Chapter Text
It’s a miasma of sensation that greets him.
Sun filtering like fire between his eyelids. The musty smell of Pat’s farm invading his olfactory sensors. Chickens growling and clucking and goats braying nearby. A soft and pillowy bed enfolding him, swallowing him.
But in his mind, as systems and processes check and re-check programs during the start up of consciousness, Hermes is back at the outpost. There’s a hand in his. An arm around his waist. A solid form against him, moving him to a song Hermes has heard thousands of times before on dusty petrified highways and in the dilapidated caverns of capitalistic hubris, but, in this instance, it sounds entirely new near the late evening fire under a canopy of summer leaves.
There’s a residual panic from when he was last awake, pressing him to move, to open his eyes, but Ares is out of commission on the forest floor and the sense memory of Charon holding him close in their shared space is alluring, comforting. Sweet as a moment before he opened his mouth. Easier than awakening to the conversation they will need to have.
Can’t he stay here a little longer? Can’t he enjoy these memories as they are before it all comes crashing down? Rest a bit more as his entire system comes to life, enveloped in this bed, something warm and gentle touching his wrist, remembering when it wasn’t love or a glitch, just some emotion he had no answer for…
There’s a quiet sigh next to him, and Hermes cracks open his eyes, hopeful and rewarded when he sees he has a guest in Patrolcus’ spare room. Sat in a rickety spare chair pulled from the kitchen, head bowed as he reads an old tattered book placed in the lap of his crossed legs, Charon is the picture of calm. It’s not often Hermes sees him read, and there’s a certain unguarded nature to how he does so; mouthing the words to himself, expression open and visible as his hair is pulled back, his thumb toying with the corner of the page before he lifts the paper gently, smoothing it over and scanning the next page.
In the early morning sun shining through the window, Charon seems younger, even as the faded red of his exposed dermis in the pockets of rotted away dry flesh on his face, neck, and arms is brighter in the light. It’s in the relaxed posture, the looseness in his shoulders, the unarmed way he can concentrate on reading without needing to constantly listen for danger or people needing his ferry here all the way out at Pat’s farm. There’s a slight frown to his torn lips, one brow raising as whatever he reads surprises him, and Hermes realizes with start where Charon’s other hand is as it tightens around his own wrist where it lays limp on the bed at his side.
Charon is lovely, wonderful, indescribably beautiful in moments like these where he is bathed in a new day and serene and at peace. It is unconscionable that he can be like this, be who he is, and feel anything close to love for something like Hermes. And yet still, after all the trouble Hermes has caused, after dragging him miles to get him help, Charon is sitting beside him, holding his wrist, waiting for him to wake up.
Being there, just like he said he would. There’s nothing around Hermes’ neck that he can feel, but he is still choked by it, throat sore from earlier. From Ares-
He must make a sound as the last time he was awake hits him like a charging boar, a searing residual ache in his chest and a burning in his leg. Probably makes another noise as Charon’s touch slips from his arm and the man turns his head in surprise to see Hermes fully awake. Swallowing past the scratch in his throat, Hermes blinks through the fading panic, letting it pass as he searches the quaint room on this even quainter morning.
They’re at Patroclus’ farm. Ares’ head is minced meat back in the forest. Charon is alive and well beside him, observing him carefully from the chair as Hermes gets his bearings.
“Morning.” Charon signs smoothly as he shuts the book, folding his hands over it in his lap.
He’s got his rings in place as always, shined and glossy, no doubt having had to clean them since that night. Hermes knows the weight of them, how they feel in contrast to rough burning skin when they are against his own. It’s a compulsion as he nods, tearing his attention from them to the wooden ceiling, to refresh the memories he keeps abusing.
One he has to remind himself to ignore in favor of sitting up.
“He-” A pained grunt cuts him off as he tries, the slight shifting in his leg bringing back that burn. Pat must have turned down his self-repair again he realizes as a spasm starts in his knee.
The bastard.
There’s a touch to his back, Charon leaning over in his chair immediately as Hermes squeezes the bend in his knee to will away the panicking muscle. Honestly, the flash of hurt in his eye when Hermes shrugs him off is worse than the pain, but he can't quite get anything coherent out of his mouth at the moment. As he whimpers, Charon settles back into his seat, hand still raised as if he can’t find the words to say and ready to help the second he's needed.
“Sorry, just-” The spasm finally releases, a wave of relief coming over him as the tendons loosen their hold and Hermes lets out a gust of air. There’s an awkwardness between them as he furtively glances over, one unfamiliar to the vicinity of Charon, and Hermes hates that he’s the reason it’s there.
What is he supposed to say? Charon said they’d talk when he woke up, and now he’s awake, but how do you talk about anything like what happened? 'Morning, I know I made you confess that you’re in love with me and then I did the same and then you told me no because I’m not a person, which, fair enough, but I can’t really change that so what do we do now?’ doesn’t seem like it’ll work out all that well but, really, it's all he's got right now.
“How, ah, how long have I been out?” Hermes asks instead, scrambling for anything to soften the wall between them. From the open window, the yell of a disgruntled goat cuts over the grumbling clucking chickens, causing Charon to freeze for a moment before he answers.
“Six days.” He signs stiffly, weary and unsure as Hermes shuffles to rest his back against the wall at the head of the bed. He keeps his bad leg straight, still having a hand near the clothed knee in case it starts up again.
“Oh, that’s…” Hermes trails off as he looks down, squinting and taking in his surprisingly clothed form. “Did you dress me?”
