One:
He watched her rise from the vault like a phoenix, the hot Wasteland air tugging at the dark, wet curls pushing into her eyes. Like one of those brief lights that streaks across the night sky, he couldn't take his eyes off her – newly awakened, she was both unsteady and perfectly balanced, frightened and tough as nails. A mess of contradictory things all shoved into one human being older than the War that broke the world into what it was.
He was safe where he stood, a hundred meters away. Perched atop a rusted-out truck, the sun blazing fiercely behind him. Through the scope of his rifle, he watched as she took in her surroundings, as the emotion played out on her face: the thawing fear, replaced by dread, soon to be overcome by a silent, dark sort of acceptance. The relic's eyes gazed out over the Wasteland slowly – was she seeing what was, or what it used to be? – moving in a single arc to land, finally, at Sanctuary Hills, nestled below the hilltop in its abandoned valley.
For a moment, he thought something like heartbreak shone in her eyes, but it was soon gone. The pre-War relic sucked in one more breath, shoved her drying hair out of her face, and began the short descent towards the old suburb without another moment's hesitation.
Deacon watched her for weeks. He was there, from the moment she reunited with her Mr. Handy to the Deathclaw she slaughtered in Concord, to her arrival at Diamond City. Wearing different disguises, clothes, speaking in different accents and walking with an odd gait, here and there – but he was with her. It felt wrong to leave. Like leaving a kid to fend for itself out in the big brave new world.
Except, he'd come to find out she wasn't so helpless after all. Wasn't much of a surprise, when he thought about it. She was the sister of him. And that Deathclaw – honestly, seeing such a small woman gun that fucker down with just a shotgun? That tickled him pink. Really, it did. It also made him wary. From what he'd heard of the Father's sister, she was some lawyer, back in the old world. A paper-pushing, office-dwelling nobody.
But the woman he was seeing? She was… well, she was something, all right.
So he knew about the pre-War relic before the rumors started circulating the Commonwealth. Rumors of a 200-something-year-old vault dweller raging through the 'Wealth, slaughtering entire encampments of raiders, gunning down supermutants, and solving everyone's goddamn problems from fucking generator issues to full-on blood feuds. Shit. Woman never took a break.
But what was more – what really fucking mattered - he knew who she was. No one else did. From what he understood, she went by different names, crafting one every time she reached a new place. He couldn't help the fucking admiration he had felt at that – smart woman. Out of time, out of place – but still keeping people on their toes. Fucking insane. He just itched to talk to her, to hear what sort of name she'd give him, see that notorious fierceness in her eyes face-to-face. Not through the scope of his sniper or binoculars. Not through stolen glances across the room. Face to face. The way it mattered.
But Deacon was patient. It wasn't time, yet. Things needed to work in a certain order, fall in place. She had to come to him. So he would wait.
She worked her way through the Freedom Trail faster than he had anticipated. Deacon found himself waiting with Desdemona and Glory in the cleared-out passage of the crypt under the Old North Church, twiddling his fucking thumbs and counting the gunshots echoing through the cavern as she made her way towards them, a mere three weeks after he had finally left her. She'd proven herself to him, whether she knew it or not – she could handle herself. Last he saw her, she was clearing out the old Castle with Preston Garvey, acting as the new General of the Minutemen.
Now she was here, and part of him felt so electrified at that prospect. He couldn't contain it, his sudden impatience, his anxiousness, all seeping out through his restless hands and shifting feet. Desdemona caught his eye more than once, clearly freaked the fuck out over his rare inability to remain carefully blank. He didn't care. The woman was here and it was time.
They listened, barely carrying a single breath between the three of them, as the relic entered the password to the crypt. Clever, clever woman – got it right on the first try.
Stone ground against stone, shrieking while the secret doorway lurched backwards before it parted, revealing the form of a petite, average-height woman on the other side.
Thank god for the sunglasses. Deacon was sure he was looking at her like she was a fucking lollipop, a dead-giveaway that he already knew her.
Desdemona stepped up, shoulders taut, and jutted her chin out to the stranger. The relic. "We've heard you've been working your ass off to find us. Wanna tell me why?"
The relic looked momentarily confused. Dust smudged her cheek, likely acquired on the trek down through the catacombs. There was some blood, too, drying near her hairline. Deacon couldn't tell if it was hers or someone else's. Pursing her lips and simultaneously sizing Desdemona up with the eyes of a hawk, the relic finally said, "I was told to follow the Freedom Trail. I didn't realize…" she paused and squinted up at them, noting Glory's hostile stance, Deacon's casually crossed arms. Confusion tainted her tone. "Who are you supposed to be?"
He could've laughed. Really. Des would've been pissed, so he kept it in check, but that was a hell of an entrance. And the look on Desdemona's face – that shit was priceless. He'd never seen her look so floored, had never made her face flush red from anger so quickly before. Not from lack of trying.
Silent, Desdemona glanced over at him, then Glory, hands twitching at her sides. Likely, she wanted to shoot this stranger who had found their new HQ, this unknown element who didn't even know who the fuck they were but was here, on their turf, anyway. She could try, but Deacon wouldn't let her. He was faster. Could have the gun that was holstered at her side out of reach within a second.
"Who told you to follow the Freedom Trail?" Desdemona finally asked, her tone halting and sharp. That one, she took shit from no one.
The relic read the tension in the room. Her hand trailed closer to her own weapon, but she remained calm. "Heard it from a couple of sources, really. First Preston Garvey. A Minuteman Lieutenant. Then a reporter in Diamond City. She said something about… the Institute? And you saving people. Synths. From them."
As if it were possible, Desdemona's chin jutted further in the air. "And if we do?"
The relic looked appeased at this. She knew what they were – that they did, in fact, save synths, fight the Institute, the whole she-bang, all nine yards of the whole fucking schtick. "Then I think you've found someone sympathetic to your cause."
