#*shaking the fandom by the scruff of its neck* Can you stop posting about him being dead now? Thanks

[royalarchivist]

Pac: I saw that there will be a QSMP event on the 24th, right? Some people messaged me asking if… if I would participate, and what I have to say is: we will see on the 24th. I'm not going to say anything else. Because you know how I am, if I start to talk here, no matter how much I try not to talk, in 10 seconds I'm going to say more than I should, you know?

[Reading a Chat message] “Since when can the dead participate in an event?” WHAT?! WHAT?! [Reading chat] "Ghost Pac." [He makes a doubtful expression] What are you trying to say here? What are you trying to say here???

It’s ok, ok, alright, alright, alright, it’s ok! I'll talk since you won't drop it, ok, fine, here's the thing: Felps– Felps appeared and... resurrected me. I'm kidding, I'm kidding, it has nothing to do with that, it has nothing to do with that, I'm… [Laughs]

(BIG thank you to sebbs12 for the translation help!)

[ Full Subtitle Transcript ↓ ]

—

Pac: I saw that there will be a QSMP event on the 24th, right? Some people messaged me asking if… if I would participate, and what I have to say is: we will see on the 24th. That's all I'm going to say, that's what I'll say. We'll see on the 24th, we'll see on the 24th.

And that's it, that's all I'm going to say, that's all I'm going to say, that's it! What I'm going to say– I'm not going to say anything else. Because you know how I am, if I start to talk here, no matter how much I try not to talk, in 10 seconds I'm going to say more than I should, you know? We'll have to see on the 24th. That's what I'm going to say, that's all I'm going to say, I can't say more than that. I'll leave it at that, yeah… We'll see, we'll see, on the 24th, on the 24th, on the 24th. You will have to wait.

[Reading a Chat message] “Since when can the dead participate in an event?” WHAT?! WHAT?! [Reading chat] "Ghost Pac." [He makes a doubtful expression] What are you trying to say here? What are you trying to say here?

Anyways, write it down on your calendar, mark your calendars guys, the 24th is the QSMP event. It’s ok, ok, alright, alright, alright, it’s ok! I'll talk since you won't drop it, ok, fine, here's the thing: Felps– Felps appeared and... resurrected me.

I'm kidding, I'm kidding, it has nothing to do with that, it has nothing to do with that, I'm… [Laughs] Oh, don't watch, because later you're going to clip this and put it on Twitter, it will be taken out of context, the whole world will think it's true– I'm kidding! I’m joking about the Felps business.

On the 24th, the QSMP event, we'll see how it goes, we’ll see what happen, ok?

[He reads chat and laughs] "You're crazy, bro" you guys are crazy too. Ay, ay...

[canonconspiracy]

Death To The Primes (Bellamy Blake x Reader)

Fandom: The 100

Fanfic By: @rmorningstar21​ 

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x Reader

Warnings: Grieving, Angst

This will be cross-posted on both my AO3 and Wattpad (same username). 

AN: Alright, so, yes, this is a different version of Clarke and Bellamy’s reunion at the end of S6.  Instead of Abby being killed off, it’s reader’s mother.  Reader is for the most part unspecified, and this is a very much hurt/comfort.

WC: 1304

The melancholic feelings had yet to leave you, her eyes still wide in your mind from when you had floated the remainder of the primes.  Even as you walked hand in hand with Clarke and Madi, you still felt the swirling grief that surrounded you.  Walking up the stairs to witness the slight blood bath that the rebellion left behind neither pulled nor dragged your heartstrings about.  You had to float your own mother, or more so, the woman who stole your mother's body.  

Clarke and Madi went off to help with the cleanup from the seeming massacre that the group, Skaikru, always seemed to leave behind.  You could still feel tears in your y/e/c orbs, threatening to drip from them as a sob settled in the back of your throat.  Surrounded by those who had survived, who had made it through Sanctum's treachery, you felt you were unworthy of allowing it to sound.  Plenty of others had more of a right to grieve.  