His pants and shirt are not the same he was wearing that night, being a spare set he keeps on the barge. Charon, to his credit, seems positively sheepish about it as he nods in answer, not quite meeting Hermes’ eyes. His wrist is bare though, but he spies the pip-boy on the dresser where Pat usually leaves it, completely intact and having been cleaned in the interim, it's bulky square form ready and waiting to be re-strapped to Hermes' arm.
“That’s alright then.” Hermes gives a small smile, running a hand through his hair as he tries to not think about exactly how Charon had to pull clothes onto his unconscious body. “Better than the alternative, I guess. Patroclus usually just drops me in the bed in the nude and then complains that I forgot to get dressed so I supp-”
He pats the empty space around his neck, frowning when he just touches his shirt. With a soft noise, Hermes realizes what’s missing, the memory of the bandanna ripping giving a phantom sensation of it choking him in the seconds before. The smile slides from his mouth, a strange sort of weight coming upon his chest as the frame of the bed creaks under him when his arm drops to his side again.
“Suppose I’ll have to find another one.” He can’t hide the dejection in his tone as he starts to toy with the frayed hem of his shirt. “Probably got stolen by a bird or something by now, which, fair I guess but a bit sad. Had that thing for a while, you know?”
Charon’s brows raise in understanding, and he shifts, chair groaning as he stands, filling the small guest room with his height while he pulls something faded and orange from his pocket. He steps around the chair and holds out the neatly folded bandanna, which Hermes snatches from his pocked palm in disbelief. The fabric is warm from Charon’s pocket and recently washed given how soft it is in Hermes’ fingers.
“You picked it up?” He unfolds it eagerly, barely able to contain his glee when he does. “You fixed it?”
Charon nods again, solemn, face set in an unreadable expression as Hermes thumbs the rough, sturdy violet stitching now holding the old worn bandanna together. Strange how such a small, unnecessary piece of fabric makes his stomach flutter, but Hermes is in no mind to examine that sensation.
“Not the best job.” Charon signs, still standing though he’s taken a step back. Probably for the best, given if he was any closer, Hermes may pull him in for a hug.
Or worse.
Hermes huffs in a laugh, giving the bandanna a bit of a tug to test the purple thread. It holds, of course, Charon’s needlework practiced and lasting and often standing up to the worst of Hermes’ carelessness.
“Seems fine to me. Adds a bit of character.” He affixes the bandanna around his neck with a practiced ease, relieved at the familiarity of it against his throat. He flays out the front swiftly before giving Charon a cheeky grin, practically vibrating from giddiness as he holds his arms out in presentation. “How do I look?”
Charon says nothing, just surveys Hermes, eye half-lidded in that way Hermes has seen a hundred times before but now he knows what that means. He freezes when Charon crouches, reaches over, breath caught in his chest and heart in his throat when warm gold ringed fingers kiss his neck. Hermes swallows from it, the hand fixing his bandanna, smoothing it out reverently but his attention is miles from that as Charon is just inches from him, mouth relaxed and inviting and evocative of other times Hermes has found his gaze straying there.
His fingers twitch, arms still held aloft. With all of the ease of tying the bandanna, Hermes could pull Charon in, make codified thoughts and imaginings and wishing into reality. He touches Charon’s elbow, tilts his face as Charon lightly tugs the handkerchief into place…
They need to talk, Hermes has to remind himself as he tears his attention from Charon’s mouth, drops his arms. Crossing that line, kissing him here and now, no matter how easy an action that would be, could never end the way Hermes wants it. Admitting he loved him was simple as well, and look where that got him.
“Better.” Charon tells him smoothly as he straightens, withdrawing and leaving Hermes cold and dreading what may be coming next.
The door banging open down the hall and the footsteps pounding on the wooden floor are blessed in their distraction. Just the same is the knock on the door, possibly the most polite Patroclus has ever been, though he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s stepping over the threshold.
“Hope I’m not interrupting the reunion.” Patroclus says, glowing his faint blue and eyeing the scene before him with a mild amusement in his hairless, torn brow.
He brings with him a certain level of reality, mud splattered on his trousers and his threadbare top while smelling of his animals. Hermes scowls from it, both annoyed as his knee twinges and yet paradoxically relieved. There will be no conversations just yet, not with Patroclus in the room, and that is at least something to be grateful for.
“Wouldn’t need to interrupt anything if you left my self-repair well alone.” Hermes grumbles, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and hissing from the healing synthetic muscles jostling.
Charon stiffens, throat bobbing, concern written in every wrinkle of his flaking, torn forehead. Patroclus' chuckle freezes him mid-step, Charon's fingers curling as Pat shakes his head.
"You seem well-enough without it, courier." Patroclus breezes past Charon and the chair, standing over a disgruntled Hermes. "Though, considering the ferryman's presence, I shall not test your ever flimsy patience today."
He casts a long look at Charon standing awkwardly to the side from over his shoulder.
"I can take him down now. Wouldn't want to keep you from your customers much longer."
As much as Hermes isn’t looking forward to the inevitable conversation, he isn’t much happier when Pat shoos Charon off with a list of chores normally relegated to Hermes. Charon takes it in stride, putting up exactly 0% of the fight Hermes normally would and leaving the synth to Patroclus’ unconventional physicianing. Hermes mourns his disappearing figure as Patroclus gets him to his feet, grumbling that he makes better company than the other ghoul will once they’re downstairs.
“Charon hovers too much.” Pat explains as he helps Hermes through the farmhouse and into the kitchen, intent on the backdoor and what’s left of his nose scrunched in distaste. “Well-meaning, but I’d rather not have so much scrutiny on me when I’m working. Makes me itchy.”
