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Chapter Text

The door to the 9th Circle slams open, and Charon doesn’t even flinch. The unsteady footsteps pounding against the broken tiles are telltales as to whom they belong to, and the drunken ghoul gives him no reason to even move. What he was holding was a different matter entirely. Bent pieces of metal dangle haphazardly from the box they're contained within, and the silence they shatter with their clattering elicits an peeved glare from Ahzrukhal. Patches drops the box onto the closest table, making a few loose wires tumble to the surface. A couple patrons eye him warily, but as he begins to lift its contents, it appears as if the entirety of the underworld surrounds him in one huge crowd; Charon can't capture a glimpse of the uncovered object. He briefly meets Ahzrukhal's gaze, and at the sharp nod of his employer's head, begins to push his way through the ghouls.

A severely damaged radio wobbles in front of him, threatening to crash to the ground with each brush of hip against table. With a few repairs and replacements, the currently dormant equipment may be able to run semi-decently, and as Winthrop approaches, he seems to realize the same thing. Inquiries fly at Patches from every direction, and his muddled brain frantically attempts to process each question, but the mechanic's raspy tone seems to reach him the best.

"Where'd you find this at? We've scoured every safe place in the area, and the scouts have never come across a, uh, partially intact radio before." Patches' shoulders scrunch up in response, his joints giving some weary cracks and pops from decades of lack of usage. As he begins to hiccup out an answer, Charon returns to his place in the corner. By then, Ahzrukhal had already seen the contraption with his own eyes, but gives the ghoul no orders on how to deal with it. Charon can tell from his position, at least ten feet away, based on the lines on his face, that the shop owner was already brewing up a plan to suck the caps from Underworld's citizens, despite them having so few already.

Charon waits in silence.

____

As the day progressed, word had quickly spread through the Underworld that Patches found a radio in dire need of repair, and Tulip donated any junk in her store to Winthrop that could be deconstructed into useful parts to fix the busted up thing. The shopkeeper was tired of wasting away in the confines of the Underworld, and was itching to get her hands on any outlet to the outside world she could. Charon pities her, in a way. When presented with the possibilities of options, yet being unable to take any of them, people become restless or cynical or both. He can see the way her fingers twitch with unspent energy, the way she practically begs each wanderer that strolls in to stay just a little longer, to tell just one more story, the way her eyes are always alert and searching, despite being covered in a constant film of dreariness.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have that problem to deal with. He doesn't get to have that luxury.

Ahzrukhal beacons him forward to the counter and tosses a bag of caps in his direction. They make a hollow clinking sound when caught by Charon, and his employer smirks at the quickness of his bodyguard's hands

"Go find Patchwork and discuss the price of which it will take to acquire his new possession. If he's unwilling to accept the highest offer, well," The ghoul chuckles deeply, an implied command lurking just beneath the surface of his words. "I'm sure he will." Charon says nothing as he turns to go fulfill his orders.

____

By the time Winthrop has the old piece of junk crackling again, the radio has already changed owners with a minimum amount of damage. Despite most people pegging Patches as an aloof idiot, he's really only a bit slow, the copious amounts of alcohol wearing down on the edges of his mind. When he had realized why Charon was in front of him, he had sobered up and accepted the small bag of caps, despite knowing he was being majorly underpaid. Charon offered a nod in return, an apology of sorts, but nothing else.

____

Now, just minutes after the ordeal, Charon takes his time ascending the steps. He can see Winthrop smile triumphantly when a voice finally breaks through the garbled static.

"Hey, guys, get over here and listen to this! I can't believe I actually got the piece of crap working."

"Now, children, the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101 has really outdone himself this time-" The voice begins to fade, as well as the gleaming smiles nearby, when Charon flips the power off and hauls his employer's property back to the 9th Circle. Protests erupt from the disappointed ghouls, but he ignores them and continues on.

"Wait, where are-" Winthrop starts pointlessly, already knowing the answer.

"Talk to Azhrukhal."