Your y/e/c orbs landed upon his slightly gruff face, his curly brown locks, and you felt your body moving on its own.  Practically lunging into his arms, you wrapped your arms tightly around the man you had been through it all with.  From those first moments with the 100, all the way to Sanctum's massacre.  Though your relationship had always been a push-pull, the two of you always found one another in the end.  

His strong arms engulfed you, your name whispered in a choked sob of relief as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.  The scruff of his chin tickled the nape of your neck as you could feel the slight ghost of tears that still collected upon his face.  Relief had been a wonderful thing, of course, his warmth wrapping around you, with the desperation in his embrace that showed he needed it as well. 

The words slipped past your lips quickly, dropping like acid in a way the two of you had expected.  After another feat, saving your people, the questions always seemed to slip so freely.  "Please tell me we did better," you whispered, pain clear in your tone.  "Bell, you have to tell me we did better." 

"Y/N," he murmured as the two of you separated.  His hands first moved to your shoulders, a reassuring action, before he saw the desperation in your y/e/c eyes.  It was impossible for him to ignore the tears that welled in them, the difficulty you had to force your lips even the slightest bit upwards.  

"I lost my mother this time," you murmured, your voice shaking with each word.  "Please, Bell.  We had to do better." 

"We did do better," he said in a reassuring tone, moving one hand to cup your chin.  His thumb moved to slip across your cheekbone, removing a tear that attempted to fall.  "Y/N, I swear to you, we did better."  

"Why doesn't it feel like it?" You said, your y/e/c eyes shifting to the ground as you felt another tear slip down your cheek.  You did not want to give Bellamy Blake this burden, knowing that both of you had lost so much every place you went.  Everywhere life's journey took you, loss followed.  Pain was something the two of you experienced nearly daily, peace being a pipe dream that you threw away.  Everyone knew the two of you always pushed one another away, afraid to admit what would make either of you sacrifice the most.  

Before you knew it, his arms had been around you once more, though this time they had taken your waist.  He pulled you flush against his chest, one hand moving to stroke your hair.  Whispers tickled the shell of your ear, just loud enough for you to distinguish.  "You know we'll get through this together, Y/N," he murmured softly to you.  "I nearly lost you, and I don't think I would have been able to live with myself.  I will always be here for you."  

"Thank you, Bell," you murmured, muffled into his shirt as you attempted to quell your own tears.  You clenched your hands tightly to his back as he held you, trying so hard to shake off the desperate desire to just break down in Bellamy Blake's arms in this moment.  Desperately, you wanted to just stay in the safety of that warm embrace forever.  Though you had your people, you knew he was all you truly had left.  

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as he simply held you there, stroking your hair softly as he beckoned you to allow your tears to flow.  In this moment, the bustling of people around you had not mattered.  The melancholic cacophony of people were simply white noise in comparison to the embrace that the two of you shared.  The soft, comforting motion had not been what broke you from your demeanor, though.  As he whispered, "You know I love you, right?"  was the point that you could feel the tears freely flow.  

It was not like the two of you had not said those words before, plenty of times.  His tone had been different this time, as it entered your ears, and you knew what he had meant.  You knew in this moment, it was not that simple Skaikru, his people, or anything of that nature.  Instead, it was different, deeper, a true confession.  

"I have always loved you," you murmured in return, through choked sobs as you allowed yourself to break down in his arms.  You allowed yourself at your weakest as Bellamy held you close to him, your heart overflowing with emotion.  Grief mixed with elation, a hard combo to swallow as the man held you tightly.  

He waited until your tears quelled once more, before he moved you out of his embrace.  Calloused hands removed the tears from your cheeks as he could feel a half smile pulling his lips upwards.  Brown eyes locked with your teary, likely red, y/e/c orbs as he whispered to you once more.  "Can you say it again, please?" He asked, almost desperation behind it.  

"Bell, I have always loved you," you whispered, your grief still breaking through your shaky tone.  "Nearly what, one hundred and thirty two years now?" 