He opens the door, and Hermes is immediately struck by the balminess of the day, barely a step onto the still muddy path in front of Pat’s home and sweat is already beading at the nape of his neck. He squints in the too bright sun, sky an intense azure between blindingly white clouds that has him turning down the sensitivity on his ocular sensors as they make their way to the cellar round the back. There’s a haziness to the still green fields beyond the house, settled between the stalks and blades of knee-high grasses and adding an oppressive discomfort to every humid breath taken.
This is not helped by the glowing ghoul he leans on, his pipboy lightly crackling from the radiation Patroclus bleeds out from his very existence.
“Even still, it's a good friend you have there in Charon.” Pat continues conversationally, purposefully keeping the pace slow. While Hermes knows it's to not put more pressure and cause more discomfort in his knee, he has a sneaking suspicion Pat enjoys his clear frustration as he grinds his teeth at every baby step. “Second time he’s carried you all the way out here, and rarely left your side if I didn’t hand him something to do. I’d almost say he’s fond of you”
Hermes isn’t sure what to say, just nodding, stomach curdling at the thought of Charon’s easy loyalty. Even after everything, all this trouble, their argument, he’s still willing to grab a bandanna off the ground just because Hermes would miss it. He nearly gets stabbed, carries Hermes miles to get help, and still takes the time to fix a worn-out handkerchief.
I do love you
And yet he doesn’t want Hermes.
Pat leaves him to lean on the side of the farmhouse as he opens the cellar doors, the moan of old hinges and the bang of the rusted metal smacking into the dirt echoing across the fields. A few goats lift their heads from the tall grasses, skinless mouths chewing their cud as curious milky eyes stare at their master and his unfortunate guest. Luckily, they seem to know to stay away, and Patrolcus gets Hermes onto the stairs without needing to nudge nosy nannies from poking their bony snouts into the basement.
The downward journey is its own issue, but Patroclus makes himself a good crutch and with only a few grunts and curses on Hermes’ end, they make it to the bottom. There, however, the relief of level ground is washed away at the sight of the cellar’s contents and Hermes freezes, foot hovering over the dirt floor. Pat notices, blinking for a moment as he steadies his patient before chuckling lightly.
“Ah, probably should’ve warned you, shouldn’t I?” He says pleasantly, despite what lies just a few yards away.
Next to the shelves of preserves and random tat is the limp form of Ares, slumped over against the wall like some grotesque forgotten mannequin in a collapsed ancient clothing store of a world ruined. Most of his face had been bandaged, less for his own well-being and more for not having to look at it as he was left on his side and facing toward the rest of the cellar. His clothes are still on, torn, bloodied, but even with their obfuscation, Hermes can see some of the injuries have begun healing.
“How did you even get him here?” Hermes murmurs, nausea curdling in his esophagus despite nothing being in his stomach.
Much like those mannequins he’s stumbled upon in his curious travels, there’s some illogical part of him that is on edge, waiting for them to stand, to move impossibly. He’s not sure where that incongruence comes from, perhaps a paranoia stemming from his defense system making him cautious at the slightest recognition of an unfamiliar human figure. Here it makes sense as he avoids looking at the body, at the one outstretched arm and crooked fingers, at the bend in his knee as if he is trying to get up.
Patroclus is unbothered by the man in his cellar, shrugging as he ignores it in favor of coaxing Hermes off the last step.
“Well, I do have a wheelbarrow and you weren’t going anywhere for a few days, though convincing your long-legged friend to join me was a task in of itself.”
"You went all the way back to Asphodel?" Hermes all but shouts, wavering on the step as his knee twinges. That earns him a chuckle.
"Not quite. Charon brought him with you on his paddleboat. Left him under the thing under some brush. Said he was going to toss him in the river until I coaxed him to bring him here. For a man so concerned with his wealth, he has an interesting way of dealing with priceless weaponry."
Patroclus finds resistance as he tries to pull Hermes to the computer room once more, sighing as he pats his side.
“Don’t worry yourself, courier. He’s on standby while he gets his face in order."
Swallowing and shivering, Hermes finally takes another step, and another, not letting Pat dictate the lethargic speed of before as he hurries them into the other room. Once the door is shut, and the generator and light have been turned on, Hermes lets out a breath, the hairs on the back of his neck still at attention, but more at ease with Ares no longer in sight. The frigid leather of the examination chair is a welcome feeling as Patroclus helps him sit upon it, Hermes groaning as he gets comfortable.
“Not to be nosy-” Patroclus’ huff cuts him off as he abandons Hermes to go back to flicking on his computers and machinery.
“A first for you.” Hermes scowls at that, pulling off the bandanna while the static whirs of mechanical fans come to life, green lights of the monitors and computers flickering in his periphery.
“Fine. To be extremely nosy, why would you want to keep Ares around exactly? Think Charon has the right idea, if I'm being honest.”
Patroclus hums at that, a sound nearly lost to the tune of the tool drawer being opened, it’s contents rattling from the sudden shift.
“Fun little exercise for me in my downtime.” Patroclus takes a seat in his wooden rolling chair as he grabs the scalpel, clean ready for the back of Hermes’ neck. “The trickle of clients is always lacking out here and it’s not often you get a forcibly wiped synth to clean up and re-program into a helpful member of society.”
“Tried that a lot in the Institute.” Hermes folds the bandanna, keeping it in hand and running his thumb over the sturdy stitch. “Never stopped him from murdering people again.”