Their first mission together went eerily smoothly. Really. Charmer struck the Gen 1s and 2s down like the cybernetic Angel of Death. Who moved like that? Fought like that? Someone who was trained. Though his respect for her grew during that first op, his wariness multiplied tenfold. Deacon had to be careful. This woman… she was sharp, strong, and perceptive. She was honestly a little bit like him.
That was dangerous.
"Shit, you really cleared this place out," he remarked quietly, nudging the shattered body of a Gen 1 with the toe of his boot, his mouth set in a firm line but his tone impressed.
He could feel her eyes on him from across the room. She'd stopped at a safe they'd come across right before they were ready to leave, head back to HQ. Said she was a decent lock-picker. Decent wasn't the word for it. She had it open and was pocketing its contents in under a minute.
"Guess I'm not too bad at the whole stealth thing, huh?" she asked with some triumph, referring to their earlier debate on whether a full-frontal attack or a trip through the escape tunnels would be better. Charmer was savage, brutal: she wanted the full-frontal attack. Said she could snatch up the prototype in a matter of minutes, if she had it her way. He persuaded her – all right, challenged her – to try his way, mostly for his own amusement. She didn't disappoint.
Charmer was a master spy in the making. He just knew it. And that was… well, it wasn't what he had expected.
"Guess not," he allowed, shielding the suspicion swarming his thoughts from seeping into his tone. He watched her rise to her full height again, her pack weighed down with her new finds, and stride towards the doorway. Calm. Collected. Commanding.
No, she wasn't what he expected at all.
They were shacked up in an abandoned schoolhouse for the night, too far from HQ to make it there before sunup. They cleared the place together, darting in and out of rooms, finding some sort of synch with one another – something Deacon had never really had with anyone, not even Glory. Glory, who couldn't adapt to someone else's methods, who didn't want to. But Charmer – she met him in the middle. Hell, closer to his side than in the middle, even. She was generous.
It nagged at him. Ate away at his thoughts as he watched her cook a mierulek stew over the fire he'd started not long ago. Her expression was blank, her eyes layered as if she were deep in thought, staring down into the churning pot with half a presence. He wondered what was playing through her mind, what had stolen her away from reality and dragged her back inside her head. He didn't know her outside of what he had observed for several weeks, but Charmer seemed like the thoughtful type. Like she sometimes needed the silence, to work through her mind.
When she spoke, it caught him off guard. He was too busy memorizing the details of her face, the exact color of her eyes – because the Institute had gotten better and better with their new synths, better every day – when she addressed him. He, such a fool, even flinched.
"You've always been a spy?"
Deacon tensed, but didn't show it. Shades still covering his eyes, he knew he looked composed. "Always been so nosy?" he threw back at her, but his tone was good-natured.
Charmer fixed him with a look that cut through his bullshit. "All right, another question. Why the Railroad?"
He watched her carefully, watched the slender hand that stirred the stew and the strong sinews of muscle that corded her arms, watched the fire dance across her collarbones and cast her face in flickering shades of red. He drew out a sigh, really dramatizing it, playing it up for proper effect, and let his shoulders fall a little. "Might come as a surprise to you, but I'm a synth." He met her gaze, canting his head up towards her, his eyes covered and hers bare. "So I guess that speaks for itself."
"A synth?" Charmer squinted at him, eyes trailing up and down, as if she could see through the flesh and the bones and find the truth – that elusive, ugly truth – he always dangled just out of reach. After a moment, he couldn't read her expression. She closed herself off, shut down, almost like a machine. She stared back at him, mouth relaxed, in that pursed and puckered state it seemed to perpetually fall back to. "I guess the Institute really did perfect… you know, you. You're no different than me."
While he genuinely liked that response, he made himself come off as personally touched. "That means a lot."
Charmer shrugged, gaze falling back to the stew. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good. You'll need to be, since my cooking isn't exactly worth any culinary awards."
They ate in silence, questions fading back behind any lines that weren't to be crossed on this evening, their eyes tired and bodies sore. Deacon kept her in the corner of his vision no matter what, like she was a wild animal that could lash out at any moment. He was normally so good at keeping his tension to himself, his worry, but he sensed she somehow knew. Every move she made was slow and purposeful, every look she gave him was shuttered.
His stomach squirmed. For the first time since he laid eyes on her, he wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into. This was Father's sister. A woman who had adapted to the cruelty of the Wasteland with unbelievable speed. A woman who he had seen single-handedly clear an outpost of raiders, the old HQ of synths… A woman sharp as the knife she kept sheathed over her combat vest, and confident as hell.
Maybe he shouldn't have made a game of this, after all.
Charmer was exhausted. He could see the fatigue lining the cant to her head, in the weight laying heavy on her shoulders. Her fingers danced around the trigger of her 10 mm, restless and absent-minded, her eyes scanning the abandoned village without their usual attentiveness.
The pair had made it back to HQ the night before, only to be sent out on another mission this morning. Desdemona had mentioned some settlement in the far east that was supposedly stashing third-gen synths, stealing them away from the Institute in order to act as synthetic body-shields for their sorry, raider asses. It was sickening. She wanted Charmer and Deacon to check the veracity of the rumor, to bring those synths in if it were true.
The settlement was at least a three-day's walk away. They'd only been at it for some twelve hours, and Charmer was already so tired. Honestly, he worried. She hadn't let Doc Carrington look at her the night before and left without a proper checkup this morning. Probably hadn't slept much either.
"We should call it a night," Deacon suggested, glancing about for a proper shelter for the evening. There was an old diner up a ways, near the coast; a boardwalk to their left, protruding over the water, hosting several shops; and a row of houses set behind that, edging towards what once had been a forest, some two centuries ago. None particularly stuck out to him as more strategically advantageous, but the diner, at least, looked clear.
Charmer frowned at him, the dark half-moons under her eyes becoming more pronounced. "If we stop now, we'll make bad time."