"I love you, too," he murmured, nearly as a gasp as his brown eyes widened at the realization.  With one hundred and twenty five years of cryo sleep, and so much chaos in between, maybe he had not stopped to think of exactly how he felt about Y/N L/N.  After nearly losing you once more, he could not bare to spend another day doubting himself.  "Can I…" 

Despite your grief, your tragedy, you felt your body moving on its own once more.  Chapped lips collided, tasting one another for the first time.  For a moment, the moment the two of you had engulfed in one another, it was pure bliss.  Everything had faded away for a moment, even the sobs that still weighed upon your heart.  

"It's about time," you could hear Octavia's voice behind the two of you, causing you two to separate quickly, sheepishly.  "Come with us, and hurry.  Gabriel's been waiting." 

Bellamy moved to intertwine his fingers with your own, a half smile on his lips.  "They want to check the anomaly," he said, glancing to you thoughtfully.  "Are you in?" 

Knowing at least it would keep your mind from your strife, you nodded your head.  The two of you walked hand in hand behind Octavia to meet Gabriel, making your way from Sanctum out to the radiation shield.  Though receiving your love did not make everything alright, it was a step, something you knew would help get you through everything.  

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Kindness; Part One

Fandom: Fallout (3)

Pairing: Female Lone Wanderer/Charon

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: So! This was the first thing I ever wrote for Fallout. I decided to revisit it, do a little proofreading/retooling (I was much younger when I began this tale; I wrote it over the course of three-ish years) and then pop it over here and on my AO3.

There will be twelve posts in all, as I’ve grouped together the chapters into something more manageable.

I hope you enjoy!

It had been a quiet night in Underworld. Cerberus' processors whirred quietly as the robot made its rounds about the ghoul lobby. Inside The Ninth Circle, Charon leaned against the wall and narrowed his eyes at nothing at all.

 Bored. Bored bored bored. So bored. The ghoul groaned mentally. There hadn't been a single rowdy outburst in almost a week. After he had tossed Patches out, there had hardly been a voice in the place that was over a whisper. The soft drone of conversation threatened to put Charon to sleep. A low growl of discontent rumbled through his chest. The sparse patrons cast nervous glances in the seven-foot tall ghoul's direction, all used to his somewhat volatile nature. But they knew they were safe as long as Ahzrukhal didn't give him the go-ahead.

 The door to the lobby creaked open and a bundled-up figure slipped in. Ahzrukhal perked up noticeably, a smile creasing the leathery remainder of his facial skin. “Well well, lookee here! We got us a smoothskin I've never seen before.” Ahzrukhal rasped. “Welcome to The Ninth Circle, stranger. Take a seat and tell ol' Ahzrukhal your problems.”

 “I've heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Ahzrukhal.” The stranger murmured. “What I need right now though, is vodka.” He began rummaging in the large rucksack that had been slung across over his shoulder. “I have caps, of course. But I also have a few bottles of whiskey I'll gladly let you take off my hands.”

 Charon's patchy eyebrows rose. Easy there, smoothskin.

 “This is good stuff. Where you been scavenging, stranger?” Ahzrukhal wheezed, holding one of the bottles up to the light.

 The stranger shot the ghoul a quick grin from under the wide brim of his hat, pulling down a thick bandanna to do so. “That's for me to know and you to never figure out.”

 Ahzrukhal harrumphed, pouring the stranger his preferred poison as the other man re-buckled his rucksack.

 ...

 The stranger was in The Ninth Circle every night for almost two weeks. He had a quiet way about him, and never seemed to take his hat or bandanna off. Every evening he came in with a few more bottles of finer-grade liquor to trade for his bottle of vodka, which he would then nurse for several hours as he swapped tales with the residents of Underworld.

 Charon was always there, ever constant in his guard. The stranger seemed keen on taking a seat at the table closest to the glowering ghoul, but never actually attempted to converse with him. He didn't even really acknowledge his presence. Until tonight, that is. Charon caught a cautious brown-eyed look from under that wide-brimmed hat. The smoothskin quickly looked away, hauling his dusty bandanna up and jamming his hat lower. “Does he ever let you sit?” The stranger seemed to be deliberately keeping his tone light, like he was trying to be subtle.