“Ah,” Patroclus starts as he rolls over to Hermes. “But just as your makers wanted you nosy and curious and quick, they wanted that one insatiable and violent.”
The wheels grind to a halt at Hermes’ side, Patroclus tapping the crown of Hermes’ head to get him to lift it. His touch to the back of Hermes’ neck is always clinical and he knows it well, those bare rough fingers nothing like the gloved hands of the Institute scientists. Two quick slices through the recent stitches follow, barely felt but still making Hermes grunt as he listens, the single bulb overhead droning and flickering.
“Even with the organic components, your hybrid nature is still beholden on some level to your programming.” He folds back the skin, cuts even deeper to expose the port, sounding bored with it. There’s a rustle, the wires in Hermes’ periphery rustling and wriggling as Pat grabs the one he needs. “Once I isolate whatever the root of O1-04’s violent tendencies are, he’ll be just as likely to organize and order the execution of an entire town as you are.”
It does not fill him with much confidence. If he can develop habits and experience things he was never meant to, what does that mean for Ares? What if, even after erasing whatever protocols that makes Ares…Ares, those tendencies, those neural pathways still develop, just like Hermes’ collecting or his glitches or, even-
“Still not the biggest fan of those odds…” He gasps as the wire is plugged in, swift and unrelenting as the violating buzzing sweeps through his tongue, down his throat, into his chest. Clenching the bandanna in one fist, Hermes forces himself to breath, too distracted to complain about the lack of warning.
“You have so little trust in me? Why, I must say I’m hurt.” There’s a pat to his head before Patroclus rolls away, the motion making Hermes’ toes curl as it jostles the wire. Doubly so when the wheels of the chair ka-thunk over it. “Doubting your doctor’s capabilities to re-program another synth, after all I’ve done f-”
“But what if it isn’t programmed?” He can hear the creak of the chair as Patroclus surveys him, the outburst echoing in the square room. Hermes bites his cheek, foot jiggling like mad, all at once wanting to scrunch down in the examination chair as he continues, quieter. “What if it’s something else?”
“What fanciful ideas, Hermes. Perhaps all those pulp novels are having an effect on you. There’s nothing else that dictates what he or any of you do.”
“But I do things I wasn’t meant to! Loads of things.” Patroclus stands, feet slapping over the floor and the cords as he comes to view at Hermes’ side.
There's a stern grimness to his mouth, a thinning in his pocked ravaged cheeks and it only makes Hermes sink into the seat.
“Things I could fix if you let me.” He reaches out, tone neutral despite Hermes questioning his credentials, tapping on the pip-boy. “And it’s no different for your unfortunate brother.”
With a flick, a saxophone fills the room, staticy and soothing as a man croons about whatever dame troubles him today. Patroclus levels Hermes with a placating stare, the wisps of what’s left of his hair haloed in the single bulb above them.
“You have my word I will not release a murderous android onto the Mississippi.” He assures, withdrawing his hand from the pip-boy. “First sign of misbehavior, and he’ll be buried under my fields for the trouble. Scout’s honor.”
While the phrase and the salute mean little to Hermes, he does sit back, wincing as the wire settles and Patroclus returns to his computer. When he hears Patroclus settle, hands on the keyboard and mouse as he opens various programs, Hermes takes his hands from the armrests, gritting his teeth at the answering vibrations. Once it dies down enough, he unfolds the bandanna, worrying it between his fingers as he frowns at it, something heavy in his chest.
You are quite broken though, aren’t you?
Maybe Nyx was wrong after all. Maybe Pat and Charon and even Ares are right. Maybe there is something wrong with him, needing to be fixed, just beholden to his programming no matter what he wishes.
What Ares was doing wasn’t necessarily a malfunction either, just a hyper exaggerated version of his original purpose. It’s similar, in a sense, to Hermes’ love or glitch or whatever. Is that his fate if he doesn’t get this thing looked at, to turn violent or worse because he can’t get whatever this glitch wants him to get?
If Charon doesn’t want him like that, rejects him, will whatever is wrong with Hermes be able to accept that? This feeling, this attachment, it makes him some approximation of happy to be around Charon, but is that worth it if it gets out of hand? If he does something to hurt the man?
He already threw a fit once and the idea of seeing it again, of having Charon remind him of the reality of the situation when they do finally talk, only makes his carefully crafted insides rot just thinking about it.
“Pat?” The ghoul hums in response, listening as he types away at the keyboard. “Can you… can you check on that glitch we talked about? The one with the… the stuck task, obsession, thing?”
The keyboard stops, Pat no doubt turning to stare at Hermes in surprise. The song on the radio is undercut by the day host warbling, and Hermes turns it down a notch.
“You want me to do my job?" Patroclus asks, shifting in his chair. "Get your harddrive knocked out of place as well, Hermes? This is very unlike you.”
“Yeah, well…thought about it. Might wanna clear it out, you know, before it causes problems.” Pat makes a thoughtful sound, tossing his head to the side as he turns back around to his screen.
“I wasn’t planning on checking your head today, but if you insist....”
Hermes inhales deeply, nodding just so as he does. He traces the violet stitch in the bandanna with his thumb, staring down at it in his lap as a piano number begins to fill the room. Even under the static, the stroke of the keys is lively, numbing, penetrating and Hermes lowers the volume some more.
“Probably a good idea, honestly.”
It’s better this way, isn’t it? Confirms what he needs to know. Sets him back to baseline.
Charon doesn’t want him anyways. Without the glitch, then Hermes can give him space, stop acting so weird around him. Let him fall out of love, if that’s what he wants. Be an easier conversation then, wouldn’t it?