____

Azhrukhal smiles as he wipes away oil smears from the radio now perched beside his cash register. He receives countless glares from the patrons, but they say nothing in fear of retribution. If Charon dealt with all the people who, at least once in their lifetime, sent his employer a nasty look, the only person left in the entirety of the Underworld would be said employer. He clears his throat as he sets down the rag.

"Attention, dear patrons! Thanks to our dear Patches and very own repairman, Winthrop, we now have a working radio within the Underworld. In order to keep up with its maintenance and battery life, I will, unfortunately, have to require a small fee to allow it to keep playing. I humbly thank you for your patience, so consider the first hour on me." He flips the switch, and reminiscent pre-war music fills the air. The melodic notes soothe the discontent in the bar, for the time being.

Azhrukhal continues to smile smugly. He knows that, despite their anger at him, they have no other choice unless they want to spend another century listening to silence.

____

A few days later, music is still drifting easily through the air, no one ever letting the radio go quiet. A few times in between songs, a human by the name of Three Dog reports on the news of the Wasteland, and when he once gave a special announcement regarding the treatment of ghouls, he instantly became respected and admired by the Underworld's denizens. The Lone Wanderer of Vault 101, despite the short time the radio has been in town, was quickly becoming a favorite as well. All conversations, no matter how quiet, diminish whenever the broadcaster begins to give an update of his recent ventures. Even Tulip, who despises visiting the 9th Circle, pops in a few times when informed that something new was happening with him.     

Charon understands the appeal of heroes. He understands the hope they can bring, the hope that one day, maybe things will change, that perhaps they will save you, whether it be from your environment or from yourself. Before the war, he used to look up to them. He can still recall the days when he'd hide away in his room, thumbing through old comics of Grognack the Barbarian under his blankets with a flashlight. He used to wonder if someone he knew was secretly a superhero in disguise, and waiting for the right moment to come and save him. He'd climb out to the roof to escape the screaming of his parents, whose names he's long forgotten by now, and stare at the stars, wondering if his hero was looking at the same sky. As he got older, he bitterly realized his stupidity. He eventually reached the point where he understood that no one, super or otherwise, was ever going to come for him, so he stopped his midnight readings, stopped his pointless starry fantasies, stopped having hope.  It's been a long time since Charon believed in heroes, and even longer since he believed that they could save him.

Stories of a heroic man who may not even exist drift easily through the air.

Charon listens anyway.

____

By the time the bar's closing, all of the 9th Circle's patrons have cleared out. Azhrukhal had become more paranoid lately, worried that someone was going to sneak into the shop and tamper with the radio. It was a completely illogical fear to have. No one was willing to risk the wraith of Azhrukhal, and, by extension, Charon, though in a different sense. Still, when his employer releases him for a few hours while the shop was closed, which it didn't stay for very long, he orders Charon to take the radio to his small mattress atop the roof and guard it instead of sleep.

It doesn't bother Charon, he rarely sleeps anyways. Even if it did happen to bother him, his contract prevents him from disobeying an order. While Azhrukhal retreats to the back room, Charon lifts the radio and makes his way to the roof. Fresh air fills his lungs, and white specks glitter in the sky. Carefully laying down the radio, he sits on the broken mattress and begins to clean his gun. After a moment of complete silence, save for the swooshing noise of the rag against solid surface, he pauses, and analyzes the radio before him.

The wood was splintered and worn down from continued use, glass was broken from the little shield protecting the station line, and the gold trim was tarnished from years of exposure to harsh conditions and poor maintenance. However, the radio did produce sound adequately enough, so its appearance could be dismissed as long as it performed its duty. Charon places his gun off to the side, and considers his current orders. Azhrukhal only ordered him not to sleep and to guard the radio instead.

Charon considers the box, and after a few hesitant seconds, flips the switch on, turning the volume down low. A new story of the Lone Wanderer escapes the speaker and fills his eardrums.  Three Dog gives a low whistle.

