Chapter 1

"Let me get this straight, Agent Whisper" Carrington said, his voice dripping with condescension, "you want me to lug in gallons of expensive purified water—potentially compromising our secret location because this won't be one journey—just so I can use said water multiple times a day to… wash my hands?"

"It's basic sanitation!" Beatrice insisted. "You're a doctor. Everything you touch—everything in here—is probably covered with germs. If you treat someone with an open wound—"

"I know how bacteria works!" Carrington scowled at her. "Maybe in your little vault there was an endless supply of high-grade antibiotics, soap, and purified water. Here? We do the best we can with the resources we have. I'm not going to go to pointless lengths to satisfy your vault-dwelling idea of what my job should be. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy."

Beatrice opened her mouth to protest that her vault hadn't been that kind of vault, but then a lightly freckled arm draped over her shoulder.

"Whisp," Deacon said in a cheerful voice, "come here. I have a really important project for you to work on."

She could almost see the corners of his eyes when she turned her head to glare at him, but allowed herself to be drawn away from the grumpy doctor by her partner.

"I thought I had the monopoly on winding Carrington up." Deacon guided Beatrice to the corner of the underground Railroad headquarters that had unofficially been designated as the "mess." It was nothing more than a few square feet of cleared brick floor where people tended to eat. She sat down in a chair against the wall, fiddling with a loose thread on her vault suit.

"It just…" Beatrice wrinkled her nose, wanting to look back at Carrington's corner, but Deacon was standing in the way, "makes me squeamish to know he's… I don't know, chopping mole rat meat and then the next, might be yanking a bullet out of someone without washing his hands. Doesn't that gross you out?"

Deacon shrugged. "Carrington's an asshole, but… he hasn't killed anyone yet. If it's not broke, don't fix it. Now," he said, going over to the supply shelf before she could protest again, "here's the project."

He overturned a trash bin of empty Nuka-Cola bottles in her lap.

She blinked at them, bemused.

"Glory has the record for a five level pyramid, but I bet you and I can do at least seven."

"I'm the champion pyramid builder, Whisper," Glory called from two desks away. "No way you'll beat me!"

Beatrice couldn't help but laugh, her shoulders unknotting. "You're on."

While they assembled the bottles, Deacon pattered happily about the time he once starred as point man in a Commonwealth basketball team—"I could have gone pro!"—and Beatrice realized instead of irritation at the obvious lie like she had been early on in their partnership, she was more amused than anything. He was obviously trying to distract her from her annoyance, and it was working. Perhaps she had been too hard on Carrington. Water access was a constant issue in the Commonwealth, let alone in the Railroad's underground hideout. Tinker Tom had been working on rigging up a filtering system to collect rainwater, but it was slow going and priorities constantly shifted when synths were on the move.

"Whisper," Desdemona said, walking to where Beatrice and Deacon were breathlessly adding the fifth layer of Nuka Cola bottles, "you're friends with Mayor Hancock over in Goodneighbor, right?"

Beatrice's hand jerked as she placed a bottle. The whole edifice shuddered but held. "Hancock? The guy who murdered someone the minute I walked into Goodneighbor?"

Desdemona's eyebrows shot up. "He murdered someone in front of you?"

"I think it was him. Tricorn hat; red coat? I've only been to Goodneighbor once—when I was hunting down this place and got turned around. I walked in, he stabbed someone, and I walked right back out."

Dez was looking at her skeptically. "Hancock won't take shit, but he's not a straight up killer. Was there a fight or something?"

Beatrice took her hands away from the pyramid, not trusting their steadiness. "Yeah. He… well, there was this guy was trying to extort me—all this crap about paying 'insurance' otherwise I might meet up with an 'accident.' Hancock happened to be walking by and got into it with him. This extortion guy said something about Goodneighbor needing a new mayor and, uh, Hancock stabbed him. I asked him for directions, then left. Never saw more of Goodneighbor than that."

"Hm," Dez said. "Sounds like Hancock did the right thing then. Anyway, it's a shame you're not as familiar with the place, but you're about to be. We've got a problem. A week ago one of the tourists in Goodneighbor spotted an escaped synth—in a white Institute jumper no less—getting harassed by a couple of raiders just outside the area. Our tourist rescued her and is letting her stay in her small apartment, but she can't be there much longer. Triggermen also spotted her in the jumpsuit, close enough to see her face. They got tangled up with the raiders, though, and the tourist was able to get her away in the chaos. Triggermen have been known to shoot suspected synths on sight—whether or not they're right—and out tourist has seen them sniffing around. G3-13 needs to be moved tonight. Hancock turns a blind eye to Railroad activities, but he can't move openly against Skinny Malone—he's too much of a power in this area, so you'll be on your own."

"Has she been mem-wiped yet?"

Dez shook her head. "She opted out."

Beatrice and Deacon exchanged a glance. She'd only been with the Railroad for three months, but even she knew that was rare. Synths usually wanted a memory wipe so they could more easily integrate with human society. But then again, Glory had opted out too, so it wasn't impossible to move forward with old memories..

