#the fic to accompany that doodle i dun did

[its-sixxers]

Harmonics

Charon once played guitar - a scrap of information more precious than gold. The Lone Wanderer recalls it in the depths of her grief. Both realize that even in the wasteland, neither of them are alone. Charon x Female LW, pre-relationship.

Sorta sequel to Hobbies.

AO3 Link

Charon had mentioned he once played guitar.

Scraps of information about him were rare as intact books and Lizzy was intent on building herself a library with what was offered. Information about what he liked was most precious of all - it took her a couple of weeks to even persuade him to talk about anything beyond his contract, and a couple of months to get him talking about his own personal desires. While the faded slip of paper she kept in the inner pocket of her vault suit said otherwise, she and Charon were equals. She wanted to get him a gift to prove it.

The best part about gifts was the surprise, to Lizzy, and so tracking down a guitar presented a thorny problem indeed. Time spent apart from Charon was scant, and he seemed tense the few times she told him to go do as he pleased. When questioned on it, he said it was always more comfortable for him to stick around and her heart hurt to imagine just what was done to make him feel that way.

Still, she took advantage of what time she had - chatting to Rivet City merchants about possible sightings while Charon was distracted, slipping Crazy Wolfgang fifty caps to keep an eye out as Charon inspected a shotgun grip. Lizzy lingered in the magazine and instrument sections of libraries, sneaking reading material into her bag to figure out just what went into making a guitar work. She even made up an excuse to get them into the area of Agatha’s cabin so that she could check in with the violinist and see if her plan was feasible - and found to her delight that yes, it was.

Crazy Wolfgang eventually came through for her with the guitar, and she enlisted Butch’s help in delivering it unseen. To Lizzy’s despair, the strings were broken or rusted away, but Butch reassured her that at least the body was good, giving it a rap with his knuckles to prove his point. So her search narrowed from a guitar to strings, and even as her work for her father and the Brotherhood picked up she kept an eye out for her quarry. The nights she spent in Megaton (growing increasingly rare, with how much DC needed her) saw her sanding out splinters from the guitar body and varnishing it as best she could. Lizzy winced to see that polish only seemed to bring out a bloodstain on the thing more, but supposed Charon wouldn’t mind.

Blood was just another part of living in the wasteland, natural as snow or rain.

Lizzy soon learned the full breadth of what that meant, and the guitar was forgotten.

Her father’s death made her forget a lot of things - forget why she was trying to put one foot in front of the other, forget that her suffering was echoed by so many other poor souls out in the world. Weeks were spent in a hazy state, eating only at Charon’s urging and starting to dip into the few bottles of alcohol she’d collected. The growing cold outside mirrored the numbness that was spreading through her after she found she had no tears left to cry.

Charon spent more time apart from her out of necessity - it was he who went to see what the caravans had now, who went to Gob’s Saloon to find out the news, who even braved getting them raw meals from the Brass Lantern. When she slept in (slept was a generous term, for she often spent upwards of an hour lying limply in bed in the morning) he’d place a large hand on her shoulder to wake her. His contract meant he had to keep her alive - at least, that was what she told herself. Nothing more.

It was when Charon was out doing yet another thing that used to be her responsibility that she heard a knock on the door. Lizzy dragged herself from the couch where she’d been re-reading the same sentence of her book for the past thirty minutes and tugged open the front door of her Megaton home.

Butch stood with his leather jacket zipped up and knit mittens on his hands, holding a small box. Snowflakes stuck to his pompadour as he fell, and with every exhale his breath puffed out in a fog, reminding her of how they pretended it was smoke back in the vault’s freezer as children. Lizzy could remember the look of horror on her father’s face when he discovered them, her own bewilderment as to how the place could be dangerous. She flinched from the memory, and her dry eyes stung.

“Hey.” Butch said, his smile faltering at the sight of her. While not vain by any means, Lizzy had always placed importance on looking professional and put together - now she couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair.

“Hey.” she replied flatly, hand leaning limply against the doorway, subconsciously trying to bar him from entering. Lizzy couldn’t bear the sight of his smile, how it reminded her of the vault, of times when it felt like she’d follow in her father’s footsteps and everything was warm and bright. The fact that she felt such a way toward her best friend in the world filled her with guilt, her cup already overflowing. Guilt was the one emotion that broke through the numbness, and she was drowning in it.

“I found something in Rivet City Supply.” he began. “Had to cash in a favor with Seagrave, but I thought you’d like to see.”

In spite of herself, Lizzy’s eyes dropped to the box in his hands, curiosity sparking for the briefest of moments. Butch moved his thumb from the label, and in faded ink she could read “BKM Guitar Strings”. The cellophane window of the box was still intact, and within she could see shining metal strings.

“You came all this way…” Lizzy’s throat was dry from lack of use, most of the communication she’d done with Charon nonverbal. “... to give me these?”