"Phew whee, children. I've just gotten word from Arefu that the Lone Wanderer was able to peacefully settle a bloody conflict between its citizens and a group of 'vampires' called the Family. This just goes to show that even a silent type can still get shit done. I wouldn't try this at home, though, kids. Either our favorite Vault Dweller is stupid and damn lucky, or has a certain level of finesse that greatly surpasses our own." The broadcaster continues on to other news, and after a few minutes soft music replaces his voice, and Charon leans back, washed out by the light of the moon, and watches the stars.

The knots in Charon's back began to dissipate, and he quietly drums his fingers to the beat of the song.

He cannot help but find himself briefly considering that fact that the Lone Wanderer may be staring at the same set of stars he is, bathed in the same moonlight, listening to same song.

He wonders how far away Arefu is from the Underworld.

Chapter Text

Charon had quickly found that once he began listening to the near daily updates of the adventures of the 'Saint of the Wastelands', he wasn't able to stop. Not that he wants to. To give the ghoul credit, It seems almost as if the Lone Wanderer himself never stops. As if he thinks that by devoting every waking second of his existence on doing good deeds and saving people, it would change the very nature of the world around him. Charon finds it foolish, albeit, less though than he should.

Instead, he finds his endeavors to be admirable more than anything, especially considering that he's most definitely figured out by now that the Wasteland is a filthy goddamn horror show. If this vault dweller is real, and his character is as good as the stories portray it as, then it gives Charon the slightest amount of hope that there's still a chance that things change. Maybe not for him. He's already accepted that his fate was to rot in the corner of a dingy bar until Ahzrukhal finally pissed of the wrong person, and he was just slightly too slow to fire his weapon before the bastard dropped dead.

That would be the day.

Until then, however, Charon is content to listen to the things he wishes he could be doing, to the person he wishes he could be. It becomes the high point of his days. He listens closely to each broadcast in the bar, but keeps his eyes on Ahzrukhal should he need anything. He'd be damned if is employer found out about how much he appreciates the radio. Charon most likely would never be able to be allowed to listen to it again, which was outright unbearable to think about. He often thinks about why the damn thing is has become so important to him.

At first, he considered that maybe his obsessive behavior is because he wants to be on the outside as much as any other ghoul in the Underworld. Charon's been sitting there for decades upon decades, standing in a corner, listening to nothing but whispers. Even his joints are beginning to creak from under use. The heat of the sun and the barrel of a recently fired gun are just a few of the things he misses, and he knows that if he didn’t have a contract, it'd be exactly where he was. It isn't until a new ghoul comes up to him, timidly attempting to make new acquaintance, and tries to ask him who he was. He gives his usual response, and Ahzrukhal invites them over with a friendly tone that Charon knows is entirely too fake.

It's then that it dawns on him.

Ahzrukhal, the one he thought he was originally blessed to have hold his contract, has been depraving him of all things that makes a person human. After the first few weeks under his care, had been extremely grateful that he killed the employer who refused to give Charon food to the point he was no longer able protect him. Charon had been so blinded by the fact Ahzrukhal let him fulfill his basics needs, and didn't cause him any direct pain, that he had quite literally been rotting in hell, all alone. He wasn't allowed to speak to anyone, to be near them when he slept, to touch them, to have any personal belongings. He'd had kind employers that'd been liberating to have been with, just as he'd had those who'd abuse the contract, purposefully put him in harms way, and made him do terrible things to people who didn't deserve it. This, somehow, was far worse than any of it. He was useless and wasting away, itching to leave and do something, anything.

And so, Charon determines that he, above anyone, wants anything the Wastes can offer him, good or bad. But unlike him, they can actually do something about it. That's why he listens. He supposes in a way he's living vicariously through the Lone Wanderer.

He knows it's as good as he's going to get.

-----

Eventually, a traveling caravan wanders through, and many people, Tulip specifically, are more than delighted to invite them in, and they decide to stay for a few days to try and recuperate before heading on out to Rivet city. On a scavenging trip Ahzrukhal sends him on to get trading materials (he hates to admit it, but he's grateful that he's giving him a change of scenery) he finds a few pieces of parchment, an extensive map of current places, which he knows because he notices places he's heard on the radio, and a beaten up pencil that barely fits in his hand. He considers the materials he's gathered so far, which is quite plentiful in numbers, but not so in value. He knows the map would fetch a fair price, but he can't draw his eyes away from the names of places like 'Megaton' and 'Arefu'.

