their tracks.

But just as quickly as the sound came, it passes.

“Right,” she says, her voice cracking. “Better, uh, get a move on.”

No time to savor it. Otherwise they might both be dead. She grips him again, taking him back into her mouth, her tongue pressing up against his shaft, her teeth bearing down on him, as she picks up the pace. Her other hand presses into his hip, her fingers leaving white indents on his skin, her thumb pressed into the muscular V.

The doorframe groans under his touch, his fingers close to splintering the wood as she bobs her mouth over him. When her eyes flick up to him, she can see him— can feel him— trying to hold steady. To keep still. To not fuck her mouth.

His fingers grip the frame, practically cracking the wood. Yellowed teeth bite into his lip as quiet moans spill from his throat, his cock jumping on her tongue. She pulls back, her voice cracking as she says, “You can move, if you want to,” she says.

Charon looks down at her, his eyes oddly vulnerable as he nods— lining his cock up with her mouth again, the head pressed to her lips. She’s barely got it passed her teeth before he’s moving— shallow thrusts at first, and then deeper. Fuck, she thinks, gripping his hip. Fuck, as she lets him use her mouth.

What she wouldn’t give to—

No, she thinks. Bad.

This isn’t about what she wants. To push him down on the floor of the saloon, climbing up him and sinking down on his—

She can’t help but groan around his cock, feeling it jump in her mouth as the sensations vibrate up his shaft. Saliva leaks from her mouth as Charon fucks into her throat, nearly choking her. Her fingers itch to press up against the crotch of her vault suit, to sink down on her own fingers, her thumb pressed to her own clit—

She can tell he’s close when the noises pick up, when his breath catches, and— she only strokes him harder, until his hand flashes out and catches her jaw. Not to make her stop, but— her eyes meet his, his cock still heavy on her tongue, and— Charon comes down her throat with a choked-off sob.

Her own core throbs at the sound of it, as his seed floods her mouth, and she swallows it down around his cock. She’s still lapping at him when the hand on her jaw gently pushes her away. She laughs, quietly. She knows she must be a mess, but— she looks up at him, bright eyed. And he’s— he’s got some semblance of a smile on his face, one she only really recognizes from that afternoon.

She rocks back on her knees, wiping away the drip of saliva down her jaw as Charon tucks himself away, when—

The steps groan. For real this time.

Both of them freeze in their tracks— Charon’s hands still on his belt, her fingers pressing welts into her knees.

Moriarty’s voice calls down from the steps, loud and authoritative. “Who— Charon?” he says, his voice losing its ire and turning into annoyance. “The hell are you doing up?”

She meets Charon’s eyes, a silent plea.

It would be so easy for him to call out to Moriarty, now that he’s gotten what he wanted from her.

But he doesn’t. He meets her eyes with a steady gaze, the same burning embers he’d had when he’d first entered the office. Before Charon can say anything at all, Moriarty sighs, loud and irritated.

“Fuck if I care,” Moriarty grumbles, seemingly to himself, before they hear the sound of bare feet on the metal staircase.

Neither of them breathe until they hear the door to Moriarty’s room slam shut, rattling the building. But Charon’s eyes shutter as he turns away from her. “You should leave. And never come back,” he tells her.

“Wow,” she jokes, “a full sentence.” But his body is stiff in front of her, still blocking the doorway. Not, she thinks, to keep her in place. But to hide her from Moriarty’s eyes should he come back. “Charon,” she says, and he twitches. It might be the first time she’s said his name aloud.

She climbs up from her knees, touching him. She tugs at his sleeve until he yields, turning to face her. She doesn’t reach up to take his face in her hands, as much as she’d like to. To feel the same warmth of his skin as he had, when he’d come. But her hand remains on his arm as she asks, “Why don’t you leave if you don’t like him?” The plan forming on her tongue as she spills the words from her mouth. “You could— come with me,” she says. Eagerly. “I know where my dad is. We could—” Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, tasting bitter seed on the corner of her mouth. “We could do this again sometime?”

She knows that it’s crazy. She hardly knows him. But what part about the last three days hasn’t been?

Even before she’d left the vault, she’d been dreadfully lonely. And by the way Charon had given in so easily to her touch— she thinks he must have been, too. What had Nova said— fifteen years here with Moriarty?

But Charon’s mouth presses together in a thin line, time stretching thin between her question and his lack of answer. She tries not to let the smile slip as she feels the unspoken rejection creep in again. Just like when she’d asked Amata to come with her. Amata, who’d been her closest friend. Amata, who knew her. Unlike Charon, who doesn’t know her from Adam.

Unlike Amata’s outright rejection, though, Charon shifts. “It’s complicated,” he says, an admission.

He looks simultaneously relieved and devastated when she lifts her hand from his arm. He almost flinches back when she reaches up to touch him, her thumb across his jaw. Like he expects something stronger than the pad of her fingers.

“Tell me,” she insists, persistent. She finds that she wants to know. This whole thing has been as much human connection she’s felt in days. “Do you— owe him money like Nova and Silver?”

“No,” he says, his eyes falling shut. He looks almost as wrecked as when she’d touched his cock. What has this place— this wasteland— done to these people? “He is in possession of my contract.”

“Can’t you just— quit?” she says. She knows what a contract is. They had them in the vault— for things like marriage. Binding documents meant to hold two people accountable. But who was going to hold him accountable? It’s the wasteland. She doubts Sheriff Simms would go after him for breach of contract if he took off.

But by the twist of his mouth, she thinks that somehow, the answer is no.

She can barely see the rise of the staircase over his shoulder. She knows she should leave. She’s already taken too long.

But—

“Where does he keep it?” she asks, breathless, like sacrilege. She wants him to come with her. Not just anybody, but him.

His eyes fall behind her.

Without taking her hand off his jaw, she turns. There’s a faint red pinprick of light in the dark corner opposite the terminal. A wall safe.

She bites her lip. She thinks that while Charon might know what she was doing in here, she really was only caught trespassing. Plausible deniability is everything. Mr. Brotch taught her that.

“Charon,” she says. “Turn around.”

Like earlier, she watches him make a decision in real time. And then— he obeys.

His shoulder knocks her hand from his cheek when he turns, his back to her. Plausible deniability.

And for the second time this evening, she falls to her knees, for an entirely different reason.

The safe takes her longer than she’d have liked to break into, and she has to turn on the flashlight to see the contents once she cracks it open. But pushing aside the caps and chems— she finds an old, yellowed piece of paper. Far older than fifteen years.

Far older than a hundred.

She unfolds it, seeing his name at the bottom. “Charon,” she says, and when he turns back to her, she holds it up between two fingers. “Do you want to get out of here?”

And for the first time— she sees what might be a real smile on his face. Worth it, she thinks.