Dez's features were pinched with worry. "The Triggermen knowing her face complicates matters, but there are no facial reconstruction surgeons in Goodneighbor. The closest is in Diamond City, but if we'd get her out of Goodneighbor safely then we wouldn't have to worry about changing her face."

"We'll take care of it," Beatrice said.

"Good. The tourist will leave information for a meeting at the local dead drop. Deacon knows where it is. Good luck you two."

"Death Bunnies for the win!" Deacon crowed, raising his hand for a high five.

"We haven't agreed on that name, yet!" Beatrice protested, but was unable to resist reciprocating. The pyramid of Nuka-Cola bottles crashed to the ground. They got a few glances from other agents—and a glare from distant Carrington.

"Ha!" Glory said from her desk, feet propped up as she read through some reports. "Reigning champion remains."

"Next time," Beatrice promised her.

Dez stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I need a cigarette," she muttered and turned away.

Beatrice checked the clock on her Pip-Boy. Only a little past three in the afternoon. Plenty of time to make the trek to Goodneighbor in daylight. She glanced at Deacon who was watching her with, she thought, speculation.

"What?"

He twitched. "Nothing."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to dress in drag again, are you? I'm not pulling your heels out of the muck like last time."

"Hey that was once."

"And we almost died trying to run from raiders because you sprained your ankle."

"Okay, okay," he said, hands raised in surrender. "Maybe wearing the heels to cross that field was a bad idea. But in my defense, I needed to break them in, and I did really surprise that raider boss. He was too busy checking out my rack—"

"Which fell out of your dress the moment we stopped."

"Hey, I didn't say he was staring at my chest. He was staring at my rack. Which was on the ground."

Beatrice struggled to hold in a laugh. "But I thought the whole point of spycraft was to be inconspicuous. You make a noticeable woman, that's all I'm saying."

"Fine, fine. Shoes were a little uncomfortable anyway. I should wear them around here for a bit; see if I can stretch them out before using them in the field again."

Beatrice decided to ignore this obvious bait and glanced down at her Pip-Boy's inventory. "I think I'm pretty much ready to go with what I have in my pack." Deacon liked tease her, saying she should have picked the code name "Square" for keeping an inventory of her possessions, but at least she never left HQ without forgetting something. "I can change into wastelander gear before we go, and that should be enough for the mission."

"Sounds good." Deacon scooped up the bottles and set them back in the empty trash bin. "Let me check with Tom on a few supplies. Grab a bottle of water for the trip from Carrington?"

In an alcove with only a skeleton hanging out of a coffin to observe her, Beatrice changed into a tired set of clothes worn thin by much wear and washing, and folded her vault suit into the bottom of her pack. The Pip-Boy followed. She'd gotten used to wearing it all day, but on a Railroad op like this, it was probably best that it stay out of sight. Too many people noticed it.

In a shard of a mirror she'd been able to buy from Vault 81, she examined her appearance critically. Deacon always said the details were what really made a good disguise. Leaning down, she dirtied her fingers on the ground and smeared a bit on her cheeks and neck and lowered the cap Piper had given her a half an inch. There. With the right expression of tired despondency, she looked like any other wastelander. As long as she didn't smile too wide and show clean, white teeth that had received regular dental care her whole life.

She'd said goodbye to Glory, and was just giving Carrington caps for the water, when Deacon appeared at her elbow, his own pack slung across his back. He too was in disguise already; the set he'd named "Damon the Drifter."

"Hey!" he said brightly, spotting Beatrice's hat and gesturing at his own. "Twins!"

Carrington raised an eyebrow. "You two leaving on a mission again?"

Deacon aimed a cheery smile at Carrington. "That's right. The Commonwealth calls and we must answer. 'Deacon, please come rescue us! You're so handsome and manly and—'"

Carrington turned away with a noise of disgust. Beatrice bit her lip to avoid laughing and tugged on Deacon's pack to get him to move in the direction of the back exit.

"You know, I pulled you away from Carrington too soon this morning," Deacon said as they stepped over mattresses arranged on the floor. "I don't think I've seen anyone but Dez argue with him like that in months. Few people stand up to Carrington; they're afraid of him. If he had his way, no one would ever leave HQ. It would be far more convenient to him if synths could just materialize here." Then he seemed to shake himself as they stepped out of the HQ proper and into the dank sewer. "Still, glad to be going out on a mission again. It's been too long."

"We haven't exactly been idle," she pointed out.

"True. Never any shortage of Minutemen stuff to do," he said in a tone so carefully neutral that she slanted a glance at him, even though he was a pace or two ahead of her and the little she could see of his face was blank.

Then they both paused at a scratching sound from up ahead. Beatrice pulled Deliverer from her holster and backed into an alcove while Deacon did the same on the other side.

"Roaches," he said after a moment, and not for the first time she wondered how sharp his eyes had to be to see through his sunglasses in an already dim environment. "Want to do the honors?"

