Gob doesn't like to think of what they get up to out there by themselves with only miles of wasteland and the dog for company. He's never liked Charon. Even with his pretty little vaultie bouncing back and forth between them, he doesn't like Charon. Except she says Charon's saved her ass more times than she can count, which makes him sort of okay in Gob's book. Even if he does hog the covers most nights and wheedle the vaultie onto his side of the bed after Gob falls asleep. She likes him and keeping her happy matters more to Gob than anything.
But that doesn't mean he wants to think about it. Doesn't want to think of the way Charon will pin her up against the wall in a half collapsed subway somewhere, calloused fingers peeling away all that leather. Doesn't want to think about the way her head will fall back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed, groaning into a stolen kiss. He certainly doesn't want to think about her legs clenching around Charon's hips in that death grip she's so damn good at, nails raking his back, urging him—ordering him—faster, harder.
No, he doesn't want to think about that at all, thank you very much, and it'd be a damn sight easier if he'd stop fucking dreaming about it.
Gob sighs in frustration and flings an arm out over the empty bed. His cock is tenting the sheets, demanding his pretty little vaultie home and in bed where she belongs rather than yet another half hour alone with an old Pugilism Illustrated.
"Goddamnit," he mutters, slipping a hand under the sheet.
He imagines the hand against his cock is small and smooth, and can almost see the smirk pulling at his vaultie's lips as she orders Charon to hold him down. Her touch is light, teasing. She never lets him have too much at once—she likes to see him struggle a little—arching up to meet her mouth as she brushes angel kisses down the inside of his thigh.
Gob groans, his free hand clenching and unclenching in the sheets, whispering her name over and over. And he can see her smiling up at him, trailing one slender finger up the underside of his cock, her cheek pressed against his leg as she whispers back,
"Do you need me?"
And he can't answer—won't let himself answer. Not here. Not without her. But the answer's still the same, and he can still hear it ringing in his head.
"Too much. Too damn much."
And the hand on his cock tightens a little, his pretty little vaultie leaning down to flick her tongue over the very tip. And it's embarrassing, but that's all it takes before his control breaks and he breaks, pumping hard and fast, her name on his lips, begging even as he comes.
"Fuck," he says when he can feel his legs again, eyes closed against the empty room and missing lover. And then, sadly, "I'm an idiot."