"Yeah, and if we keep going, you'll keel over from exhaustion," he pointed out, a little harsher than he intended. "You might be rather… petite… but you're overestimating my masculine abilities if you think I can haul your ass and your gear somewhere safe, when that happens. And I know how you are about your gear."
The frown deepened. "Why don't you worry about yourself, and I'll worry about me." She continued on, leaving him behind, trekking forward despite her lack of speed and general weariness.
Goddamn, this was a stubborn woman. Fine. He'd just have to play his other card. "Listen," he told her, forcing her to a stop again. "I'm like twice your age, okay? Maybe I need a rest for a bit?"
Ugh, he hated playing the 'twice your age' card. When had he gotten old enough for that, anyway? While it was half-true – she was technically older than any human still living in the Commonwealth – it didn't mean he needed any favors. Especially not when his body was still wired and ready to move. But she needed to stop. Before she got them killed.
Charmer looked at him over her shoulder from underneath thick eyelashes, likely judging the truth in his words. But something about the look she was giving him sent shockwaves through his belly. Fuck. When he first saw her, he'd thought she was pretty… but now –
Clenching his jaw, he looked away from her.
"Thought you were a synth," she finally said, face unreadable. She watched him carefully, lips falling into that puckered look.
Shit. He knew she probably doubted him when he said it, but honestly, he wanted to keep her guessing. That was the game. That was just what he did. "You think I'm not? What, synths can't get tired?"
Those eyes, green and bright, seemed to know more than she was letting on. She gave him another once over, gaze racking over his body slowly and carefully, worsening his thoughts from before. Then she nodded.
"Fine," Charmer said with a shrug. "Let's clear out that diner. Has the best vantage on all four sides."
He tried not to let that comment get under his skin. He'd been thinking the same thing, not long ago. Yeah… she was definitely a little bit like him. Or a lot.
"You pick every safe you come across?" Deacon asked, amused, as he watched Charmer curse as yet another bobby-pin snapped in the tumblers of the floor safe she was currently bent over. The view was priceless. Woman had an ass like a goddess, that much was true. Not that he wanted to know that. And now, he couldn't un-know it.
She spoke around the bobby-pin in her mouth. "Never know what you'll find." Then she cursed again, snapping another. "What the fuck. How hard can this be? It's got, like, four tumblers in there."
Deacon chuckled, resting his elbows on the countertop beside her. He watched her fingers work, edge carefully along the tumblers, slow and precise, thinking about how small they were, how soft and probably nice they would– Click. God, that saved him from a troublesome thought.
"Hell yes," she muttered, tucking her bobby pins away. He watched as she yanked open the safe door and hardly contained his laughter at the look that blossomed on her face.
Put simply, Charmer looked ready to kill. "Are you kidding me?" She rifled around in the safe, extracting a Nuka-Cola Cherry and some Blamco Mac 'n Cheese. "Some asshole really thought he needed to lock this shit up?"
Deacon laughed all the way over to the sleeping mat he'd rolled out, plopping down on it and rubbing at his eyes from under his sunglasses. God, he hadn't laughed so hard in such a long time. "Was it worth breaking five bobby pins?"
Joining him, Charmer tossed him another Nuka-Cola, which he caught effortlessly, and began to work on lighting a fire in the cooking pit in the corner. "Whatever," she muttered. "My five broken bobby-pins are gonna feed your ass some Mac n' Cheese tonight. You're welcome."
"You are a goddess," he said grandiosely, infusing a little too much graciousness in his tone to be sincere. "Honestly. The best cuisine out here in the Wasteland? Definitely two-hundred-year-old Mac 'n Cheese. I love the dust flavor. Honestly, thinking about it keeps me up at night. I yearn for it."
"You're such an asshole."
"Yeah," Deacon agreed lightly. "But it's charming."
Charmer snorted. "Somehow, yeah."
Deacon's mouth clicked shut. He wasn't expecting her to affirm that. And yeah, she could just be messing with him… but that was the fucking problem. She was messing with him.
Noting the abrupt end to their conversation, Charmer glanced at him after she got the fire going, eyes curious but still shuttered. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said, keeping the stiffness from his tone. "Why?"
She shrugged, pouring the contents of the Mac 'n Cheese box into a clean pot. Settling it over the fire, she made her way towards him. Her own sleeping mat was adjacent to his. She laid down and gave him a curious look. "You usually like to keep the silences filled," she pointed out, not unkindly. "You've been quiet lately."
"What can I say?" Deacon splayed his arms out, like everything was a joke to him. "I'm a man of variety."
Charmer at least cracked a smile at that. Those green eyes probed him again, darker this time, searching his sunglass-laden face. "I know you aren't a synth."
He tried to hide the tension lining his muscles. Why was he so bothered? He knew she'd figure it out, eventually. He just didn't think it'd come so quickly. "I know you know," he managed to say somewhat cheerily, as if this had actually been the case. Inside, he squirmed.
Charmer smirked at him. As if she knew she was making him uncomfortable. "Normally I can't stand people who play games." She shrugged and stood again, returning to the cooking food, her back to him. "But you're all right."
"Something wrong, boss?" Deacon asked, taking in the curl to Charmer's lips, the squinted eyes perusing the desolate landscape laid before them. They were nearly at the settlement – probably an hour, two hours away tops – but needed to cross a long-dead field first to make it towards the bridge about half a mile away. Charmer had drawn up short as soon as the pair stood at its edge.
"What's that thing you always say about snipers?"
He smirked and glanced around. "That I'd be… there," he pointed towards an old military truck, some hundred meters away, "or there," then towards a house that lay at the edge of the field, "or maybe… there." A rocky outcropping, elevated. Yeah, those were good spots. He had an eye for that sort of thing.
Charmer shot him a frown. "Thanks, Deacon, that's really reassuring."
"I aim to please, m'lady."