It's difficult to drudge up memories of emotionality and connection being taken from him. Usually when he acted up or did something out of line, they let it run for a while to see how it evolved before the hard reset. What he has is fragments of numbness, of looking at a thing or a person or an idea and knowing intrinsically he should feel one way, yet simply he feels nothing especially.
What’ll it be like after this is gone, though? There isn’t a time in Hermes’ memory where Charon hasn’t made him feel so weak, so fluttery, the strange sensations he’s always brought forth that seem caught between fear and fascination as just the smallest touch makes his palms sweat and his heart race. What will Charon mean to him, look like to him, inspire in him when the root of that is gone?
There's pressure between his fingers as he toys with the frayed worn edge of the bandanna. A familiar sensation, soothing, comforting, but is it so because of the physicality of the memory, of his anatomical reactions being preordained or because of this thing that's wrong with him? Will he still chase it, remember the sensory information of Charon's hand engulfing his, holding him when there's no emotions tied to it any longer?
Perhaps he'll find out here soon as the thought of rough thick thumb strokes the back of his elegantly crafted, faux hand. Or maybe even, he won't care enough to remember to know...
“Hm.”
Hermes looks up, gritting his teeth when that jiggles the wire, the miasma of thoughts fading. The piano song has long since gone, replaced with something snappy, the soprano singer backed by over-tuned trumpets and a drummer having a field day on the hi-hat. How long had he been staring at the bandanna like that?
“What?” Hermes asks as he wipes the corners of his eyes with the back of his fist, surprised by the wetness found there.
“How very curious.” Pat’s chin is in his hands, brow wrinkled as he tabs through incomprehensible lines of code. The green text on the black screen washes out the blue that burns beneath what’s left of his skin, leaving him seeming even more irradiated than before. “I…can’t find anything stuck in your task management.”
The want to jump up nearly overcomes him, eyes no doubt bugging out their sockets. Hermes holds himself down, bandanna forgotten in his lap as his bad knee starts spasming again. He makes a choked sound, reaching down to rub at it, just barely reaching as the wire is pulled taught and a fresh wave of nauseatingly toe-curling buzzing washes down his spine in his lower back.
“But- wait…you said that-” Patroclus points at something on the screen, pursing his lips as a static crackles softly from the touch.
“The only thing here marked with any importance or recency is something regarding a power core-”
Hermes huffs in a surprised gust of a laugh, tear ducts burning again though this time, he’s not sure why. The spasm fades, and he breathes a sigh of relief for more than just that. He lets his head fall back against the examination chair, running a hand over his face.
“Oh, I-I keep forgetting about that.” Pat clicks his tongue as Hermes clears his throat of the sudden congestion there. “Supposed to get that from a friend, but a lot’s been happening lately, you know, so there’s no…glitch?”
It’s Patroclus’ turn to chuckle hollowly, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He shakes his head, taking in a long breath before craning his neck to survey Hermes vibrating to the side of him.
“You have plenty of glitches and errors, courier,” He snarks, eyeing Hermes' wriggling leg. He turns back to his computer. “But it seems like I was misguided in my original assumption. Whatever is causing this problem for you, it’s not what I thought it might be.”
The room, normally so stagnant, so cold in its din and its closed off nature is almost bright as Hermes takes in the fabric in his hands once more. His lungs are full. His chest is tight. Thoughts racing as he isn’t sure what to think.
“So, what- uh, what do we do then? Feelings still there, not gone away or anything..." He trails off, letting the number playing on the radio overtake the room as Patroclus stares and stares at his computer.
For a long, agonizing moment, he says nothing, squinting at the various programs and nonsensical coding displayed before him. A knuckle is pressed to his lips as his eyes dart back and forth, his other hand tabbing through his screens as he thinks.
"Has this interest of yours caused you any actual trouble, Hermes?"
Hermes sits back, raises his good knee, scrunches down into the chair. Ah, yes, exactly what he wanted to talk to Patroclus about: him cornering Charon and shaking him down for a love confession before pitching a fit when he got rejected which led into the exact reason why he's sitting in this chair with the cold corpse of his brother in the other room. What a wonderful turn of events.
"Not...especially?" He bites back a noise, his effort to curl himself into some kind of a ball pulling the wire still in him. Reaching back, he has to fight back another as fingers graze the connection, quickly removing his hand when Patroclus gives him a look. "Sorry, no, not really any actual trouble just, you know...don't want to end up like other synths with problems, I guess."
Patroclus' frown loosens, his brow raising as he hums and nods in understanding. With a click of his tongue, he faces his computer once again, swiftly shutting out of a few programs.
“In that case, until there’s a justifiable reason to go through every line of code that makes up that curious little head of yours to find out why you think you have a crush, I see no reason to not leave well enough alone. I’m certain Charon will be more than willing to drag you back here if you start acting even more out of line.”
Hermes frowns at that, any relief already fading away as Patroclus returns to his task.
Patroclus keeps him down there for another 3 hours with nothing but his thoughts and the radio, checking and re-checking diagnostic scans as Hermes’ knee fully repairs itself. Once he’s satisfied and Hermes’ power supply is barely in the 20’s from the effort of fixing his leg, Pat sends Hermes off with a closed mouth smile and a list of demands to be completed for 'his services', which Hermes takes begrudgingly. His leg still twinges a bit, still swollen, but Hermes can take the stairs on his own, a task he does swiftly, avoiding looking across the cellar as he takes them two at a time, already mapping out the most efficient route for completing his list of chores from the aloof ghoul.
