Hiraeth
Welsh
(n) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return
Downstairs, someone slams a door.
It's enough to snap Jenny out of her half-slumber, a futile attempt to sleep in for once on a Saturday morning. Instead, she is awake, blankets pulled over her head against the sunlight streaming in through the curtains.
Jack had insisted she take this room when she'd first moved in. He'd said the sunlight would be good for her. Edward had stood by, silent sympathy in his eyes. It is moments like this that she regrets her abject acceptance of her fate.
Her bed is good, comfortable. Sequestered here, there are no problems. Here, in bed, everything is right.
Or, so she tells herself.
Wilhelmina's voice, pitchy and irate, carries up through the floorboards, and Jenny reminds herself that there are far worse fates than her own.
She pushes herself into a sitting position, and then a standing one, letting out a quiet groan. No one had ever warned her that, even with a near magical serum, you could still wake to feel every second of 232 years of wear and tear in your very bones.
Admittedly, she's not sure who she expected to warn her.
She's given up on make up, but still sits at her small vanity to braid her hair back. Market days always require a touch more care than those spent lounging, or perhaps languishing, about the house.
She pauses, stopping to stare at the photo strip tucked into her mirror. It's them, crowded into a too small photo booth on a too hot day at Navy Pier, the way she'd though things would always be. They look happy, even with her wilted curls and his sunburnt nose. This is how she likes to remember their life, how she likes to remember him.
She can't dwell, not today. Today, she must get up and get dressed. She must brush her teeth and follow along to market. There are supplies to be bought, information to be exchanged. She must be alert, ready for trouble. She must not think of blood and alleyways, could have beens and never will bes. It is not what Nick would have wanted.
When she finally makes it to the kitchen, Edward is waiting for her in the hallway outside, mug in hand.
"Figured you'd rather avoid the circus this morning," he says, handing to her.
She nods. "Thanks." She pauses for a sip, enjoying the first piping sip of tea. "Sounded like a real blowout."
"Emogene's gone."
She shrugs. "Six weeks. Like clockwork."
"Wasn't always like this," Edward sighs.
"Wilhelmina still taking it badly?"
He nods. "Can't blame her. Em's gotten sloppy."
"She'll be back. Or," Jenny pauses, drawing in another sip. "You'll send someone to go get her and bring her home."
Edward grins slyly for a moment before his expression softens. "I know today's hard, J. How're you holding up?"
She shrugs. "I got up. I got dressed. It's something."
He nods again. "I've gotta check in with Jack, and then we'll head out."
She downs the remainder of her tea. It will be good to go spend some time out in the world.
It doesn't hurt her to see Boston like this. She'd cut her ties with the city when she'd left for school and moving back had been a need, not a want. She's not sure she'll ever really forgive its streets for what they stole from her.
This is not Chicago. This was never their home.
The trek is uneventful. There's the odd feral ghoul, quickly dispatched, and the sounds of gunfire somewhere in the distance, but they are otherwise left to their own devices.
Bunker Hill buzzes. Caravans have just arrived from DC, bearing news and supplies. Children dart about and buyers are already wheedling out better prices from sellers still new to the art of the haggle. In the remnants of the memorial, a new set of eyes keeps watch over the proceedings. She cannot make out much of him when he changes shifts with the next watch, only his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. He's a new face, and Jenny makes a note to ask Kessler about him.
When it comes to the actual mechanics of maintaining the household, they manage like this: Edward handles the help while she handles the supplies. He has an eye for talent; she has learned to negotiate well. When the system works the way it's meant to, trips to Bunker Hill are incredibly efficient, largely routine affairs.
Stockton's man has the full set of holotapes from a Miss Moira Brown, a complete archive of the contents of the library in Alexandria. She had traded a copy of their complete Massachusetts Surgical Journal collection in exchange. On one hand, the trade is business-oriented; Jack has been on the hunt for several books rumored to have been in the library's collection. On the other, it is an exercise in frivolity; for all the potential research value contained within the collection of books, she is most interested in their digitized archives of The Unstoppables. There are also a few seed samples sent from the labs at Rivet City; while their own hydroponic system has been remarkably efficient at providing, she's eager to add a little more variety into their diet.
Mostly, she likes to hear the news. A girl out from one of the D.C. vaults quite nearly gave her life to activate a massive water purifier on the Potomac Basin; the whole Capital Wasteland has access to clean water now. The Enclave made, ostensibly, their last stand in trying to seize the purifier for their own. There's even rumor that the Brotherhood activated some sort of giant robot in the course of the offensive; Jenny doesn't quite believe that one. She may be two-centuries past her assigned expiration date, but even then, there are some things beyond belief.
She prods for updates, too, about the ghouls thrown out of Diamond City with the rise of its new mayor. She and Edward had had friends there, a handful of other pre-war relics like themselves. She's heard of some fleeing to Goodneighbor and others still setting up a small farm up to the northeast. She worries for Arlen most of all; there's only so much a person can take.
