Chapter Text
It had been a month since Vivian stumbled into Underworld, though “stumbled” was generous, given the state she’d been in that first night. Officially, she was there for scientific research, a claim that earned more than a few skeptical glances from the ghouls. Unofficially, her accomplishments amounted to two things: getting brutally rejected by Charon (who barely grunted before walking away) and getting shit-faced with Carol and Greta.
Still, she kept up the charade. Every few days, she wandered into the Capitol Museum with her notebook and a sack of scavenged junk, sold the scrap to Winthrop, kept the “research” stuffed in her bag. Progress was slow. But then again, so was decay. And in Underworld, both passed for productivity.
Today was no different, except Vivian was acting drunker than she actually was.
Charon noticed. Azrukhal didn’t.
Not that Azrukhal gave a damn. The bastard loved preying on naive little dipshits like her, doubling liquor prices once they were sloshed, then ordering Charon to toss their wasted asses to the super mutants. Easy caps, less cleanup.
Charon hated that shit. But it wasn’t his job to care. His job was to follow orders. So that’s what he fucking did.
Then the girl had the audacity to ask about his contract.
Azrukhal just laughed, a wet, wheezing sound, like a deathclaw choking on a bone. “You couldn’t afford it.”
Vivian slumped onto a barstool, swirling her rum with exaggerated clumsiness. “Ohhh, c’mon,” she fake-slurred, “jus’ askin’... gotta head back home tomorrow. Could reeeally use the help.”
Azrukhal’s eyes lit up like a fusion core. He’d held Charon’s contract long enough to know the math: sell it to some dumb Vaultie, let her get herself killed in the wastes, and boom, fat stack of caps in his pocket, Charon back under his boot in weeks. A fucked-up daisy chain of control, same as it ever was.
Charon gritted his teeth. He didn’t want the girl to die. She was… cute, in a way, all clumsy limbs and wide-eyed curiosity. But surviving the trip home with just a mangy dog? Slim to none. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how she’d made it to Underworld alive.
Azrukhal plastered on a look of fake concern, the kind reserved for marks halfway through their fourth drink. “Ohhh, if you’re that desperate... how about... 5,000 caps?”
Charon nearly fucking choked.
Normally, Azrukhal charged 2,000 for this scam,whether out of greed or sheer smoothskin hatred, Charon didn’t know. Maybe both. But one thing was clear: Azrukhal didn’t value him. He just hated sharing his toys. Or, in this case, his weapon.
Then the Vault girl did the unthinkable.
She slapped a stack of caps onto the counter like it was pocket lint.
Azrukhal’s grin turned feral as he dragged the caps toward him, counting with the relish of a radroach in a dumpster. “Oh, Charon,” he crooned, “you’re her problem now.”
Charon was stunned, but not stunned enough to stop him.
Three long strides carried him across the room.
Azrukhal grinned, smug. “Aww, come to say goodbye?”
“Yes.”
The shotgun blast tore through his former employer’s skull before the word finished echoing.
No more leash.
An hour later, Carol was on her knees, scrubbing brain matter from the floorboards with the grim efficiency of someone who’d done it too many times. Vivian sat rigid at the bar, fingers clenched around a glass of something strong, still blinking like she could erase the image of Azrukhal’s head exploding six feet from her vodka tonic.
Charon loomed beside her.
“Your commands?” he grated.
Vivian swallowed.
“Sit.”
A beat passed. Then she nudged the stool next to her and nodded at Greta.
“Pour him one too.”
Earlier, she’d faked drunkenness to lull Azrukhal into complacency, but now, the buzz was real. Her vault suit was unzipped halfway, shrugged down to her elbows to reveal a black crop top clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Underworld’s dim lights caught the gleam in the hollow of her throat.
Charon stared. Not obviously, just a flicker, quickly smothered. He’d seen smoothskins before. Most were prettier than the occasional ghoul women he tumbled with, but this? This was different. Underworld wasn’t exactly known for its ambiance. Yet here one sat beside him, flushed from vodka, smelling of citrus and hubflower, the elegant architecture of her collarbones on full display. The crop top didn’t offer much in the way of cleavage, not that there was much to reveal, given how petite she was.
He took a slow sip of his vodka. Hated the stuff. But tonight, he didn’t complain. For the first time in years, the future could wait.
Eventually, Vivian passed out, actually drunk this time. Charon stayed with Greta and Carol, silently nursing his drink.
He wasn’t much of a talker, but he drank steadily, methodically, until even his ghoul-thickened nerves registered the burn in his cheeks. He metabolized alcohol faster than smoothskins, but five shared bottles between the three of them had done the job.
Morning came too soon.
Vivian groaned as she peeled herself off the mattress, fumbling with her gear. Charon was already waiting, gun strapped to his back, nothing left to tie him to this place but the stench of blood and bad decisions. Killing Azrukhal had been the easy part. Walking away was easier.
Vivian, on the other hand, was wrestling a mountain of crumpled notes and scavenged junk into her pack.
“It’s,ugh, scientific research,” she muttered, like that explained anything.
Charon didn’t ask.
Before they left, Vivian pulled Carol and Greta into a tight hug, lingering a little too long, the way drunks do when they’re afraid of goodbyes. Then she turned to Charon.
“Look,” she said, swaying slightly, “all I need is for you to get me back to Megaton. After that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”
She paused, then flashed him a grin that was part playful, part hopeful.