Charmer hmmed. "I don't feel spectacular about walking out in the open so much." She turned those critical eyes on him. "And I imagine you don't either."
He grinned at her. "What, don't want to play a game of duck and cover? Honestly, it's fun. Kinda like Russian roulette. We can see who gets shot first. Last man standing wins… a drink at the Third Rail."
Clearly she didn't know what the Third Rail was, if the confusion that sparkled in her eyes was any indication. "How 'bout I just owe you one, anyway? We can forgo one of us dealing with all that messy bodily harm."
He pretended to pout. "Now that's less fun."
Rolling her eyes, Charmer glanced back at the proverbial mine field ahead of them. "Let's go around. We'll lose a couple hours, but better that than you having to drag my sniped ass somewhere for the night."
"What makes you think you'd be the one to get shot?"
A tiny smile curled on her lips. Charmer's eyes, surprisingly, shone with mirth. "'Cause I look a hell of a lot scarier than you do." Then she turned about and began walking the field's perimeter, towards an outcropping of houses to the south, leaving him to catch up.
He jogged after her a bit, frowning when he felt pain in his knees. Ugh. All that aging crap was really getting to him. Once they were walking side-by-side again – Charmer's eyes on the field and the surrounding houses, his eyes sliding over to her every now and again – he cleared his throat.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, infusing his tone with as much uncertainty as possible. It wasn't that hard. He was fairly uncertain about it.
Charmer took her eyes off the foreboding landscape long enough to glance at him curiously. "Yeah?"
"Where'd you learn to fight?" The twitch in her hand at his question didn't go unnoticed. Neither did her clenched jaw or her purposefully unreadable expression. He pushed on anyway, like he hadn't detected anything. Like he was just making conversation. "You're damn good with a gun. But your hand-to-hand… I don't think I've ever seen anyone fight the way you do."
She wasn't meeting his gaze, and he wanted to scoff at her. For usually being so good at hiding her emotions, her play, she was doing a shit job right now. Some paranoia in the back of his mind wondered if she was doing that on purpose, just as he made himself sound shy about asking her. But why? Lying was his thing. Charmer was always just… purposefully vague.
"Does it matter?" she finally asked, a weak way to try to drop the subject. But there was something present in her that wasn't there moments before. Something that looked a lot like fear and sadness.
Guilt stabbed at his heart, cold and unwanted. His personal mission was to get to know Charmer as best as he could, and that included how the hell she could tear through a mob of raiders and supermutants like they were nothing. But clearly the topic pained her in some way. Dug up old memories she wanted to keep buried.
"Guess not," he said, toying with the sniper resting on his shoulder.
Several minutes passed in tense silence. They were nearly to the outcropping of houses, which Charmer would likely insist on clearing just to be on the safe side, when the woman beside him spoke again.
"I was military," she said, staring at her boots, at the windows of the houses – anywhere but at him. "Before the… bombs."
The frown on her lips tugged at his heartstrings, or what was left of them. Honestly, he'd thought they'd died out of him a long time ago. He cleared his throat again. "We don't have to talk about it." And he meant it. He didn't want to push her back into memories that hurt. As stupid as that was.
"I know," Charmer said, clearly trying to keep her tone light. "It just… seems like someone should know. Someone living, anyway."
That broke him. Eyeing her from his peripherals, where she wasn't cast in shades of black and blue from his sunglasses, Deacon felt like he finally understood something about Charmer other than what he already knew: that she was Father's sister, a former lawyer, a 200 something relic who probably looked around at the remnants of Boston and saw two images – what was and what had been. He finally understood that she was just human, too. Like him. And she was hiding a lot more under that tough skin of hers than she let on.
Charmer… she was damaged.
They had more in common than he realized.
The pair crouched behind the crumbling wall of an old building, a hundred feet away from the raider settlement below them. Charmer had her sniper out, marking targets and counting heads, using what he was beginning to identity as her 'military' tone. They were sorely outnumbered, as they had expected, but she didn't seem terribly bothered at that prospect. In fact, she seemed a little excited.
These poor bastards didn't know what was about to hit 'em. If they weren't walking pieces of shit, using synths as their own personal body shields, he might've actually felt bad for them. Might've.
"So, we gonna talk about how exactly we're supposed to kill them, if they use the people we're trying to save as human shields?" he asked a bit offhandedly, though the thought made him nervous. There were twenty raiders – enough that, if they took a few out, the rest would be alerted and would run for the synths. That was trouble.
Charmer clucked her tongue silently, deep in thought. "We could wait until dark. Fix those suppressors on our rifles, take them out a few at a time. Start with the guards, then work our way inside." She smirked at him, eyes lighter than usual. "You like the sneaky way, don't you?"
"I do," he allowed. "You're a woman after my own heart."
That statement hit him hard – fuck, he shouldn't have said that. In the corner of his eye, Charmer gave him a strange look. A few seconds beat away in silence, before Charmer – whatever gods there may be, bless her – tried to lighten the air. "You have a heart?" the smirk only widened. "Honestly, who would've thought?"
He nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Didn't need things getting weird between them – especially because of him. Deacon wasn't an emotional kind of guy. At least, that's what he told himself. God, he needed a drink. Or five.
Returning her focus to the raider encampment, Charmer nodded her head, as if reaffirming something to herself. "So we'll wait until dark. Let's head back to that old trailer we passed, get some rest. We move at sundown."
Sundown, unfortunately, was four hours away. They had four hours to kill, stuck in each other's presence, silent and shivering cold. Now that they weren't moving, the fading bite of winter sunk into their bones, chilling them just enough to be uncomfortable, just enough that Charmer had slid closer to him in the trailer and rested her shoulder against his.
He couldn't stop thinking about it. Like it was burning him, he could feel her heat. Goddamn. He needed to get a grip on himself. Crushing on the new recruit – especially considering that new recruit was Father's sister – was a beyond stupid idea.