Edward spends his time recruiting. Jenny's not sure how he does it, how he gauges the balance between ruthless killer and reliable contractor. She tries not to worry too much, though; after two hundred years, she's fairly certain he and Jack have at least established a thorough vetting system before placing anyone at Parsons.
Kessler doesn't have much for her about the new guard; he'd rolled into town a few weeks ago, needed work, and had quickly proven himself handy with a sniper rifle. He wasn't wild about stationed at the top of the old monument, especially in its decrepit state, but seemed to come around after a chat with Stockton.
"Why the shades?" She asks. "Looks like its about to pour."
"Don't start," the other woman answers. "He keeps the damn things on day and night."
The trip home is wet, but again, largely uneventful - a by-product of having an additional five, heavily armed traveling companions.
Argos rolls on along his perimeter check, wheels clattering against the cobblestone. He draws a few wary looks from the potential new hires, whose eyes drift toward the minigun mounted on his arm.
"He's defensive," Edward offers. "Makes it easier to keep the house secure."
None of the men seem comforted.
"If they can't handle Argos, they're never gonna handle Jack," Jenny mutters under her breath.
" Appreciate the confidence, Ms. Lands."
"Anytime, Mr. Deegan. Anytime."
She doesn't stick around for introductions. If she's heard Jack's spiel once, she's heard it a thousand times, and besides, she's eager to get the new plantings started.
The garden had been her idea, mentioned in passing her first week after moving in. She hadn't expected anyone to take her seriously when she'd offered the idea of turning the disused wine cellar into an indoor greenhouse; the financial investment alone made it impossible for most.
"She's got a point," Edward had said. "If the worst really does come to pass, it's not like going to the supermarket is really going to be an option."
Jack had paused, considering the proposal and the space. "How quickly could you two get it up and running?"
She'd turned to Edward, not quite believing what she had heard. "It'll take about a week to get all the parts," he'd begun. "Lights, troughs, seeds. And probably a few days to get the wiring and plumbing set, and a few more to get the initial planting done."
When all was said and done, it had taken them fifteen days from inception to completion.
It had helped to have Edward there, not only for his ability to rig the electrical and plumbing components, but for his ability to listen. He'd started gently enough, prying things out of her slowly. It started with why the gardening bug, which led to Chicago, which led to Nick, which led to, well, the whole mess that had brought her to Cabot House in the first place. By the time they were done, Edward had heard it all. He never faltered, never flinched, even when she finally broke, tears soaking through his shirt as she told him about Nick's murder and her own miscarriage, her two greatest losses jut a few weeks apart. It was like being six, again, Edward comforting her over a skinned knee and walking her the rest of the way home.
It was the first time she truly believed things might get better. They wouldn't be okay, but they might improve.
The bombs had somewhat scuttled that notion, but still. Life continued on.
The garden smells of greenery and moist soil. The tomatoes reach up towards the top of their cage; the herbs stand ready to be harvested. The lights beam overhead in defiance of the rain soaking the earth above. It is her proof that there is hope.
She misses strawberries, though, she's hopeful the new seeds will do something to ameliorate the problem.
Jenny had never liked dirt, liked planting, as a kid. Sure, her mother kept small, beautiful gardens, and yes, her grandmother grew determined little apples, but it wasn't until she was living in Chicago, in a rundown little apartment with a beautiful, communal rooftop garden, that the urge to grow something ever really took root.
Once everything's settled in, she heads back up into the house, and towards Jack's lab.
"Ah! Jenny. How was market?" He asks with good cheer.
"Productive," she answers, pulling the holotapes from her bag. "These came in. Complete contents of the Alexandria Public Library."
"Wonderful! Wonderful. Any other news?"
"There's a group of ghouls living in the old Museum of Natural History. Some of them are getting industrious, heading into the museum proper to gather what information and resources they can. Might be worth it to get in touch with a woman by the name of Carol down there."
"Local leadership?"
Jenny shrugs. "I wouldn't go that far. She owns the local hotel. Mothers the newcomers. I hear she has a finger on the pulse of the place, so she seems like your best bet for contact person."
"Still no word on an Air and Space excavation?"
"Sorry, Jack," she offers. "Going theory is that it's too dangerous. Maybe some of the Natural History ghouls will go digging, if their current effort nets anything useful."
"And the crash reports?"
"What crash reports? Like, a vertibird crash? Because I'm fairly certain scavvers have already picked those over."
"No, Jack. Nothing on the crash," Edward chimes in from below a piece of machinery.
Jenny thinks, not for the first time, that Jack and Edward are the best example she has ever seen of the argument that relationships are a balance. Yes, she and Nick were each other's counterweights when it came to the so-called work-life balance, but mostly, they fed off of one another. Investigations and contacts and leads somehow rolled seamlessly into sex and brunch and holiday plans.
Jack and Edward are different. Edward is practical, well grounded. He is a product of South Boston and his own efforts to get out. He is sensible. Reserved. He knows what it's like to struggle, Jenny thinks. He knows what it's like to rely on yourself.
Jack is theoretical, abstract, more interested in the if than in the how. Yes, Jack had worked, but it had been with the backing of money, of a once-influential father. Jack is gregarious. He is without shame, even in his more unusual beliefs. His belief that things will just work is beyond her comprehension and, she suspects, even beyond Edward's.