The map was detailed, and even had a legend for distance. He's wants so desperately to keep it, knowing he could track the Vault Dweller movements with it, but knows he cannot disobey his orders. Charon, however, compromises that the parchment and pencil were essentially worthless. And so, instead of spending the rest of the daylight searching, he painstakingly copies each detail of the map for what feels likes hours. Once done, he places the original map into his pack, the rest into a pocket inside his armor, and heads back to the 9th circle.

-----

Charon listens to the radio during the day, but at night, while he's listening to the same repeating stories and songs, he copies it all down onto the map he keeps carefully hidden. He notes the days between each new story, and uses it to track the speed and direction at which the Lone Wanderer is moving. He feels shameful at first, almost as if he's stalking him. But his desperation is to the point where he doesn't give a damn about humility anymore.

He's doing this for himself, and Charon alone. He hums along with a catchy song on the radio, his vocal cords protesting the whole time. As he marks the last location, and looks at the whole map, he freezes, realizing that the Vault Dweller is beginning to make his way further east, in the direction of downtown DC. In the direction of Underworld. He's only a about a week or two out, and considering that he likes to visit any town of substantial size, probably for trade, he has a feeling he's most likely on his way to Rivet city.

That doesn't stop Charon from hoping that by some chance, the Saint will somehow stumble upon Underworld.

"…And every night my mind is running around her 

Then it's getting louder and louder…"

Chapter Text

The next week goes by smoothly, and for once, Charon feels content. He finally has something in his life that he can control, that he can hang on to. He know it's foolish that he's letting himself become so relaxed, but it's really only a small bit of freedom, and now that he's tasted it, it's feels like a lifeline. Charon knows that to anyone else, it'd appear to be desperate and pitiful, but it's something that's his, and he doesn't care if people don't get what having only one thing can do to a person.

After hearing one day in the bar that the Lone Wanderer had been in Grayditch, his fingers twitch with anticipation to the point that Ahzrukhal, who'd previously been preoccupied with counting his caps for the third time that day, had noticed. He couldn't help it though, after studying the map of the wastes for so long, he knew off hand that Grayditch just was right over the river. So damn close.

Once the bar closes, Charon receives orders to be completely still while the bar is open, because his whole purpose in being there was to intimidate the customers, not make them afraid that the bodyguard would go feral. Not like that would stop him if they tried to pull anything on Ahzrukhal anyway. His obedience to following the contract was so ingrained into his subconscious, he wouldn't be surprised that even if he lost all sanity, he would still follow every damn order given to him like a bitch. But no matter, he's have no problems in restraining himself from now on.

 At least, he thinks that's the case until an urgent sounding broadcast comes over the radio.

"Three Dog here, with some very important news. I've been getting more and more reports of these mercenary maniacs from Talon Company, especially in the downtown D.C. area. Word is, these guys take all the contracts the other mercs won't. In short, there's nothing they won't do. So be careful out there. The thing that's got me worried most though is that I hear our cat from Vault 101 has been targeted by these goons, and I fear they might be catching onto his tail. While my lovely voice might be a beacon for some," The radio crackles with silence, and some are afraid it's broken for a moment, but he speaks again, and all the mirth has drained from his voice. "I know there's a shit ton of wastelanders dying each day, and I can't go out and be the hero like he can. I know the kid's fully capable of taking care of himself, but whether you're religious, superstitious, or part of some crazy ass cult, send some thoughts his way. And again, be careful kiddies"

A melancholic tune accompanied by a sweet voice follows his announcement, but for once, no one is listening. Charon's entire attention was focused on the man's voice while he spoke, so when he looks away from the radio, he's startled to find a massive group of ghouls clustered around the bar, openly voicing their questions about what they'd just heard.

"Mercenaries? I thought the only group of them around here was Reilly's Rangers, and I heard that they ain't in the business of killing innocents."