"With pleasure." She spotted two cat-sized radroaches a few feet away, antennae waving, and popped off two shots. The shells crunched as the bullets hit them and the roaches stilled.

"Nice work," he said. "Better take the leavings with us and toss 'em into the river or something. No sense in letting them stick around to attract more vermin."

Not for the first time, Beatrice had an almost out of body feeling, as if she were floating above and witnessing everything she was as Deacon grabbed one carcass and she grabbed the other as if it was nothing. As if she didn't still have memories of the fresh smell of laundry, of fascinating law school lectures, and shining cars rumbling down the streets. What slim chance that had led her to be the one walking the earth 200 years into the future? Why her? Why not Nate? He probably would have fared better than she was. He'd been a soldier—he knew how to think on a battlefield. Sure, she'd just killed two little roaches, but that coolness over two little roaches had been hard won. The first time she'd seen them, she almost fell over and screamed herself hoarse. Nate on the other hand had navigated the nightmares of PTSD and come out the other side whole.

He was also better at lying than she was.

Nope. Not going to think about that right now, she thought and stepped out of the muck, shaking it off her boots.

"What's in your bag?" she asked instead, noticing for the first time that it bulged a little.

Deacon gave her a trademark grin that gave nothing away. "Presents for the good children in the Commonwealth and lumps of coal for the bad ones."

She eyed him doubtfully. "In that getup, you look even less like Santa Claus than usual."

Deacon patted his trim waistline. "Overweight wastelander is a hard one to pull off. Too much padding to carry around, and a harder target miss in a fight."

"I'd think the white beard and bright red outfit would be the dead giveaway."

"White beard? What?"

Beatrice stopped, glee beginning to spread across her face. "You don't know that?

Reluctantly, he shook his head.

She laughed. "Got you! You owe me a truth!"

Deacon sighed. "I really need to work on my tells."

This was a favorite game of hers. Deacon was so well read—unlike most wastelanders—she occasionally forgot he wasn't pre-war. He understood most of her pop-culture references. Most. Sometimes, though, there were surprising gaps in his knowledge. He loved learning more about old world stuff, but in exchange, she wanted something true, no matter how small. It was a trade they'd worked out early on after her rocky introduction to Deacon's lies.

"Tell me about the white beard and red suit thing while I think of a truth."

Beatrice hummed a few bars of "Jingle Bells" while she recalled her Santa pop culture knowledge.

"Santa Claus is traditionally shown as an old white guy with a thick white beard—it has to be white, though I don't know why. He's always dressed in this red suit—not a business suit—more like thick winter gear to keep him warm. I think it might have been a robe in the really old days before he became commercialized?" She searched her memory for any scraps of Christmas knowledge. Her parents were second-generation Chinese immigrants who had integrated into American culture with gusto, so she'd grown up with a traditional greeting-card Christmas as was possible. And then, of course, when the war broke out when she was a teenager, it became more important than ever that they showed everyone how American they were. "It was used in all the marketing back in my day. I think that's really where it came from; probably in the old days he just wore whatever, but Nuka Cola started using him for holiday advertisements and their colors are red and white."

"Holidays co-opted by capitalism," he said in a mock-mournful voice.

"Pay up," she said with a laugh. "You're stalling."

He took a few more steps, then paused as they reached the top of the stairs that would lead them out to the riverfront. "My real hair color is ginger."

"Really?" Beatrice searched his face, then saw the edge of his eyebrows and reached up to lower the sunglasses a bit. He stiffened, but she didn't take them off, just moved them enough to see his eyebrows were definitely a reddish-orange hue. "How have I never noticed that?"

Deacon pushed his sunglasses back into place, and typed away on the terminal to unlock the door. "I usually use soot or grease or something to darken them if I'm going for a deep disguise; shaving the top doesn't take that much work. Beard comes in a little darker than up top too, so you might have thought it was brown."

Beatrice tried to imagine Deacon with red hair grown out, maybe longer on top and buzzed on the sides… and a little ginger scruff...

She cleared her throat as Deacon opened the door and cautiously peered around before beckoning her forward. "Would you ever grow it back out again?"

He shrugged. "Maybe if we ever beat the Institute, the Sox wins the pennant this year, and I can finally go on a well-earned vacation to the Poconos. Large drinks with several tiny umbrellas, here I come!"

The lies grew bigger with his discomfort, she knew, but that was okay. He was willing to play the game and give her something. And unlike Nate's lies, Deacon's didn't rip apart the fabric of their relationship, leaving nothing but tatters behind.

"For what it's worth, I would like to see that someday."

"Large drinks with several tiny umbrellas?"

"No, those I want to see yesterday, but you as a redhead, I wouldn't mind seeing. Someday. When you're ready." She smiled and then shouldered her pack and continued out of the ruined building.

A thousand thanks to Quinzelade who has been a tireless cheerleader, beta reader, and idea bouncer in the three months that I've been working on this story. It wouldn't look this good if not for her. She has written my absolute favorite SS/Paladin Danse story, By No Constraint. Go read it! You will not be disappointed.