 Charon shifted his weight, re-crossing his arms. A question. One that I can't answer. “Talk to Ahzrukhal.”

 The man grumbled into his vodka, “How about I fuckin' don't. That guy makes my skin crawl, and it isn't because of his looks.” Charon's arms flexed across his chest with the pent-up energy of agreeing wholeheartedly with the stranger. “So he doesn't let you talk, either. Freely, anyway.”

 Charon grunted.

 “M' name's Spoon. I know yours is Charon. He told me. He also mentioned that you're under some sort of contract. Is that right, or is it just a bunch of shit?” The stranger queried softly, swishing the vodka around in his battered mug.

 Charon's eyes narrowed. That fucking prick needs to be more careful about who he tells this shit. I don't feel the need to take on a smoothskin army in his defense. The ghoul grunted again. It wasn't necessarily a noise of confirmation, just a noise. Charon had found a variety of ways to get around his orders when he needed to.

 “Strange. Alright then. One more question, and then I promise I'll be off to Carol's for the night.” The stranger leaned forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, pushing his hat back a little so he could make eye contact with Charon. “Are you content here? Is this...is this what you want?” He asked, quiet enough that Charon could have ignored him.

 Charon abruptly felt like the room was too small, like everyone was watching them. He swallowed hard, tightening his arms across his chest. Ahzrukhal, it seemed, had finally picked up on the discomfort of his 'employee', and his voice rang out across the bar. “Charon! Get this waste out of here.”

 Charon's head snapped up, noting Ahzrukhal's annoyed look when the bartender pointed to Patches. The ragged ghoul, already falling apart and heavily inebriated, couldn't even run as with three easy strides Charon was on him. Charon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, seething inwardly at the obvious show Ahzrukhal was putting on for the smoothskin. The bartender probably would dub it, “displaying Charon's prowess”, or some other equally sanctimonious bullshit. In The Ninth Circle Charon was both warning and promise, and Ahzrukhal never missed a chance to display the power he held.

 Charon hadn't noticed that the stranger (Spoon?) had followed him until he had deposited Patches in front of The Chop Shop and turned to go back to the bar. He almost ran over the smoothskin, large fists clenching tight enough to hurt for a second.

 “Easy big fella'. You didn't answer my question, exactly. But...” Spoon glanced down at Patchwork, “I think I can make a safe assumption.”

 Charon snarled, shoving past the stranger with a clipped, “Talk to Ahzrukhal.” A hand caught his arm though, the sensation so foreign it stopped the ghoul in his tracks. The fingers seemed cold to Charon's constantly fever-hot skin, and it jarred him a little. Never mind the fact that the smoothskin was touching him in the first place.

 But all Spoon did was sigh, somewhat heavily, as he patted Charon's arm. “Give me a week.” He muttered, tilting his hat back again to look at Charon. The ghoul was highly confused, to say the least. Spoon headed off to his room, and Charon returned to his corner, brain whirling with what the smoothskin might have meant.

 He didn't dare to get excited, oh no. Too many hands had been on his contract. Sometimes within minutes of each other. He snorted, ignoring what felt like little electrical jolts running through his body.

 Not excited, and certainly not holding my breath.

 Spoon was gone in the morning, payment for his bed bundled in a ragged square of cloth under Carol's pillow. Winthrop mentioned hopefully that the smoothskin might bring him some scrap metal to fix the rattling vents. “I'm getting too stiff to scavenge it myself.”

 Charon had rolled his eyes at that. That smoothskin doesn't owe you jack, old man. As much as he didn't want to hope though, Charon found himself counting the days until the end of the week. He stood up a little straighter every time the door creaked open, hating the sickening drop in his stomach when it was just another ghoul here for their fix.

 A week passed and the hope that Charon had been denying the existence of eased quietly into disappointment. He knew that it had been a futile dream from the start, he was a permanent fixture of this bar and no scavenger with a goofy hat was going to change that.