“But if you want to stick around... as friends... I wouldn’t say no.”
Charon stared.
“Boss,” was all he said.
He knew the contract didn’t work like that. It bound him, body and soul, until death or transaction. But he wasn’t going to tell her that.
So Charon, Vivian, and the dog set off toward Megaton.
By sunset, they’d reached the metro. Vivian was already whining.
“I’m tired,” she groaned, dragging her feet like a child.
Charon rolled his eyes and scouted ahead, finding a bathroom that looked defensible and, miraculously, had a stained mattress in the corner. He jerked his chin toward it.
“Rest here. I’ll stand guard.”
Vivian eyed the mattress with open disgust. Gross. Who knows what died on this thing? But exhaustion won. She brushed off the worst of the grit and lay down.
Charon leaned against the cracked tile wall of their makeshift shelter. Then Vivian’s voice pierced the quiet.
“Hey... do you sleep?”
“No.”
“Oh! Uh... can you?”
The glare he shot her could’ve melted steel.
“What? I just have some... research questions!” she pressed on. “Hey, do you mind answering stuff about ghoul anatomy? For science!”
Charon turned on his heel and stalked out before she could finish. Two hundred years of this, and he’d never met anyone so relentlessly curious, or so irritatingly cheerful about it.
Her giggle chased him into the ruins.
He dropped into a decaying pre-war chair that groaned under his weight. Most furniture wasn’t built for men his size even when it was new, let alone after centuries of rot. Still, as the chair held, barely, he had to admit: sitting after a long march wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Somewhere in the dark, a radroach scuttled.
Charon’s hand drifted to his shotgun.
Barely an hour had passed when Charon heard it,a sharp gasp cutting clean through the silence of the metro.
He froze.
Heavy, hitched breathing echoed from the bathroom. Not the kind that came from fear. Not sleep, either.
He tilted his head, listening. The sounds were unmistakable now, slick friction, muffled moans. Vivian was touching herself. Loudly. Intentionally.
She knew he could hear. That was the point.
And she was enjoying it.
Every breathy sigh, every wet sound exaggerated just enough to tease. Charon’s hands curled into fists. The chair groaned as he stood.
He expected her to stop. To flinch. To stammer an excuse.
She didn’t.
Boots crunching over broken tile, he stepped into the bathroom. The dim light caught her mid-motion, her hand snapping away from under her waistband as she gasped in mock surprise.
“Charon—!”
A low growl rolled from his chest.
“Don’t pretend.” His voice was rough, dangerous. “You wanted an audience. Keep going.”
Her lips parted, startled now. Genuinely. But after a beat, her fingers slipped back beneath the waistband of her pants, slow, tentative. Testing. Watching him as she moved.
Confusion flickered across her face, tangled with heat. Arousal laced with uncertainty.
Charon’s growl dropped deeper, a sound like distant thunder.
“Don’t cover yourself. Are you ashamed?”
His gloved hand flexed at his side.
“Let me see you.”
Vivian moaned, fingers still working her clit but she didn’t undress.
Charon stepped forward. The cracked tile splintered beneath his boot.
“What, are you dumb and deaf?” he growled. “I said show me.”
A shiver ran down her spine, equal parts fear and anticipation. Slowly, she slid the vault suit down her hips, baring herself: flushed, slick, her fingers already buried deep.
She curled them, gasping, eyes locked on him.
“Fuck.”
Charon’s zipper came down with a harsh tug. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman like this, really seen her, not some blurred memory through chem fog and shadows. Probably not since before the bombs.
Vivian didn’t stop. Her hand moved in time with her breath, faster now, bold under his stare.
Charon wrapped his hand around himself, rough, controlled, but already teetering. Damn. It had been too long. Too many years playing the obedient guard dog while Azrukhal cockblocked him with errands and orders.
But not tonight.
Vivian’s moans pitched higher. "Ah—ah—are you… gonna fuck me?"
Charon barked a laugh, half-growl. "That what you want?"
"Fuck yes," she gasped, hips lifting off the mattress. "Please—"
He turned away, bracing one arm against the wall, his other hand working himself faster. "You couldn’t take it."
"I can—ahh—please—"
Charon’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d love to ruin her, to bend her over that filthy mattress and fuck her until her legs gave out. But right now? His balls were so full he’d spill before he crossed the fucking room.
"Cum," he snarled. "Now."
Vivian whined, bucking up. "Just fuck me—"
"No." A sharp jerk of his wrist. "Cum for me. Then I’ll think about it."
She knew her body too well. A few practiced flicks, a twist of her fingers,
A shuddering cry. A squeak.
Charons voice dripped with contempt. "Pathetic. Didn't even need my cock, did you? Just my permission."
Vivian's breath hitched, her thighs trembling with aftershocks.
"This what you wanted? To be this fucking easy?"
He stepped into the hallway, his cock still in hand. Three rough pulls, and he came with a groan, painting the wall in thick stripes.
Vivian’s voice followed, breathless. "Hey—you said—"
"Said I’d think about it," he grunted, tucking himself away.
An indignant huff. She’d expected him to take her right there.
Charon paused. Then, quieter—almost honest: "And I will." A beat. The growl returned. "Now sleep."
The chair protested as he dropped back into it. He kept his shotgun across his knees and his eyes on the dark.
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