Head still full and uncertain and a dread having been brewing over the hour curdling his insides, Hermes throws himself into the enforced labor, preferring the excuse to delay the inevitable. Patroclus leaves him to it, impressed and thankfully more keen on getting Charon to do whatever across the fields with him at his barn-turned-store house. Hermes is glad for it, not needing to put as much effort to avoid his friend as he carefully keeps out of sight until they're both occupied and he has time to think.
Not exactly brave, but the idea of being alone with Charon right now seems…not great, if Hermes is being honest. And weeding the garden and collecting eggs from the chicken coop is a thousand times more manageable that what still needs to be discussed.
They have to talk. That much is absolute. He can't avoid it forever, especially given the long journey home they'll assuredly start tomorrow once he's had a chance to rest and get his power supply above 20%. Can't avoid talking when its just the two of you on the boat back home, sitting face to face with nothing but the river and the open air and a chronic inability to keep your mouth shut.
But what is he supposed to say that won’t end in Charon asking him to leave? Cause that's the most likely event, isn't it? Hermes is finally worth too much trouble to keep around, and now that the big secret is out of the bag and they can't go back to normal, what else is Charon going to ask him to do? Take him on a date?
Hermes laughs bitterly at that, ducking into the sickeningly warm chicken coop as the rooster, Big Blue, is thankfully distracted by a few rotting peas Hermes threw across the fenced in area before he hopped inside. The smell of pneumonia and straw tickles his olfactory senses as his UI helpfully catalogues the particular notes, and Hermes scrunches his nose at it as he carefully steps over chicken shit to the bird's nests. Light brown and white eggs sit haphazardly on the wooden struts and in the little beds they've made for themselves, and, lifting the basket, Hermes gathers them quickly.
Charon doesn't even want him, practically horrified at the idea. Hermes has gone over the conversation again and again as he sat in the cellar, and he'd have to be malfunctioning catastrophically if he dared hope Charon would seek to pursue anything more than the friendship they had. He probably won't even want that, easier to finally send his chronic squatter somewhere else, put some space between them, fix this dynamic they've grown accustom to.
Which, despite the gut-wrenching stab that thought brings and the way it makes his eyes burn, Hermes would accept without a fuss. He's is no stranger to leaving everything behind. He’ll do it if Charon wants him to. Maybe move out west, start over again. Not everything lasts, even friendships turned confused messes and he’ll always have his memories of their time together so it’s not all bad.
He’s not even supposed to have friendships, so one lasting four years seems better than nothing. It’s better to have loved and lost and all that, but Hermes isn’t even sure if he has loved and he definitely is losing, so maybe not the best idiom for this situation…
Stepping out of the coop, Hermes hears Big Blue before he sees it running at him, wings up and open and beak shining in the sun and Hermes nearly drops the basket of eggs in his rush for the fence. The sharp edge of a taloned foot grazes against his ankle before he’s out the chicken paddock, gate slammed shut in the rooster’s nasty face. Big Blue puffs its chest as Hermes glares back, iridescent blackish-navy feathers shivering as it struts back and forth along the gate and growling, ignoring the synth shaking his finger at it.
There had to be at least one more egg in the coop, but Hermes leaves the rooster to his gawking hens, knee complaining as he hobbles toward the kitchen. He’s already got one problem awaiting him when he and Charon are alone next. Getting mauled by a bird that has the attitude of a deathclaw to retrieve one egg is not another issue he’s adding to that short list.
Once the eggs are securely on the kitchen table, Hermes's list is completed and it's only about 4pm according to his pip-boy. It's cooler in the house, shaded from the afternoon sun, but the heat has never bothered him really, and it's too quiet in the grand scheme of things, closed off and bothersome so Hermes takes to wandering outside. He hasn't actually seen the ghouls in a while, Patroclus having taken some lunch out to Charon a few hours ago and clearly kept him busy this whole time, an absence that prickles in the back of his head at the memory of Ares still slumped in the basement.
It doesn't take long before Hermes spots them from the edge of the garden, far and away across the shuddering silver-green fields, working on something rusted and mechanical. Keeping himself still, he just watches, the overly tall figure of Charon pulling at the machine as Patroclus stands off the side, the intonations of his quiet voice drifting across the rustling grasses. It's a quaint image, simple and evocative of the difficult times being over.
There's no one chasing him any more. There's no reason to look over his shoulder. Hermes is dead to all who may have had reason to find him, has time to lean on a splintering wooden fence as Charon shifts the rusted machine closer to the barn some yards away and Patroclus claps at the progress.
With no rush, nothing conspiratorial to worry over, Hermes would love to cross the distance between them, perch atop whatever they’re fixing, and chat as he spies how the muscles in Charon’s arms and back shift as he works but...
Hermes turns from the garden, heading to the back of the farmhouse to the two-person swinging seat next to the cooking pit. He sits down on it, plinking away at his pip-boy as goats trot on by, drawn in by the radio as he flicks it on for something to focus on. It’s still a bit staticy, cutting in and out randomly as the swing gently rocks, but Hermes is used to it, more than capable of following along with the jazzy afternoon music selection as he goes over the map of the roads heading west.
Best to be prepared for the inevitable.
"More than earned a break, ferryman."
Hermes looks up, squinting against the low sun and freezing on the swinging seat as Patroclus and Charon approach him. They both appear tired, Patroclus' glow dim from a day's work and Charon stiff in his stride, thin wisps of pale hair having escaped the tie that holds the majority of his locks back and stuck to his sweating forehead. Hermes' pip-boy states just a little past 6pm, and given how Charon surveys him as they exit the gate from the garden, he is is certain his time is up.