“I know you were looking for them.” Butch looked over her shoulder and into the house, likely searching for Charon judging by what he said next. “For the big guy.” He held the box out to her, and she took it from him. “I’m gonna be staying up at Gob’s for the next couple’a days. I’d stay and chat now, but Moira wants to interview me about hairstyling.” He made a display of rolling his eyes, and Lizzy knew he was just making up an excuse.

It was a feeling the two of them shared, pain from family. A wish to keep their grief hidden, to keep it manageable and clean. For all the teasing he’d done to her in their childhood, he knew precisely when and how to dodge a painful subject entirely.

Sensation hummed in her fingertips, brushing the old cardboard and tingling in the cold. Lizzy nodded. “I’ll stop by.” she said, not entirely certain it was a lie. The guitar. She’d forgotten about the guitar, an idea born of the time before, when the sun wasn’t so cold and remote. Now the project was rekindled in her mind, something separate from the cloud that loomed over her.

Butch tilted his chin up in acknowledgement. “Say hi to the big guy for me.”

“You’ll probably see him on your way out.”

“He’s a hard guy to miss, I’ll give you that.” He laughed, turning back to Megaton’s many platforms. He cast her one last concerned look over his shoulder before she shut the door.

Lizzy moved faster than she had in weeks, the metal stairwell echoing from her hurried footsteps. She took the box into her room and shut the door before falling to her knees and crawling forward to her bed. Setting the box upon the mattress she set her palms flat against the cold metal floor, finding the panel she was looking for and pulling it open, revealing a floor compartment. Within were her most treasured possessions - her mother’s holotapes, the photographs from her tenth and sixteenth birthdays with Dad and Jonas, Butch’s first leather jacket. With them were items of value - an engraved magnum, an intact camera and film, a half empty bottle of scotch, and the guitar body. Lizzy pulled it out of the hidden floor compartment and retrieved a rolled up instructional booklet from inside of it.

The next two hours were spent sat on her bed with necessary tools in hand, stringing the guitar. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, the saying went - and with her hands put to work Lizzy was incapable of thinking of the guilt that threatened to drown her. At some point Charon returned, and his knock at her door startled her terribly.

Lizzy froze, vaguely recollecting that surprise was a large part of why she’d gone to such lengths. If she was discovered now, all the work had been for nothing - and she couldn’t bear something else hoped for being snuffed out. To her relief, Charon did not try to enter. She must have made a noise when he startled her, for he seemed satisfied enough that she was still alright judging by his retreating footsteps.

Soon after her work was complete, and she almost wept on the instrument from relief. So much work, so much time, and now she had something in her arms to show for it, unlike…

Unlike…

It reminded her why venturing out of her carefully constructed bubble was a mistake, for she had no cushioning, no numb protection to the raw assault of memory. A hand pressed to glass, fingerprints on the glass, the geiger counter, the geiger counter -

The bath faucet in the other room turned on, the movement of the water through pipes gently rattling the wall the bathroom shared with her room. It brought her back to the present, staring down at the guitar. Lizzy mopped at her wet cheeks, clinging to the last stage of her project. The gifting itself. Thinking up solutions to the problem crowded out her memory - Charon only took what was directly offered to him if it was ammunition or a grenade. With food or medical supplies, she’d have to make a point of having it appear as if she was doing it for her own sake and creating plausible deniability - a gift of convenience.

When she cracked open her bedroom door, she could hear water splashing from the bathroom next door, the familiar sound of Charon’s large form sinking into it. Even in her state she felt a little swell of happiness to know that he was willing to let himself have such a luxury. Assured he’d be kept busy more than long enough for her to do what she had planned, she picked up the guitar by the neck and crept downstairs into the living room. A fire crackled away happily in the wood burning stove in the corner devoted to the kitchen, and the ground floor was much warmer than her room. It was too warm - too close to reminding her what times before felt like, and so she hurried. Approaching the couch, she set the guitar down in Charon’s favorite spot, in front of the blanket Moira had crocheted her as a housewarming present.

As soon as she was certain the guitar wasn’t going to fall over, she retreated back into the familiar territory of her bedroom. The chill washed over her, icing out not just the wave of memory threatening to drown her again but the fluttering embers of joy her work had given her.

Lizzy stumbled over to her bed and fell upon the mattress. The haze began anew.

When she returned downstairs in the night to grab a bottle of water, the guitar was gone.

--

Charon didn’t mention the gift, but the next day he woke her with breakfast and an announcement.

“I believe it is best that we go somewhere today.”

Lizzy hauled herself upright and looked at him blankly, her fork scooping up small portions of instamash. “Where?”

While his stony posture and expression didn’t change, she heard him exhale in relief. “Gob’s. They think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Mm.” she hummed, finding she didn’t feel strongly one way or another. Lizzy didn’t protest when Charon handed her a brush in exchange for her empty plate, and soon she was bundled up and shuffling through the snow to Gob’s Saloon.