"Clearly not them then. The vaultie is the most saint-like person I've heard of in a long time. It's be a shame if he dies."

"He probably will, if he hasn’t already. I've heard stories of the Talon Mercs. Scary fuckers, they are. I don't care how badass you are, if you're alone, your sorry as don't have a chance in hell of beating a whole group of them."

Charon might not be shaking on the outside, but it feels as though every organ in his body has been lit on fire and simplified into a formless mush. What the hell would he, let alone the Wastes, do if the Vault Dweller just died?Especially at the hands of a few mercenary trash. It wasn't how Charon imagined him going out, if at all. By now, the kid was no longer a hero, but a legend, and legends never die. From his bizarre adventures, he half expected him to find some sort of magic health elixir. Or, maybe something a little more likely, like becoming a ghoul. Either way, there was no way in hell Charon was prepared to deal with being so fucking alone again, with nothing but him standing in a corner and listening to caps clink in a cash register.

"-ron. Charon!" The ghoul's head snaps up and meets his employer's gaze. Ahzrukhal was furious, not so much agitated at the amount of people, but rather at the incredible noise they were producing, as well as god knows how many times he had to call Charon's name. The ghoul knew he was in for one hell of lashing after closing.

Charon, still feeling incredibly strung tight from the broadcast, slams the door with enough force to be heard through out the entirety of the Underworld, hoping to relieve some of his tension. The only thing it achieves is the quietness Ahzrukhal wished.

-----

That night, Charon doesn't get the chewing out that he expects, other than being bitterly told that Ahzrukhal doesn't appreciate him having to call his name multiple times. But once he's done speaking, his fogged over eyes don't leave his figure as Charon begins to clean the counters and tables. His back feels hot, and knows that warning isn't all that he's getting with.

"You know, every since I brought the radio here," Patchwork brought here, Charon thinks bitterly, as he sidesteps Ahzrukhal to clean the register. "You've seemed exceedingly… calm. Well, calmer than someone who stands all day can. At first, I merely thought it was the music, that you too had grown tired of listening to nothing but gossip. But today. Well, I can clearly tell that it isn't the music that's been affecting you so."

Charon's hand freezes mid-swipe, a cold dread running up and down his spine.

"Don't worry Charon, there's no shame in having a fascination with the tales. I admit, they are quite enrapturing," He says with the disgusting false sincerity. Charon preps himself for the punch of what'll come next. "I just don't want them distracting you from your own job. Why don't you go on and head upstairs to catch some sleep? I want to make sure you're sleeping well, and are in tip top condition. Don’t worry about the radio, I'll have the burden of taking care of it tonight."

Charon feels violently sick to his stomach, and desperately wants to protest, but he keeps his expression schooled. The only chance he had at getting the radio back was convincing Ahzrukhal that he didn't actually care, but the bodyguard knows the employer wouldn't be fooled. He knew something like would happen, that Ahzrukhal would find something small, but so very important to take away from him to torture him with.

He should have known not to continue to get attached. This was his fault, and his alone. He drops the rag onto the counter once he's finished, and leaves to head upstairs, feeling that his employer had a smug smirk on his face.

Despite being allowed to, Charon doesn't sleep that night, instead listening to the distant sounds of gun shots.

-----

The ghoul doesn't sleep the next night either, nor the one after that. Ahzrukhal keeps the volume turned down incredibly low, to the point that only those sitting at the bar can hear what all is coming out of the radio. He feels so damn miserable now, like there are weights in his chest and all the energy has been sapped from every limb. This depressed state that he's fallen into; it's far more intense than that he felt before listening to the Lone Wanderer's stories. Or perhaps, he just never truly realized how empty his life currently was until it had been filled up and ripped apart again. He wishes that the radiation would have just killed him, instead of turning him into the non-human he is now.

-----

It's been days since the very last broadcast he heard, and it was excruciating not to know how the fate of the Vault Dweller turned out. He's grown desperate to the point that he gradually increases how close he stands to bar each day so he can listen in on peoples conversations and try to hear the radio better. Judging by Ahzrukhal's expression, he definitely does not approve, but until he gives him orders otherwise, Charon will keep on doing it.