Right?
He felt her shiver again, her skin trembling next to his, her teeth quietly clacking together. Of course, she was colder than him – smaller, wearing less layers. Deacon sighed. He couldn't just be an asshole and let her spend the next four hours this way. Well, he could… but Deacon didn't much like being an asshole.
"You want my jacket?" he asked, breaking the silence that had descended on them some forty minutes ago.
Charmer gave him a disparaged look. "No," she said firmly, not unkind. "I was stationed in Anchorage. I'm used to the cold."
"Doesn't look like that to me," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. The stubbornness of this woman! God, it would get her killed some day. Maybe both of them.
"I'm fine," she said, looking back outside, her eyelids growing heavy. She must be exhausted. Hadn't slept much the past three days. Used the excuse that she was taking watch for them, but they'd cleared all the neighborhoods they'd stayed in. Something else was keeping her up.
Forgoing the little voice in his head that occasionally warned him not to do stupid things, Deacon slowly – carefully – wrapped an arm over her shoulder. Charmer's head immediately snapped towards him, eyes wide, full lips parted.
"Relax," he said, putting his hands up to show her he meant no harm. "Figured you could use some sleep. In case you haven't noticed, I'm the closest thing to a pillow you're gonna get."
Her sharp gaze softened and she bit her lip, clearly debating the value of sleeping versus staying alert and awake. "You'll have nothing to do," she finally said, the lamest excuse he'd ever heard. Nothing to do? Doll, I'd have a beautiful woman resting in my arms. What else could he want to do?
He was so fucked.
Deacon swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "I'm built for doing nothing. Really. Half of espionage – creeping around, gathering intel. The other half? Doing absolutely nothing. For days on end, sometimes. One time, I did literally nothing for an entire week. A week! I really think my brain is better suited to be a vegetable."
Charmer cracked a smile at him, her eyes bespeaking her appreciation for his lame attempt to put her at ease. Then she nodded, mind made up. Before he could pull her to his chest, like he originally planned on doing, Charmer scooted down a bit and sidled up to him. Her heat was immediate – he couldn't ignore it, the press of her against him. It was consuming, and it was such a bad idea – this whole thing.
She pressed her cheek into his chest, resting her hand beside it, on him. The other wrapped around his waist and held him close. She smelled like gunpowder, like sharp metal, and he found himself relaxing into her touch after a few moments. He placed a hand on her hip, gentle and careful not to startle her, and watched as she fell asleep.
The words you can't trust anyone, you can't trust anyone, youcan'ttrustanyone spun round and round through his head.
Charmer murmured in her sleep. It wouldn't have been all that startling, if it had all been in English. But it wasn't. He heard a few other languages – Chinese the most frequent, something Slavic and deep next – and stared down at her in wonder. He counted four. Four other languages. Hell, Deacon could barely speak one. When did someone have the time to learn four different languages?
Her murmurs sometimes grew panicked, turning into cries briefly before subsiding again. He knew Charmer was plagued with nightmares – had been woken up by a few, since they started traveling together. But he'd only ever seen her at the cusp of them, since she always woke up afterwards and grew quiet once more. This… This was different. There was pain and heartbreak on her face. Fear.
No matter how good of a liar someone was, this was when they were most vulnerable. This fear was real.
He debated the merits of waking her up for an hour straight, talking himself into it then out of it again. Finally, she'd pressed herself more fully against him – God, he could feel her breasts – and quieted down. The worst of it passed, and the subsequent three hours went substantially better than the first.
Every shift she made, every time she nuzzled his chest with her cheek, affected him deeply. His body was on fire, alight, reacting to every little movement. Deacon simultaneously hated it and loved it. It had been so long, since…
Ugh. He didn't want to think of Barbara. Tried his best to never think about her. And now he was. Barbara… and Charmer.
Since when had he lost his carefully crafted control?
You can't trust anyone. Anyone.
Suddenly, she stiffened in his arms. Awake. He watched as she peeled her eyes open immediately, first checking their surroundings, then looking up at him. She seemed smaller than usual. Fragile.
"Deacon?"
"Yeah, do - boss?" he said, correcting himself before he called her what he did in his head. He had a feeling she wouldn't take kindly to being called 'doll'.
"The sun's down," she noted quietly, nodding her head towards the darkened sky.
Shit. He hadn't even noticed. That's how fucked he was. "Figured you could use the sleep," he finally said. "'Sides, we have the whole night to get this done, right? That's like all the time in the world."
Charmer accepted his lame excuse, but he couldn't tell if she bought it or not. She pulled herself from his body – he felt the absence of her body heat as if someone had blasted him with the very heart of winter – and stretched. Her feline body curved deliciously – was she doing this on purpose? – and he watched with rapt attention.
Deacon needed a good, hard slap to the face. Yeah. That's what he needed. He was doing a shit job of remaining unaffected. Normally he was the first person to follow his own advice.
Charmer yawned and ran a hand through her hair, settling down the unruly locks. Then she stood, not wasting another moment. Weapon in hand, others slung across her back, she extended a hand down towards him. "Ready?"
He stared at her hand, so small but somehow, not delicate. His engulfed hers when he accepted it.
You can't trust anyone.
"Ready as ever, boss."
He watched Charmer duck behind some cover, just barely dodging the bullets from the last raider they needed to kill. The man was a fucking beast – taller than Deacon by at least a foot, wider by two. All muscle. The minigun in his hands looked miniscule compared to the rest of him. Deacon was starting to doubt that they'd be able to take him down without causing any injury to the synths, who were also hiding from the onslaught of bullets.
He ushered as many as he could to safety, told them to wait for him, but there were a few stragglers left inside the encampment. Charmer was at one's side, whispering reassurances to it, from what he could tell. Then she darted up, rifle hugged close to her shoulder, and fired off a few rounds, nicking the raider in the arm.