Butch was eating breakfast, and Nova’s face lit up to catch sight of her. She poked her head into the back room, and soon Gob was walking out of the kitchen wiping his hands with a rag. Charon placed a hand to the small of Lizzy’s back and gave her a gentle nudge forward.

The next period of time - Lizzy had lost the ability to gauge its passage - was a mirror world of normal circumstance - now it was Lizzy giving short and clipped responses to any conversation, and Charon exchanging longer sentences. What was discussed left her memory the moment it was spoken, and soon enough Charon was tugging her hat back over her ears and guiding her back outside.

“Charon.” Lizzy murmured, when they were back outside. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Is that an order?”

“No.”

He nodded briefly, strands of patchy red hair falling across his brow. “It is my duty to protect you.”

It was all he offered in reply, and she accepted it as she always did.

Going out was a mistake, she realized that night - new color was given to her nightmares, the armored men who’d broken into the Memorial breaking into the Saloon as she visited, the scene melting into Butch, Gob, and Nova staring up at her with glassy eyes, melting into her father’s kind face, gone slack, the tick tick tick ramping into a metallic screech with exploding rads, Charon’s arms tugging her away-

Charon.

Lizzy blearily opened her eyes, greeted by the sight of her room illuminated in the deep blue of early dawn. It was a welcome sight, an escape from the nightmare, and she lay with her cheek crushed against the mattress staring at the wall until the blue light started to tinge pink and sleep threatened to claim her once again.

Movement had to be made, and with great effort Lizzy untangled herself from the blankets, coiled around her from the thrashing she’d no doubt done in her sleep. When she opened her door she was surprised to find the door across the hall that led to Charon’s room was wide open, granting her a rare glimpse of his spartan quarters. He never needed to sleep much, but the pre-dawn was early even for him. The change made a bubble of dread rise in her throat - and she walked to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap, the water cold enough to make her gasp when she splashed it on her face with cupped hands. It shocked her out of her dream state and brought reality into sharp focus.

In her new clarity, she could hear something faint coming from downstairs once the pipes had settled, and it took her a few moments to register that it was music. It sounded nothing like the radio, lacking distortion and also entirely different from anything played on it. Guitar strings, plucked one by one in a simple melody. Lizzy took a few steps out onto the landing, and peered as far over the railing as she dared to the living room.

Charon sat on the couch with the guitar in his lap, dwarfed by his large form. He was twisting the metal tabs on the guitar’s head, plucking a few notes, then twisting another - she recalled from the books she’d read that he was tuning it, something she lacked the knowledge and equipment to do. The metal floor panel beneath her right foot creaked, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Caught out, she froze, horrified that she’d made a misstep and seen something she shouldn’t have - but Charon just dropped his attention back to the guitar, unperturbed. He plucked a few more notes before giving the guitar a single strum. The sound reverberated through her small shack, and caused goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck.

When the echo of the strum faded he started playing properly, and Lizzy found herself slowly descending the stairs, the torn hem of her nightgown trailing behind her. Slowly she approached the living room, feet thankful to move from cold metal to throw rug. The music was a siren song, simple and warm notes intertwining in a rhythmic and almost hypnotic pattern. Truly hypnotizing was seeing Charon’s hands at work, large fingers suddenly dextrous and precise, hands that seemed built to destroy dancing up and down the guitar neck.

Another low sound joined the melody, and it took her a moment to realize Charon was humming, a bassy rumble of thunder. It had her sinking into the armchair across from the couch, and still Charon did not seem to mind - his attention was caught in his music, the few glances he cast her way seeming more incidental than anything.

Then he began to sing.

Not in a language she could understand - at first she thought he’d made up the sounds, so musically did it flow, but soon she recognized it had the same intonations and cadence as the few unfamiliar terms he’d used around her before. He sang as lowly as he spoke, warm and rasping as a campfire. The melody was terribly melancholy, but to her surprise Lizzy found it did not make her sad.

It made her feel understood.

The two of them sat only a few feet apart, the ambient blue light fading into the pink of sunrise. Shafts of golden light spilled through the holes in the roof. In the warmth of dawn, even Charon’s features were softened. For those few minutes the small space seemed another world, their exteriors cut open and bared to the other, each observing but saying nothing. When he made eye contact with her after trailing off of a particularly low and mournful note, she realized that she did not suffer alone.

Something about it comforted her. When at last Charon placed his palm over the strings to silence them and set the guitar aside, she inhaled sharply as she had when she splashed the cool water onto her face.

“What was it about?” she asked quietly, and to her surprise he smiled tiredly at her - a rarer sight than diamonds.

“A warning.”

Lizzy stared at him for several moments, watching the muscles in his jaw work - as if trying to work up the words to say something more. Whatever battle he fought, he lost.

“Thank you.” she said, more a whisper than anything - but he heard it in the still silence of dawn.

Charon nodded, breaking eye contact and staring at his lap for a few moments before standing. “I will get us some food.”

“No, it’s okay.” Lizzy interjected, at last finding it in her to smile. “I’ll make it.”