Patroclus leaves Charon near the cooking pit, striding away to gather his goats for the evening and make dinner, none the wiser of the tension between his two guests. At first, Charon ignores him save for a nod in his direction, instead starting a small fire in the pit to ward off the gnats that have followed the organic persons into the area. Once he's satisfied with the small flame, he straightens, clapping his hands together to shake the wood dust from them as he spares a glance for a nervous Hermes.
"Can I join you?" He asks, staring somewhere near Hermes' pip-boy and lumbering closer at Hermes' shrug.
Shuffling himself as far into the corner as possible, Hermes can't help but admire how small Charon makes the swing as he carefully sets himself down beside him. What seemed like such a spacious two-seater is now dwarfed with the few inches between them. Hermes curls his big toe into the rut he created in the dirt at his feet, hurriedly closing out of the map on the pip-boy as his palms between to grow damp, a knot forming in his throat.
"How you feeling?" The question throws Hermes for a loop for a few seconds, hands fidgeting over themselves as he swallows.
"Better." He says finally, squeezing the meat of his palm. Charon's boots are planted on the ground, keeping the swing still as he observes his own clasped hands between his thighs and it's burning the way Hermes wants to grab them. "Knee's still a but dodgy but my chest wasn't hurting at all when I woke up so... All in all, not too bad. How's, uh, how's your-" He flutters a hand over his chest where Ares had cut Charon with a grimace.
"Healed." Charon signs before rubbing his palms on his knees and picking his head up to catch Hermes' stare. There's a deliberate apathy in his eye, a slight frown to his mouth, and as Hermes remarks that it's good his chest is better, he realizes what's about to come. “We should talk.”
The curdling in Hermes’ gut hardens immeasurably as he is proven right. He puts his head down, mirroring Charon's previous position with his hands clasped between his knees as he nods. This is it.
There's a whistle from the front of the house and a few nearby goats prick their heads up, ears swinging from the motion before they trot in the direction of Patroclus calling them. Beside him, Charon takes in a deep breath, rattling in his chest as he does, deafening next to the crickets around them chirping their evening song and the DJ on the radio detailing an anecdote from the previous evening. The sky above is clear and blue, the edges of evening still a couple of hours away and Charon picks his hands up, intent on saying something, but Hermes doesn’t let him even start.
“I’m sorry.”
It comes out of him like a cough, unintentional, rough on the throat, and shocking to both of them. Charon is taken aback, blinking, starting to ask for clarification, but everything is already spewing from Hermes’ mouth before he can get the chance.
“I just wanted to know," The corners of his eyes are already burning, fingernails biting into the back of his hand. "But I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. Not said anything. Just left it alone but I can’t do that, can I? So now we’re all the way out here and I messed everything up and don’t even know what’s wrong with me! Pat can’t find it, so I’m just feeling like this which I know you’re not happy about and if you want me gone, completely understandable. Pack up my things and be gone as fast as-”
A tentative touch happens upon his shoulder and Hermes’ mouth shuts as he looks over at an extremely distressed Charon. His cheeks feel damp, gummy in the humid evening, and there's an ugly embarrassed warmth burning the tips of his ears as he realizes it.
“Why would I want you to leave?” Charon asks it so sincerely, turned fully to Hermes still curled over himself in the corner of the swinging seat. His knee touches Hermes' leg and he fights the urge to throw himself at Charon's chest.
“Dunno." Hermes mumbles, quickly wiping his cheek with his bare wrist. His voice is wobbling. Great. "Makes it easier. You don't want me. Figured you’d be happier if I was-”
Charon's sharp inhale cuts him off, whatever misery Hermes feels being mirrored in his deepening frown.
“I’m happiest when you’re around." Like that night, his hands move slow as though its hard for him to shape the words, to put them out there. Charon ducks his head, no longer meeting Hermes' gaze. "I want you so damn much, that’s the problem. Be miserable if I chased you away, but I’d be even worse if I made you do something you didn’t want or understand.”
The chuckle shocks Hermes as it comes out of him, knee bouncing under his elbows. He lets go over his own hands, touches the bandanna around his neck, observing the way the breeze bows the fields of silvery grass before them.
“Be honest, I don’t understand everything." He looks down at Charon's dirty boot, playfully kicking it with his own bare foot. "Didn’t get the best brain for it as it were. Think they wanted me kind of dumb-”
“You’re not dumb.”
“But, you’ve never made me do or feel anything I didn’t want.” Anguish still softens Charon's brow, still plagues his mouth, and Hermes worries his lip as he surveys it, putting on a more humorous tone as he elbows his friend gently. “So, do you want me to stick around then? Even if I’m not exactly right in the head or anything?”
“Hermes, you’re fine. I shouldn’t have said-” Charon stands up, rubbing the back of his neck as he paces.
“Sorry.” Hermes breathes out quickly, wincing at Charon’s clear agitation. The DJ on his wrist finishes her story, introducing the next song in her husky Southern voice over the crunch of the dirt under Charon's boots. He turns to Hermes.
“You got nothing to apologize for. I…” He drops his arms, walking away again.
It's rare to see Charon at a loss for words, struggling with what to sign, and Hermes feels helpless as he watches patiently. The next track on the radio starts, a slow number that prods goosebumps into Hermes' synthetic skin as he recognizes it from weeks before. He wants to make a comment, lifts his pip-boy to either turn it up or off as his foot taps along but Charon pausing is immediately more distracting.