 Despite his dour view, his daydreams were full of the smoothskin striding into the bar in a blaze of glory, venom spewing from his mouth as he tore Ahzrukhal a new one and took Charon's contract. Though the scenario would change (sometimes the scavenger blew the bartender to kingdom come and emerged triumphant from the rubble like Grognak, sometimes he crept in at night and craftily slid the contract out of Ahzrukhal's pocket while he slept), the ending remained the same.

 “C'mon partner, we've got work to do.”

 Charon shook his head at himself. What a pipe dream. In all his years of service, he had yet to come across an employer who saw him as anything more than a killing machine. Some of them started out nice enough but just like his daydreams they all ended the same, with the large ghoul being sold off to the highest bidder in exchange for caps or resources.

 On a few occasions his employer had gone down in a hail of gunfire and Charon was forced to stop fighting, order-bound to dig through his employer's pockets with shaking hands and take his contract. Only to press it into the grip of the next person he came across, for good or ill.

 His leathers creaked as his arms tightened across his chest. I'm so damn tired of this.

 ...

 On the eleventh day, Spoon returned. He seemed to be in a bad way, according to what Charon overheard from the bar patrons. The story went that he had run into some Talon Company undesirables that had it out for him, and it was only through Willow's sharpshooting that he managed to escape.

 Yet as the day drew to a close, that familiar figure darkened the doorway to The Ninth Circle. He was instantly swarmed by excited ghouls, clamoring to hear his tale. He brushed them off though, murmuring that he needed a drink before embarking on his story. The young man threw some caps on the bar and Ahzrukhal tossed a bottle of vodka his way. Spoon tore the cap off and started drinking straight from the bottle, forgoing his usual chipped mug. “Alright, alright. Settle down. First, I need to know where Carol is. She ain't at her place.” Spoon finally said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 “She headed over to Snowflake for her usual skinning.” One of the ghouls offered, giggling at her own choice of words. Spoon nodded his thanks.

 “Good. As far as my story goes, ain't much to tell. I'll be on my way tomorrow. Now that I've got the Talons on my tail, I don't want anyone else getting hurt.” His eyes strayed to Charon, and he slid off his stool, nodding his thanks to Ahzrukhal for the vodka. “I'll be back later. I have to go thank Willow, and I still have a whole bunch of goodies for Tulip. Oh! And Winthrop's scrap.” He grinned, giving his pack a shake so everyone could hear the heavy clank of the metal.

 A few of the patrons followed him out, no doubt interested in whatever he had to barter to Tulip. Charon sighed, maybe a little louder than necessary as he relaxed against the wall again. He should have known that the smoothskin would forget him. They always did.

 …

 Spoon was back within the hour, his shoulders somewhat tense as he took his customary table near Charon. “Sorry I'm late.”

 Charon thought his head might fall clean off his shoulders if this smoothskin kept surprising him.

 Spoon grinned up at him suddenly, face much paler under its layers of grime than Charon remembered. “Those Talon fuckers followed me for a few days. I was starting to get worried. I picked most of 'em off in the metros, but it was a little touch and go between them, the ferals and the Big Greens across the way. Lucky for me Willow's a crack shot, otherwise I'd have been mincemeat.”

 Charon remained silent.

 Spoon looked back down at his bottle, seeming deep in thought. “You're pissed at me, ain't you. I figured you would be. I really am sorry I'm a couple days behind. I'm horrible at schedules and shit. Not my strong point. But,” He continued, reaching into his rucksack and beginning to forage around. “I can make it up to you if you can hang on for a few more minutes.”

 Charon's brow furrowed as Spoon pulled a few good-sized bundles out of his bag. The ghoul's eyes widened when he heard the unmistakable sound of caps clinking against each other. Spoon rose and slung his rucksack back over his shoulder, shooting the ghoul a teasing wink.

