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He feels relatively neutral towards the boy, not yet swayed with hate or tolerance in their short time as companions. There's no rule in his contract on offending his employer and it leaves him lost. He reaches for the lubricant that is laid out on the table and kneels down to apply it himself.Ĭharon hushes. He gives Charon a long and silent look, his eyebrows pinched up. Lone frowns, his mood so suddenly dampened. "Oh, and just so you know, I got a good deal. Might need to poke at the wheels, they seem a little stiff." He maneuvers the wheelchair right up beside Charon then drops to a squat to look around at the undercarriage. He looks up from the mangled toothbrush he uses to detail various surfaces when the door opens, is greeted by Lone pushing a wheelchair in. He finishes cleaning and lubricating the barrel by the time Lone returns. He's sitting at the kitchen table, which isn't ideal, but his shotgun is within reach and he has his backpack beside him. With little options and unguided time, Charon sets out on the one task he always resorts to when left idle: gun maintenance. He goes out the door and it clanks shut behind him. There's an edge more authority to his voice than usual. He keeps his eyes locked onto his faulty ankle, staring daggers at it.Ī huff. It's okay."Ĭharon grumbles to himself, mutters that this is far from "okay". "You've saved my life more than enough times. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, softly. He's meant to be a bodyguard, not a wounded animal Lone takes pity on, wastes caps on. He's burdening this vault dweller worse than he ever could have dreamed. "I think once I sell this scrap, I'll have enough to get that wheelchair from Doc Church."Ĭharon hardens his jaw. Hurt dumbly at all times, just enough that it's at the forefront of his mind. He also imagines the ache of his ankle if it doesn't heal properly. Might be stuck wearing a brace for the rest of his miserable life.Ĭharon imagines it: the dreadful clanking of metal and leather while he tries to sneak. He's laid up in their shared Megaton house until the break heals.Įven with the aid of Stimpacks and Med-X, he'll likely be immobile for months. He's injured in such a way that he can't protect Lone. Not to his best ability, and that is the worst failure of all. The problem with his current situation is that Charon can no longer properly fulfill what is asked of him. No drive other than the word of his contract and the silent, withheld hatred he harbored for Ahzrukhal. Of course, he was a snarling, snapping dog inside, but because it was commanded of him, Charon sat. Charon was seated, stock still, in his corner of The Ninth Circle for longer than he will ever care to keep track of, and felt no grave issue with it. The problem is not the sitting around aspect. He wants, in his animal desperation, to chew it clean off with his teeth, like a feral. Charon hobbles his way, Lone bracing his enormous weight under the tiny frame of his shoulders.Ĭharon looks ruefully down at his now useless leg. "Head back to Megaton… See what we can do there." Charon allows it and with some difficulty, he manages to his feet. He scrambles over and throws Charon's arm over his shoulders, tries to support him. Lone is still crouched down on his heels. Lone gently rubs circles around the injection site with two fingers and Charon wants, for just a second, to relax into the touch.Ĭharon places both his palms down flat and angles his hips up and to the left, attempting to remove pressure from his now faulty right side. The nip is nothing, Charon hardly feels it. He uncaps the needle and best he can, squeezes together some of the meat of Charon's lower calf. Technically, it is an order, but it contradicts every instinct Charon acts on. "Knock it off with that shit," he mutters. Lone quirks his eyebrows and gives him a pitiful look, his lips plumping into a frown. "I understand if you sell my contract," he says, his voice firm. Lone is tightening the brace when Charon reigns his mind into focus. Legs weren't swiped from beneath him by a raider with a lead pipe.Ĭharon slipped on shale. Was scoping out the horizon for potential threats. Lost balance coming down from a cluster of rocks. Touches the gnarled flesh of his foot and ankle, prods and asks how badly it hurts, what kind of pain. Charon moves it himself, feels his boot roll like a socket wrench. Then Lone's hands are on Charon's midthigh, trying to crank his leg up and onto a rock. "I have a brace," he sputters, dropping into a squat.
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Lone skids across the loose rock and Charon shoots his hand out, grabs the boy by the forearm. So was the sharp gasp that punched out of Lone. Charon, in his shock, half frenzied by a spike of adrenaline, looks down at his leg and does not process what has happened for a good few seconds.