The raider cried out in anger. He charged towards Charmer and the synth, forcing Deacon's belly to drop to his toes. Fuck. He fired on the raider himself, but it was useless. All his bullets weren't piercing the man's armor.
Looked like he needed to get up close and personal. The thought didn't sit well with him, but he didn't really have time to think it through. He just moved. The thought of Charmer dying… It galvanized him.
You can't trust anyone, but you can't let them die, either.
"Hey asshole!" he shouted, charging towards the raider, firing bullets with every step.
Well, that got the beast's attention. The raider, completely forgetting Charmer, turned to face Deacon. There was a sick, twisted smile on the man's face, like he knew Deacon was walking right into his own death. Fuck.
Before the raider could raise his minigun, a hand shot out, gripping the raider's jaw, shoving his head up. Deacon watched as Zora ran a hacksaw through the man's neck – fuck, he would never forget that sight – spilling his blood down onto his armor, making the man choke on it.
The raider dropped to his knees, gasping for air, touching his neck blindly, before he faceplanted in the dirt. Charmer stood behind him, eyes wild and armor caked in thick, hot blood.
She stared at Deacon, immobile, face flushed from the fight. "The hell were you trying to do?"
The sheepish look he gave her wasn't fake. "Uh. Save you?"
Charmer just shook her head, like she couldn't believe his stupidity. "Next time, maybe try for some more self-preservation, yeah? The running into battle kinda shit is my thing."
It took three more days to transport all the synths – 12, in total – to Ticonderoga. High Rise was taken aback by the sheer number of them, by the haunted looks in their eyes, but he greeted each warmly and reassuringly. Deacon felt shitty thinking it, but he was glad to have them off his hands. Traveling with 12 synths? Out in the Commonwealth? It had been a nightmare. They couldn't have painted a brighter target on their backs if they tried.
He watched as Charmer gave them some parting words, some encouragement and reassurance. The smile she gave the newly freed synths was blinding – white, perfect rows of teeth, flashing brightly at her audience. He envied them, if only for a second. She hadn't ever smiled at him the same.
When she was finished, she approached him, a small smile still tugging at her lips.
"How are they?" he asked, nodding at the synths being led off to different rooms.
Charmer's smile faded, if only a little. "They're scared. But I think they'll be okay. They seem… hopeful."
"That's good."
"It is," she agreed. Then she placed a hand on his shoulder and grinned up at him – not the way she had at the synths, but tiredly. "I owe you a drink, don't I?"
He grinned back. "That you do."
Goodneighbor had been a surprise, to say the least, for Charmer. Upon walking in, she witnessed the mayor stick a knife in someone's gut for trying to sell her protection. Not the warmest of welcomes, but hey. To each his own.
Deacon could tell she was both fascinated by Goodneighbor and disturbed. Couldn't much blame her for that either, considering the sheer number of drugs laying around, the prostitution and crime. It was definitely a unique gem of the Commonwealth – not the cleanest, not the nicest, but the most interesting.
By the light in her eye, she fucking loved the Third Rail. The hypnotic voice of Magnolia, the dim lights and strange people – Charmer seemed to be in her natural environment. He could picture it – her all dolled up before the war, going out to some late-night jazz club, drinking in the sights.
She bought him a drink, as promised, and then two more. Deacon hadn't indulged in a long time – it was hard to really let loose in the Commonwealth, especially when working for the Railroad – but it was easier when he knew someone had his back. He laughed at all Charmer's poorly made jokes, watched her swing around the dancefloor hypnotically, charm the crowd around her. That was Charmer. A sight to see, and everyone wanted a ticket.
When Hancock approached and asked her for a dance, Deacon felt… wrong. The band changed the tune to a slow one, seemingly at the request of the Mayor himself, if his salacious grin was any indication. It was masochistic, but Deacon watched their every move. The way Hancock rested his hands on Charmer's hips, the way he pulled her up against his chest, the way they laughed. The man was fucking forward as hell – did he know nothing about subtlety? He twirled Charmer and caught her again, somehow bringing her closer than before.
He hadn't realized he was gripping his drink so hard until Magnolia approached him. "Don't think I've ever seen you so… off your game before," she noted in her husky tone, nodding at Charlie for a drink.
Deacon sucked in a breath and pulled his gaze away from Charmer and the Mayor. He flashed Magnolia an easy smile. "Who, me? Nah. I'm good."
The singer raised a perfect brow. "If you were talking to anyone else, maybe they'd believe you." She turned, smirking at the pair dancing to the band she had left playing. "I don't think I've ever heard Hancock laugh so much. That girl of yours – she's something."
That girl of yours. He swallowed. "She's not mine."
Magnolia fixed him with another knowing look, accepting her water from Charlie. "Not if you let her get away from you, that's for sure." She smiled again, softer than before, and approached the stage. Grabbing the mic, she looked right at Deacon as she said in her low, seductive tone, "And for our beautiful pair on the dancefloor tonight… We'll take things a little slower."
He should've gotten up, left. Right then and there. But maybe this would help – seeing her with someone else. Maybe he could finally get her out of his head. It was ridiculous that she was even stuck there to begin with. You can't trust anyone, and you definitely can't fall in love.
He should have gone to the hotel when he had the chance. Watching Charmer leave the bar on Hancock's arm… that didn't make things better for him. It was worse. Way worse. He nearly broke his glass, he was so tense.
Downing his drink, he stood up, tipsy and unhappy. He looked around and considered his options. Leaving Charmer with Hancock didn't seem right. He could follow them, make sure the ghoul treated her well… but no. That was fucked up in its own way. And he likely wouldn't survive her wrath if she ever figured it out.
Instead, he unsteadily made his way over to the hotel Redford, dropped some caps on the counter for a room, and climbed up the rickety staircase. His buzz was wearing off, leaving him feeling hollow. Angry. Deacon didn't do angry very well. Always made some stupid, rash decisions, always put himself in a worse situation.