 The scavenger sauntered over to the bar, and leaned in close to Ahzrukhal. Charon strained his ears and cursed inwardly when he couldn't hear a thing. Spoon spoke for several minutes in a low tone, seeming passionate about whatever the fuck he was saying as he used his hands to illustrate his points. Charon's body jolted when Ahzrukhal reached out a hand and ran it down the side of the smoothskin's face, and the large ghoul found himself fighting a wave of nausea, clearing his throat and looking away.

 Spoon gestured to Charon abruptly and Ahzrukhal drew his hand back in a quick jerk. The bouncer did his best to appear bored and like he wasn't paying attention as Spoon handed over one of his bundles. Ahzrukhal made a show of slowly counting the caps, bunching piles of fifty while Spoon looked on, leaning against the counter and continuing to slug off his bottle.

 The bartending ghoul finally nodded after what seemed like an eternity, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out...something. Spoon took whatever it was and carefully tucked it away into his own jacket. Charon forced down a growl at how Ahzrukhal's fingers lingered on the smoothskin's for far too long.

 The bouncer hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until Spoon casually sat back down and he released it all in a quiet whoosh. “Well big guy...Charon, that is, how would you like to go on an adventure?” Spoon's smile was genuine this time, not some cheesy showman's grin as he showed the ghoul the worn piece of paper he had gotten.

 Charon's breath caught in his throat, and it was with shaking legs that he lowered himself into the chair next to Spoon. Spoon murmured something sympathetic, pointing towards his bottle of vodka in an unspoken go ahead. Charon took a healthy gulp, his eyes watering at the strength of the stuff. “How did you manage to get my contract?” He finally said, his voice coarser than usual from disuse.

 Spoon looked worried. “I bought it, of course. He wanted me to kill Greta, y'know. But I couldn't. She's not the easiest person to be around, but nobody fucking is anymore. I refused that, so he asked for two thousand caps. I figured he probably thought I wouldn't be able to come up with 'em. I could, I just needed time to scavenge. I had to go a little more...out of the way than usual.” Spoon leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs. “I got a little over two thou' once I traded most of my junk in Rivet City. I hoped he might be greedy enough to take a thousand, if he got to see it upfront. I did have the other thou', just in case. And the rest is history.”

 “That rat bastard got my contract for free and he just fleeced the shit out of you because you're too nice to kill his competition.” Charon snarled. “I'll go over the specifics of the contract with you in just a minute. Right now, I must take care of something.” He shoved his chair back from the table, and it was with measured steps that he made his way to the bar.

 The room hushed and Ahzrukhal looked up from his caps, sensing something was amiss. “Ah, Charon. Have you come to say goodbye?” He rasped, that insufferably sleazy smile on his face.

 “Yes.” Charon spat, whipping the combat shotgun off his back and aiming down the sights. Ahzrukhal's face froze in a mask of almost comical shock as Charon blew his body apart with two cool trigger pulls; the bartender was dead before he hit the ground. Some of his blood splattered across Charon's face and Charon hastily wiped it off. The idea of that evil man's blood on his skin made his stomach clench queasily. He spat to the side, then turned on his heel as people seemed to realize what had just happened.

 “Oh my God!”

 “He shot Ahzrukhal!”

 “He's gone feral!”

 The Ninth Circle was empty in less than thirty seconds. The only people left were the smoothskin, Charon himself, and what remained of Ahzrukhal. Charon came and sat back down next to Spoon, noting with a flash of amusement that the smoothskin seemed to be in shock. “Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor-bound to do as he commanded. But now, you are my employer and I will serve you, for good or ill.” The binding phrase came from him easily. He'd said it so many times before. For good or ill.

 “Uh, you probably shouldn't have done that.” Spoon managed to choke out. Charon shrugged, flexing long-unused muscles with a sigh of satisfaction. The adrenaline felt wonderful. And the knowledge that Ahzrukhal would never touch or order him around again was almost its own reward. “No seriously, what if everyone thinks I ordered you to do that? They'll kill me!” Spoon continued, not noticing how Charon's eyes darkened.