-----

With each passing hour and no news, Charon's worry grows substantially.

But, because of his eagerness to hear any news on the Lone Wanderer, he completely misses it when Quinn and Willow begin to exit the 9th Circle, discussing the bullet-ridden smoothskin he had brought in from an alleyway to the Chop Shop not sixty minutes prior.

------

"Baby you're like lightning in a bottle

I can't let you go now that I got it"

Chapter Text

Several more irritating days pass by before anything even remotely sparks Charon's interest. He spends most of his time solemnly keeping his unwatching eyes open, trying not to think about the miserable situation he's in, and especially not the Lone Wanderer. There's no point in dreaming of things he can't have, let alone things he can't even entertain anymore. At least, that's what he tells himself, because he fails miserably. How could he not? It's the only thing keeping him sane anymore.

It's only when he hears an unusual gait, someone with a limp, approaching the door, that he drags his eyes up from the ground he'd been glaring holes in to. The footsteps stop outside the door, hesitant, but the person behind it resolves to gently push the door open enough to sidestep inside. When Charon sees that it’s a smoothskin, he lets out a growl that he hopes will scare them away. At least out of the 9th Circle.

Humans never turn out to be good business. They are always either some dumbass bigot who tries to start shit, despite desperately needing their food and supplies, a far too nonchalant kid that manages to offend damn-near every ghoul in the Underworld, or Charon's personal favorite, those who think they're so self-righteous, that they can start spewing nonsense about change and liberty and equality that falls on deaf ears. They say things without thinking, damaging those around them, and when they've finally become disillusioned with their ideals, they have the liberty to leave it all behind. Everyone in the Underworld's heard and seen it enough to know not to get their hopes up anymore. All it does is further thicken the sullen depression they all have to breathe in, and Charon wishes they'd go be crusaders somewhere else.

Every time a smoothskin enters the Underworld, someone, in some manner, always ends up hurt. Charon's tempted to throw them out right now.

The smoothskin who walks in seems like he won't be any different. He appears relatively clean. Blemish free skin, short curly brown hair and eyes to match, short stubble along his jaws and cheeks, as well as a pair of undamaged glasses. The only remnants of the wasteland that are visible on him is the limp, probably from a broken bone or two, and a sunburn that adorns his cheeks and nose, which looks more than anything a deep flush. From those who've wandered into the 9th Circle in the past, this man is by far the most attractive, and he's probably gonna be the one to cause the most trouble. He wonders how the slavers haven't already snatched him up already.

But, when he sees Charon, his mouth doesn't curl in disgust, and his eyes don’t fill with a disgusting pity. Instead, his eyes widen, probably more in shock at the large, intimidating presence Charon puts off than anything. The ghoul raises an eyebrow, daring him to say anything. His face relaxes immediately, embarrassed at his reaction, and raises his fingers in greeting before shuffling over to the counter. Ahzrukhal gives his usual charming-as-a-decaying-sack-of-shit-can-be greeting, and after a few moments of silence and hand-gestures that Charon can't see, the bartender fetches a pad of paper from underneath the register.

Charon sighs heavily at this. It nearly ensures the man is going to be trouble. What the paper usually means is that Ahzrukhal is doing an under-the-table deal, whether it be in slavery or some other frowned upon form of trade. While the residents of the Underworld are complacent, passively letting Ahzrukhal scrape the contents of their pockets out,  they'd draw a line at anything that crossed the unspoken boundaries and moralities in the town. Ahzrukhal knows this. His employer also knows that even though he has the employment of arguably the best marksman and fighter in the Wastes, Charon wouldn't be able to take on an entire population of people. So he's smart about his more lucrative businesses, keeping them under the table and out of the sight of the residents.

Charon wonders what this man's in for. Chems? Slavery? Assassination? He looks too healthy to be on chems, and while you shouldn't take anyone by first appearances, especially in the Wastes where deception is a means of survival, he looks too soft to morally be able to buy or sell people. While his gait would make it harder for him to actively do well as an assassin, it might be recently acquired, or he's learned to stick to the shadows to avoid having to flee when things go bad.