He couldn't do that tonight. Tonight, he wouldn't leave this room. Just to be on the safe side.
Yanking his boots off and tossing his wig on the bed, Deacon reclined on the mattress. The ceiling, which had probably been white once, was cracked and yellowing.
An hour passed with him staring at the cracks above him. He hadn't necessarily been lying when he told Charmer he could do absolutely nothing. It had been a skill he picked up early on, when doing recon. There was a whole lotta sitting around, a whole lotta waiting. He'd gotten good at it.
It was two in the morning when Charmer stumbled into the room. Deacon sat up, alert, when he heard the sound of a key jamb into place, the rustling of the doorknob. He was, at once, relieved and angry to see her. But his anger was completely unjustified, so he shoved it away to deal with later.
He crossed the room quickly when he watched Charmer, unbalanced, try to walk inside. How she even made it up three flights of stairs in her state was beyond him. Hancock hadn't even had the decency to walk her back? Fucking cocksucker.
Deacon put a hand around her waist, but she tensed away from him. "It's me," he said, pulling her into the room and shutting the door behind her. As soon as she realized who he was, she sank into him, clutching his shoulders for support.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" Deacon asked, his tone coming out harsher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "Come on, you need to sit." Leading her to the bed across from his, he forced her to sit. He grabbed some snacks and purified water from his bag to hand off to her.
When she accepted them, she giggled. But it wasn't the giggle of a drunk person.
Deacon froze. He glared down at the top of her pretty head, jaw clenched. "Are you high right now?"
Another giggle. Fuck, he was going to kill Hancock. Fucking kill him. Charmer had confided in him not long ago that she'd never done drugs before. Ever. And now one night with the Mayor of Goodneighbor? He grabbed his wig, adjusted it on his head, and stalked to the door.
Charmer stopped giggling, finally sensing he was upset. She stood, swaying on her feet. "'Where're you goin'?" she slurred, half out of her mind.
Deacon turned back and made her sit again. "I'm going to fucking kill Hancock for giving you drugs." He made to leave again, but Charmer grabbed his arm.
"It's not his fault," she said, carefully spacing out her words in an effort to sound soberer. "He didn't make me do anything."
"And yet you're high." The flatness of Deacon's tone seemed to wake her up a bit. She frowned up at him like a scolded child.
"I… he offered, and I'd never done it before," she said, sounding small. "He didn't make me. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry. God, she sounded so… young. And she was. Younger than him by double, not counting the years she'd been on ice. Deacon swiped his wig off his head and threw it on his mattress, seething. He was absolutely pissed, but he couldn't ascertain whether he was pissed at her or Hancock more.
Still holding on to his arm, Charmer tugged on it, asking without words for him to sit. He did, stiffly. Every bone in his body wanted to charge out of the room and give Hancock a piece of his mind and a warning to stay the fuck away from Charmer.
"I'm sorry," Charmer said again, her hand moving from his forearm to his palm. She twirled her fingers against his rough skin, a deep frown marring her lips. "It won't happen again. Promise."
So young, he couldn't stop thinking. She was so young.
"You'd better not," he said, fixing her a look that bespoke his seriousness. "Or I'll kill him. I mean it."
"I believe you." She sounded soberer by the second. Retracting her hand from his, she laid down on her bed. "And I keep my promises."
He stood. There needed to be distance between them, something to separate him from his emotions. He flopped back down onto his bed and rolled onto his side. Charmer's eyes were already closed.
Deacon had never made a promise he kept. Why should she?
"I feel… like shit," Charmer declared emphatically, pulling the collar of her shirt up to cover her eyes. "My brain has shriveled up inside my head. I think it's dying."
Deacon stared at her, mouth a flat line, completely unamused. Honestly, he'd been in a pissy mood all night. Thoughts of her time with Hancock, about what kind of drug he might've handed her or what else they'd gotten up to, kept him from sleeping. "That's what happens when you do drugs," he said pointedly. "What, you thought you'd wake up and it'd be all rainbows and unicorns?"
Uncovering one eye, Charmer glared at him. "Your righteousness is unbearable."
"Good. It should be. Maybe I can be unbearable enough to keep you from doing that shit again."
Charmer let out a long sigh. "I already promised I wouldn't. You can stop throwing it in my face."
He glanced away from her, towards the window. Weak sunlight filtered in, dancing on the worn carpet beneath his boots. In her condition, they likely weren't traveling anywhere today. Adjusting the wig on his head, Deacon sighed. "I'm gonna rent the room for another night. You need rest."
"Take my caps," Charmer offered. "And maybe… bring some food?"
He tried hard not to give her another glare. "Sure thing, boss."
Stepping out of the room, he closed the door softly behind him, mindful of Charmer's raging headache. He paused in the hallway a moment and just stared down at his boots. He was so fucked. They were fucked. How that woman could even stand the ghoul's presence, let alone do drugs with him… that was well fucking beyond Deacon's ability to comprehend.
The worst part of it all? He couldn't even lie to himself about it. He knew he was jealous. There wasn't another emotion he could cling to, claim to feel instead of that nasty green monster raging inside of him. No, he was just jealous. Plain and simple.
He reached the lobby and made small talk with the hotel clerk, Clara, for a moment. The old woman was decent. Didn't approve of Fred's drug abuse, didn't deal with Maloney's shit. He liked her. After handing over some more caps for the room again, Deacon ducked out of the hotel in search of food.
He went to Daisy first. Figured Charmer could use a noodle cup, some sugar bombs, maybe a Nuka-Cola. After purchasing what he needed, he made to turn around and head back to the hotel. Instead, he nearly ran into the very man he wanted to murder.
"Deacon!" Hancock greeted amiably, a sharp grin on the ghoul's coarse face. "I heard you were in town. Tell me, how's our little amateur druggie doing this morning?"
