Crawling out through the fallout

When had the vault dweller shown up? He was pretty certain it had been in the summer, the whine of the fans that Winthrop constantly fussed over were trying their hardest to push the stagnate humid air. A smooth skin in their midst had caused a bit of a ripple in the otherwise monotonous rhythm of the ghoul sanctuary. It wasn’t that rare, they had trade caravans that came around from time to time, the brave sort that were able to dodge projectiles from the ever present super mutants. She was cute, and in time she would leave, fading into the tapestry of the wasteland, more than likely dying and leaving a pretty skull somewhere in the dust. 

But she didn’t leave, not really. She would come for weeks, tinker about, and then disappear. Odd jobs and specialty fixes is what she traded in, that and a dazzling white smile full of unbroken teeth. To the poor denizens of the sanctuary it must have seemed like the ghost of a bygone era arrived to bestow blessings before once again fading. 

However she didn’t fade. 

Alacrity had made the Underworld her home away from home. There must have been something comforting to her about the high walls and dark corridors. Charon had plenty of time to muse about it. She must miss the vault, that was why she tolerated the less than attractive neighbors. 

They were on first name basis now, she had seen to that with her relentless friendliness. Well that and her knack at card games that made Ahzrukhal money. The greasy ghoul’s eyes would sparkle every time she wandered into the dive. It turned something in Charon’s stomach to see him leer at her. 

When she arrived late one evening he assumed she would just be stopping in to trade, passing caps back and forth with his own employer. She wasn’t much of a night owl, but then again who could really say what time it was. 

Watching her was a quiet past time of his, standing guard in the corner he didn’t have a whole lot else to do than let his eyes wander about. This time of night, and without a trade caravan full of thirsty mouthes left very little for him to ponder over. And who wouldn’t stare at a perky young thing like her. 

She ordered a single shot and wandered away from the bar to enjoy it, much to the chagrin of Ahzrukhal who was likely looking forward to trying to entrap her in another of his schemes. Instead she settled into her usual seat near to him, she had claimed it had the best lighting but he doubted that very much. 

Instead of immediately throwing the alcohol back she positioned it carefully before her and opened her side pack full of small hand tools. She did not fiddle with her pipboy, which was conspicuously missing and instead withdrew a small metal rod as she greeted him. “Heya Charon.”

He grunted his reply, Ahzrukhal did not like him fraternizing too openly with her unless they were playing as a team to weasel more caps out of unsuspecting marks. And he just naturally wasn’t very chatty. 

Smoothing out a napkin before her she placed her right hand gingerly down. Dark purple stood out on her pale hands. Her index fingernail was swollen and dark and her eyes darted between it and him as she settled in.

“Smashed my finger yesterday,” she provided for context to his passive glance. She dipped the damaged digit into the alcohol and then the piece of metal; a small drill bit. “It’s hurting pretty bad so I figured I better take care of it.”

He hummed his acknowledgement and watched with an intent that surprised even him as she began twisting the bit down into the flat of her nail. She could have easily gone to the Doc and had him do this under a more sterile pretense but that wasn’t her way. She was a fixer, if she didn’t know how to fix something, she figured it out. He remembered her mentioning that to him over cards once, she had been learning a lot from Winthrop. They had only a certain types of tools in the vault and the older ghoul had a living knowledge of bigger and more diverse techniques like welding and smelting. The smile on her face when recounting it had made him feel a lick of jealousy that a mousey fellow like Winthrop was getting to spend so much time with her. He was likely high on his horse about it. 

The vault dweller had been nothing but a boon to the community, as much as folks like Ahzrukhal were loathe to admit. A new life had been breathed into the settlement one fixed radio at a time. Lights that hadn’t worked in months came to life, the fans didn’t squeal so much anymore and a few of their fridges actually kept things cold. 

Not to mention how she had quietly taken it upon herself to look after him. This was despite his continued gruff warnings. Sandwiches carefully wrapped in old newspaper appeared before him on smoke breaks and cold bottles of beer during card games. He knew she was spending her hard earned caps on him and for the life of him couldn’t figure out why.  

She kept her nails short and blunt and despite the grease and grime she worked with her hands were rather clean. With tight little movements she twisted and twisted, utter concentration came over her face to the point her tongue peeked out from between her lips. 

Charon swallowed thickly as he watched transfixed. Small pink and wet. He couldn’t look away even as he felt blood surge through his veins. In a world of decay and death it felt lewd to see something so…

Dark blood spurted up from the cavity she had drilled and oozed over the size of her finger. Her shoulders relaxed and he could hear the sigh of relief. The bit was discarded onto the napkin and she gave a few small pushes to encourage as much of the dead blood to exit. Her eyes dart up to him, a bit of shock to see the intensity of his gaze. A smile came quickly to her cheeks, a small flush of self consciousness. 

“That feels so much better.”

He says nothing as she wipes her finger clean, a bit of the dark blood stains the edges of her cuticle. Without much thought she dunks the digit into the alcohol, her eyes tightening at the corners at the burn. Charon can’t stop looking at the now pink liquid in the chipped shot glass. 

She wraps up the now exsanguinated digit with a bit of gauze and tape, testing how much she can flex it. “Oh yeah so much better.”

With her uninjured hand she picks up the shot glass, he assumes it is vodka or a grain alcohol, and tips it back into her mouth. A tiny drop runs down her chin and she meets his eyes, choosing to shoot him a quick wink as the alcohol burns down her throat. 

“Better than wasting it, it’s my blood after all,” she supplies as she wipes her chin clean. A heat burns deep in Charon’s gut not dissimilar to alcohol. He stares at her throat and mouth, a gnawing want bubbling up deep within him that takes him by surprise. There is something in the eye contact, in the press of her lips, he is confronted by a bloom of longing that aches deep within his groin. 

Hiding his revelation in the crossing of his legs and arms in a feint of causality. He wants her.