He inspects the smoothskin with a little more attention, his back at least, and notices that there is a mass near the waistband of his pants, hidden by his shirt. A revolver, maybe a pistol? It's well hidden, tucked inside a bulky belt probably, so it blends in with the rest of his pants, but not enough so to escape Charon's eyes. The ghoul's fingers twitch, ready to grab for his shotgun if necessary. He may not seem like the type to shoot unprovoked, but Ahzrukhal is nothing short of the provoking type.

Nothing happens though. No speaking or gestures, just the ruffling of paper as it's traded between the two. It confuses Charon. Even with the more silent types, Ahzrukhal was always outspoken, trying to sues out any weakness or peculiarities the person might have. Right now, Ahzrukhal's completely silent, analyzing the man every time he looks away or down to write something on the parchment. Charon can tell that he's having a hard time figuring him out. His back is visibly stiff, even from the corner of the bar, and he rasps his fingers on the bar so hard the bodyguard things he might splinter a nail or split the weak flesh there.

Charon mouth twitches into what could be considered a smirk for him, and resigns that if he has to, he'll kill the human, no hesitation. Until then, he'll let himself be amused by the hell the man's putting Ahzrukhal through, without even opening his mouth.

-----

The man decides to stay, at least temporarily. He scavenges frequently, and manages pretty well, despite the surrounding area being damn near picked clean. Charon would almost bet that he preys on the weak while they sleep, but he doubts it because of the smoothskin's limp.

He trades with the people in Underworld covered in dirt, not blood.

He even trades with Ahzrukhal, but less so than the others from what the ghoul gathers. Ahzrukhal becomes progressively more agitated with the man each time he enters the 9th Circle. His charming façade slips occasionally during each encounter with the human, and his agitation has spilled over into the way he interacts with customers. During the human's stay, seldom anyone bothered him save to pay for drinks and the radio fee.

What was that man doing to unnerve Ahzrukhal so much?

The man turns to leave, and Charon wonders if he can feel the daggers Ahzrukhal is glaring into his back. He meets Charon's gaze for a half second and gives a small, tightlipped smile that almost looks like a grimace before looking away.

He leaves the 9th Circle with his pockets a hundred or so caps heavier.

-----

That night, Three Dog solemnly reports that he hadn't heard any activity from the Lone Wanderer. He fears that he's dead, but doesn't want to admit it. By this point, Charon's become numb to the whole situation. It stings, but he blocks it out and pushes it away. The ghoul's been attempting to completely ignore the ever-growing hole in his chest that once held something akin to hope. He's got other things to do that needs his attention. Like keeping an eye on the new human.

Ahzrukhal is in a particularly sour mood that evening, and almost considers keeping the radio from Charon another night, but after thinking on it, he opts for the arguably crueler option. Knowing the oh-so dreadful news with the Vault Dweller, he finally lets his bodyguard take the radio back to the roof.

All Charon wants to do is chuck it off the edge when he gets up there, straight towards the setting sun, and smash it to bits. He sighs heavily as he drops it gracelessly onto the mattress, and sits down next to it.

He doesn't turn it on. He sits in silence with his head in his hands. He doesn't want to think, he doesn't want to listen.

He doesn't want to turn it on, but he knows he's going to.

Right before his fingers reach the knob, Charon hears a shout, followed by another, and then a gunshot. He rips his shotgun off his back, and runs to the edge of the back of the building. The ghoul looks over it, carefully, and takes in the scene lit in moonlight below him.

The brunette from the 9th circle was surrounded by people, whom Charon recognized as the slavers Ahzrukhal consorted with. Two behind him, one with a knife to his throat, and another in front of him with a gun pointed at his head. Likely, he had walked straight into a trap and had been caught off guard. His hands are free of weapons. Absolutely defenseless. If Charon doesn't do something, the man will, beyond a doubt, live in true hell for the rest of his short existence.