Deacon could only stare at the Mayor for several moments, his breath coming in short and quick. The box of sugar bombs crunched under the pressure of his grip. Hancock seemed to sense something was off, despite not being able to see Deacon's eyes. The ghoul gave him a sideways look. The grin that had been on his chapped, rough lips not a moment ago disappeared.
"There a problem?" Hancock asked, tone growing wary. He glanced at Daisy, who stood tense behind Deacon, before turning his near-black eyes back to the man in question. "Listen, if this is about Nora – "
Nora. That was her name. She'd told Hancock her name. It wasn't an alias – Deacon knew from the research he'd done on her. Nora was her real name and she graced it to the likes of the druggie Mayor of Goodneighbor.
In one swift motion, Deacon stiffly set his purchases on Daisy's counter, and swung around to punch Hancock in the face. The cartilage of the ghoul's nose was long gone, leaving Deacon's fist to bash into bone. He could feel his knuckles tear open, but he didn't care. Hancock had fallen on his ass and that was all that mattered.
"Holy hell, kid," Hancock grunted, holding a hand up to his face. "The fuck was that for?"
A crowd had gathered around them – the Neighborhood watch. The air was electric, and Deacon knew multiple guns were pointed at him right now. But he just didn't care.
Hancock shoved to his feet. Much to Deacon's disappointment, he didn't seem any worse for wear. The ghoul gestured for his men to stand down, and every gun that had been pointed at Deacon now pointed at the ground. Black eyes regarded the Railroad agent sharply.
Suddenly, Deacon felt red-hot. A blush creeped up his neck, both angry and embarrassed. He'd lost control. He'd lost control so bad he just punched the fucking Mayor of Goodneighbor. A criminal in a town of criminals. The stupidest thing he'd ever done, for sure.
But he couldn't just walk away. Not when all eyes were on him, not when he had to stay in this place overnight again. Fuck.
He stepped up to Hancock, chest to chest. Quietly, so no one else could overhear them, he growled, "She doesn't do drugs with you. Ever again. Got it?"
Hancock's eyebrows – or what would have been his eyebrows – shot up. He was simultaneously impressed and irritated. "Fine, kid." It seemed like he'd leave it at that, but just when Deacon was turning to grab what he'd bought for Charmer, Hancock spoke again. "But that's between you and her. She makes her own decisions."
Deacon plucked his purchases off the counter and shouldered past the ghoul, heading back towards the Redford. Fuck. He'd lost control. He was losing control.
He needed to get a grip, and fast.
"Your hand's bleeding," Charmer pointed out when he returned to their hotel room. She lay on her side on the bed, looking exhausted and a little sick, but her green eyes were focused on him. "Something happen?"
Shit. Deacon glanced down at his fist – sure enough, the knuckles were torn wide open and blood ran down his wrist like a glove. Placing the food on the nightstand beside her, Deacon said nothing. He grabbed his pack from under the bed and dug around for a stimpack.
Charmer's bed creaked behind him. He stiffened. She had stood, her legs a little shaky but otherwise holding her up just fine, and came to hover beside him. The blood on his hand was getting all over his pack, keeping him from getting a good hold on anything.
Charmer gently took the bag from him while he staunchly avoided making eye contact with her. A small, soft hand came up to rest on his shoulder. "Sit down," she ordered quietly.
He hesitated a moment, but ultimately complied. It was too much – all of this. Deacon desperately wanted to run away, just leave the room and never come back. He wasn't built for this. Not anymore. That much was proven by his inability to properly deal with his emotions. He couldn't pine after another Railroad agent. And he sure as hell couldn't go around knocking people on their asses every time they got close to said Railroad agent.
Fuck.
Though she wasn't in prime condition herself, Charmer crouched down in front of him and took his hand in hers. He yanked it away from her immediately, as if she'd stung him, but instantly regretted it. Her green eyes flashed with hurt. That pucker to her lips was replaced with a frown. This was all… wrong.
Can'ttrustanyonecan'ttrustanyone…
"Deacon," she said, and she sounded so much gentler than normal. Oddly calm and composed, careful – like she was talking to a wild animal. Like he was on the ledge of something and about to jump off. "Are you okay?"
He sucked in a quick breath. "I'm fine, boss." His voice came out hoarse and scratchy. His gaze dropped down to his lap again, where he cradled his bleeding hand. "You know me," he continued, trying for a cheerier tone. "Clumsier than a feral on a tightrope."
Charmer pressed her lips together so tightly, they became white. "I do know you. You're not clumsy at all, but you are a liar. Wanna try telling me something closer to the truth?"
He looked away, but managed a thin smile. "Got in a fight with a supermutant. Fist fight. Wasn't my wisest idea, but the asshole had it coming. Literally stole candy from a baby – can you believe it?" There – that was more like him. That sounded better.
Charmer grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "See, part of that seems true. This is definitely from clocking someone in the face. But it wasn't a supermutant, was it?"
"You caught me," he said, trying hard not to lean into her touch. "It was a deathclaw. Bastard took me by surprise. I read in an old book that you punch a shark in the nose to stun it – guess it works on everything, huh?"
For once, Charmer was not patient with him. She growled and uncurled from her crouch, standing to her full height. She raked a hand through her hair and gazed sightlessly out the window, breathing in and out slowly, controlled. Her eyes closed for a moment, and he almost felt bad for lying to her, but then she blinked them open and seemed… calm.
Turning to him again, Charmer grabbed his hand, grip tight so he couldn't shift away but light enough not to hurt him. "Fine," she said, tone cool and detached. "At least let me bandage this up. You can stimpack yourself, but you'll need something to cover it from an infection while it stitches itself back up."
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." He pretended he didn't notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she bit her lip in order to maintain her air of coolness. He pretended he wasn't angry anymore, or tired, or thinking about her hands on his body.
Deacon needed to pretend a lot of things.