The ghoul’s brow furrows before his mouth opens in recognition, and he turns, taking one step and then another. Within seconds, Charon stands before Hermes, hand held outstretched, palm up and open, the firelight smoldering in the polished gold of his rings just as inviting as the gesture.
“What?” Hermes eyes it warily, fingers twitching. Charon's thin mouth is a neutral line, belaying nothing even as something burnin his pale blue eye that has Hermes' heart picking up its pace.
“Show me how to dance again.” He signs before offering the hand again, steady and non-demanding in his request.
The front door of the farmhouse snaps shut. The rooster crows in return. The song on the radio crackles from the distance but Hermes’ focus is solely on the man before him. It takes a moment to register, Hermes blinking between the proffered hand and the patient pleading in Charon’s gaze. When it clicks, Hermes grins despite himself, surprised as he laughs sharply.
“Did you already forget?” He asks in a laugh, eager for anything but the conversation. He takes Charon’s hand slowly, going easily as he is pulled to his feet. “All that radiation finally messing with your head?”
Charon chooses to say nothing, instead putting his free hand on Hermes’ waist as he brings them together. The hand holding Hermes' shifts, lacing their fingers together, abused sense memories nothing in comparison to it. Charon sways them to the song still playing softly on Hermes' wrist, chest to chest, warm and solid against him.
“Doesn’t seem like you forgot much.” Hermes murmurs, searching Charon’s face. “Can’t really tell what I’m supposed to be showing you.”
Again, Charon has no response, shoulders quaking as he chuckles silently. The misery of before is gone, washed away in a softer expression, the man striking in the firelight even as he is missing most of his face. He moves them easily around the fire, keeping in time with the slow song, a different kind of conversation and a perfect continuation of their dance of before.
And just like then, it comes almost natural to Hermes the automated responses that make him a perfect dance partner. The giggle, the smile, the fluttering in his stomach, the flush to his cheeks. Can he even still call the way he feels automated, programmed, if no hand ever delineating code to have his chest swell and a shock of heat fire through him as a the arm around his waist tightens imperceptibly?
And what of the happiness he feels as feet and boots shuffle across dirt and his chest is pressed to Charon’s, the staccato of his heartbeat matching the tempo of the song, the swaying of their bodies, and Hermes own? Maybe it isn’t the same as a person, isn’t the same release of hormones triggered for encouragement and reward, maybe it was never meant to be felt by him, but he feels it nonetheless as the first of the evening’s fireflies blink and fade over the fields, around and between them. Feeling it is just as easy, unconscious, natural even as so many other things he was never supposed to experience.
Just like his friendships he didn't know he could foster. Just like his strange habits they couldn't stop him from developing. Just like dancing is here and now.
Just like loving Charon has always been.
Does defining that even matter, however, as the song begins to fade and Charon has not taken his eye off Hermes this whole time. It’s a look he’s given Hermes a hundred times before, even just this morning, but here in the afternoon, held so close, the swaying of their bodies slowing as the song begins to fade, it takes on a different meaning. One that has Hermes’ breath catching as the arm at his waist unravels itself in favor of softly cupping his chin.
And as Hermes finds dry lips pressed gently to his, he similarly finds that kissing Charon is just as natural as everything before it.
“Charon?” He’s dazed as they part, hesitant to give Charon up as he withdraws from Hermes enough to speak.
“I… said some terrible things the other night.” There's a vulnerability to him, one familiar from the other night, but he's looking as Hermes now, and Hermes wants to kiss him again. “I would never have thought you could willingly love me and you almost got taken away because I doubted you as a person. And I understand if you can’t forgive me for any of that.”
Despite the apology, the somber expression on Charon’s face, Hermes fights a smile. He squeezes Charon's shoulder, places a hand over his heart.
“Worked out in the end. But…” He taps a finger on Charon’s chest, lowering his voice. “You were kind of an ass so I suppose I could forgive you after a few more dances. And my motorcycle getting fixed. And another night in your bed-”
“That’s a lot of demands.” Charon points out hands falling to rest on Hermes' shoulders, inviting him in.
“Well, seeing what you’ll let me get away with.” Hermes’ wraps his arms around Charon’s middle, embracing him seeing how he is allowed. Seeing how he can as he peers up at Charon from under his lashes. “Not often I get in a bargaining position with you.”
That gets a small chuckle out of Charon which Hermes is elated to see. They sway for a moment more, the song on the radio now more lively but their motions are slow, unhurried. Charon looks down at him as he has so many times before but even as he is content and pleased and comforted, Hermes has to ask.
“Does this mean we’re okay?” His voice is quiet, tentative, not wanting to ruin the moment but curiosity and the anxiety still welling inside him demands the answer. Charon nods, but there's clearly more to it as he pulls back a bit.
“I need some time to get my head around all of this.” He signs, and its a better answer than Hermes could ever have hoped for. "Take things slow."
“Oh, well, not planning on going anywhere anytime soon." Hermes laughs, pulling himself back into Charon's space so there's scant an inch between them. "Suppose I can give you a bit but…only if I can get another kiss.”
He bats his lashes cheekily, earning another chuckle from Charon and broad hands on either side of his face. Charon kisses him the same as he looks at Hermes; as of there's not a living soul he's rather be holding so reverently and sweetly pressing his lips to. Hermes clutches at him, squeezes him in an effort to keep them like this, home and belonging found right here in Charon's steady hands.
“I love you.” He murmurs as they separate, not really knowing why or how. But he does know that he means it and that it means the world to him when Charon signs it back.
And maybe that’s all that really matters, in the end.