 “No one will lay a hand on you. Every ghoul here tonight was already eavesdropping on us. They all knew I was unhappy, but there was nothing any of them could do. Caps are scarce in Underworld, especially when you have your own addictions to manage.” Charon grumbled. “They'll view it as an act of mercy that you freed me from him.”

 “O...Okay. If you're sure. I'm uh...I'm paid up at Carol's for the night, so you can come with me. Then tomorrow I've got to head out. Do you want to come with me, or do you have other stuff to do?” Spoon asked, obviously trying to avoid looking at the remains of the bartender on the floor.

 Charon snorted. “You don't seem to understand how this works, Master. I am bound to you. You are my employer. And until you see fit to foist me off on someone, or someone offers you the right amount of caps, or someone somehow manages to get past me and blow your brains out, I will follow you.”

 “Oh.” Spoon said weakly. “I thought that...I thought if I gave you your contract, you'd be free and you could kind of...choose whether you wanted to come along or not.”

 “No. That is not how my contract works. But it was kind of you to think that you would free me after paying that many caps.” Charon hesitated, then carried on, “I know the only things you've seen me do probably don't strike you as fine displays of my skills. But I swear on my life, I will make my services worth your kindness.” For good or ill.

 “Alright then.” Spoon stuck his hand out, cheerily seeming to ignore how Charon flinched at the speed of the action. “Let's shake on it, eh big guy?”

 Charon stared down at his hand, well aware that the distrust was plain on his face. “Equals shake, and I am not your equal.”

 Spoon made an exasperated noise, tangling his fingers with the tall ghoul's and moving them in a clumsy shaking motion. “If you're gonna' play it like that, at least don't call me Master. Shit's fucked up.”

 “What should I call you?” Charon asked. “Master was sufficient for my prior employers.”

 Spoon shrugged. “Whatever the fuck you want to call me, I guess? Doesn't really matter to me. If you're gonna' be stuck with me for a while, you might as well call me something you like. Everyone else calls me Spoon though.”

 “Very well. Spoon.” Charon could tell he had some adjusting to do.

 “Let's get to bed, huh?” Spoon jerked his head towards the door. “I dunno about you, but it's late as shit and I am exhausted.” He extended a hand to his new companion, that strangely-genuine smile back again as he helped the ghoul up.

 ...

 Carol was wearing a different dress. That was the first thing Charon realized when he took a cautious step into Carol's Place. It wasn't new. Nothing was new in this world that they lived in. But it was new to her. It was a gentle shade of purple. It made her look radiant, no pun intended.

 Spoon smiled tiredly at the woman. “It suits you! Couldn't wait to put it on, eh?” He jibed with a wink.

 “Oh quiet, you. It's been so long since I wore something different.” The ghoul hushed him, looking worriedly up at Charon. “What's he doing with you, dear? I've heard a few rumors. Something happened to Ahzrukhal?”

 “I bought his contract. Charon got...uh, really happy about it. So happy he shot Ahzrukhal in the face.” Spoon mumbled, seeming embarrassed.

 Carol sucked in a breath. “So he's dead?”

 Spoon nodded. “Yeah. Originally Ahzrukhal wanted me to kill Greta for the contract, but I worked out another deal.”

 Carol's eyes welled up and she pressed her hands to her mouth. “Not my Greta.” She said softly.

 “I don't doubt it.” Charon growled. “You and yours were his only competition. If I hadn't killed the bastard, he would have just gotten some other prick to do it.”

 “Language, dear.” Carol scolded absently, hugging Spoon tight. The man yelped, and Carol quickly let go. “I'm so sorry dear! I forgot.” she said with a frown.

 “I'll be okay, just a little tender still. No worries.” Spoon grimaced. “Is it alright if Charon stays here with me?”

 “Of course sweetheart. Are you two hungry? I can see if I have some Cram left over that isn't as purple as this lovely dress.” Carol said with a dry chuckle. Spoon nodded, thanking Carol for letting them stay even after what had happened. Carol brushed him off though, smiling and saying that he was too kind for the Wastes.

 For good or ill.

Part Two