This is Ahzrukhal's doing. The man had finally pissed the ghoul off to the point where he felt like he's worth more being sold into slavery than as a trade partner. What had he done to piss him off so badly, without even uttering a word?

Charon knows he should turn a blind eye, go back to his radio, and stand in a corner until he takes his last breath. But that would leave the both of them living in hell.

Charon pushes a broken slab of concrete onto the raider furthest back in the group, killing him instantly.

The other slavers start at the commotion, and the one with the knife moves to investigate. Cleary, that wasn't the wisest choice, because as soon as he does, the brunette whips out his revolver, and lands a bullet straight between the eyes of the woman in front of him. Before the knifer can turn around, he's got two holes in his back and is bleeding out atop the concrete smothering his dead friend.

The Lone Wanderer glances up to the roof, but all he sees is stars.

-----

Charon's watching the clouds in the sky, wondering if he's made a mistake, when the man finds him. The hatch to roof swings open quietly, but it's enough to startle Charon out of his reverie. He nearly shoots the brunette out of reflex, and then nearly shoots him for being on his roof. He lowers his shotgun when the man starts rapidly motioning his hands. He's confused at first, but quickly realizes it's sign language. During his time military time, he had been taught minimal sign language, just enough to know cues during a battle or mission.

'Thank you.' He says more, but that's all Charon can make out. He knocks his fist in the air, and sets his shotgun down. The man smiles a small grin. Deaf. What an incredibly unfortunate hand of cards he'd been dealt. Charon has severely underestimated him. To be able to survive in the wastes without the ability to hear is a tremendous feat. How had he survived so long?

The man moves to sit by him, and Charon doesn't move to stop him. While this is technically a form of communication, he isn't exactly talking the Charon. He has an itch to say those three horrid words, the only ones he's said in years, but it's not like he'd hear them anyway. He suppresses the urge, and doesn't shift away when the man's knee falls on his mattress.

He doesn't attempt to sign anything further, but motions his hand towards the radio. They hold each other's gaze for a few moments, unflinching. Charon dips his chin, and the man switches on the radio.

"-news, wasteland! Apparently, there have been sightings of the Lone Wanderer again, and I'm sure as hell not making the mistake of giving his exact whereabouts again. However, I can report to you that his saintly nature extends past the norm. This man holds no prejudice against any kind of person. No matter who you are, if he thinks he can save you, he can, and he will! At least, you've gotta be willing to let his good graces in. He ain't afraid to shoot your ass if you're looking to kill him, or anyone he cares about for th-" The mans blatant staring draws his attention away from the broadcast. Charon's too enthralled from the radio to give a damn about what the meaning might, but when he finally meets the mans eyes, he's caught off guard.

Curiosity, amusement. Hidden knowledge. The man knew something Charon didn't, but Charon couldn’t ask, nor could he understand if he attempted to tell him. It didn't seem to be something malicious, but he hated not having the upper hand. If only-

The sound of music snaps him out of his thoughts. Frustrated, he grits his teeth. He'd waited so long for an update, only to be distracted and miss the last half of it. It doesn't bug him too much, because he knows it'll be broadcasted again soon enough anyway.

The song that's playing is one that's incredibly soothing anyway. It plays quite frequently, but Charon doesn't mind it in the slightest. It seems even sweeter with company.

Both Charon and the Lone Wanderer watch the stars together that night.

"All I need is to be struck by your electric love

Baby, you're electric love, electric love,"

Chapter Text

Hiiii!

So. Ahem. 6 years. Anyone here still interested in this concept? I wrote this right when I started college and my writing skills were less than polished (not that I'm much better now lol) and I would love to rewrite/continue the story ❤️

Honestly, going back and reviewing all the sweet comments reminded me exactly of why I was excited to start this in the first place. Inclusivity is so, so important, and the deaf/hard of hearing community needs better representation in literature/media.

Plus, I just adore Charon. 😩

But, to be frank, I diiiiid kind of forget what plot I had conjured up for this fic. What would you be interested in reading?

Thanks!!