Somehow, though, they fit together.
Regardless, she realizes a little strategic redirection might not hurt. "How were the new recruits?"
"Enthusiastic. Perhaps a bit skittish, but enthusiastic."
"They're looking to build their rep," Edward adds. "Move up a little in the merc world."
"And we pay well," Jenny says. "Probably doesn't hurt. How'd they take the customary interview?"
Edward groans.
So much for strategic redirection, she thinks.
"What is it that you two find so objectionable about it? It's a valid question."
"Even when the term 'standard hiring practices,' meant anything, it generally didn't include questions about, well -"
"Aliens," Edward finishes for her. "The reds? Sure. But not aliens."
"When you hired me, I didn't know how to react. And that was with the benefit of being prepared for it."
"I thought you were pulling my leg, at first." The ghoul admits.
"Didn't you two ever wonder?" Jack asks, exasperated.
"Well, sure," Jenny starts. "But it was mostly about whether or not we'd have money for groceries
"Or the electric," Edward adds.
Jack stares at them both for a moment. "Well, that would explain it, then."
"Most people nowadays are more worried about where they're getting their next job, their next meal, or their next fix to consider the unknown." Edward continues. "We've all been shielded from the worst of it."
"Point being, they're as taken aback by the question as we were." Jenny adds.
"True, true," Jack muses. "But still. It's important to know who's open to more extreme possibilities."
"So, aliens it is, then?"
Jack grimaces at her flippancy. "Aliens it is."
By dinner, Wilhelmina's mood has not improved. She speaks only to Jenny, and even then, it's only to ask for salt. Jack shoots Edward a furtive look over his glasses: here we go again.
Jenny can't entirely blame her. The woman's only daughter runs off into the Commonwealth, no plan, and no direction. With raiders, mutants, the Institute, and your run of the mill sickos, it's not the best development - especially with said daughter's taste in men.
Still, this is what Emogene does. It's what she's done for the better part of the last two decades. She always manages to make it back in one piece, none the worse for the wear, and itching for a dose of the serum. As long as that's in play, she'll always come back to roost.
"That was worse than usual," she mutters to Edward over the dishes.
"Wasn't just Emogene," he answers.
Jenny sighs. "So, the Lorenzo issue again?"
Edward offers a vague "Mmm, " as good a sign as any that the issue had reared its head again, that the conversation had taken the same inevitable path, that Wilhelmina was as unsatisfied with its conclusion as she ever was.
Yes, she had spent time in Parsons following her arrest, but had never noticed anything odd, anything out of the ordinary. Despite over two hundred years in Cabot House, as a de facto member of the Cabot family, she has never met Lorenzo, nor does she ever expect to. Trips to Parsons are few, and taken only as a matter of absolute necessity.
If it were only Jack who feared the man, she would be skeptical. Jack is brilliant, yes, but is also blessed with a brilliant imagination, a tendency to read too far into things. It's Edward and Emogene's fears that truly offer her confirmation of the possible threat.
After all, it had been Jack and Emogene who had originally come up with the plan to subdue Lorenzo, and Edward who had figured out how to keep the man confined despite the difficulties of the post-apocalypse. Hell, keeping Lorenzo contained was of such dire consequence in the immediate aftermath of the bombs that Edward had exposed himself to a near lethal dose of radiation to make sure the asylum held. Though he'd never taken his looks too seriously, the resulting ghoulification had still been a major sacrifice, an indication of the threat Lorenzo truly posed.
Wilhelmina had never supported it. She truly believed her husband was still there, that he just needed to come to his senses. On some level, Jenny understands. If Nick had come back from a case a different man, she's not sure she would have believed it either. She knows she would have fought for him; why wouldn't Wilhelmina fight for her husband?
Jenny tries not to think about it. The serum aside, there's very little about the tale that ends well. And, even then, she's not really sure if the serum is all that great a boon. Yes, they are immortal, functionally. Yes, they have survived the bombs, the radiation, the intervening centuries. But what are they doing? They're holed up, ensconced in books and experiments behind a Sentry Bot with a small personal army at their disposal. But, for what?
For science? For knowledge?
For love, she thinks, watching Jack and Edward in the doorway.
She wakes that night with a start. There's gunfire close, and it takes her a moment to realize it's not in her dream; it's outside her window. It's not Nick being gunned down; it's some other poor bastard.
She couldn't save Nick.
She might not be able to save whoever's downstairs.
It's stupid. Impulsive. Reckless.
She moves the curtain aside, gently. There's a man, staggering along the fence of the small green, doubled over. She can't make out much, but he doesn't look like a raider.
This is a bad idea, she tells herself, as she shrugs on a sweater. He could be a robber. Or worse.
Edward would pitch a fit, as she pulls on a pair of galoshes.
Just because you've spent the better part of two centuries reading every medical text you can get your hands on doesn't make you a doctor, as she grabs the first aid kit, then gently shuts the door.
You would have done it for Nick, as she steps out into the night air, eyes darting around.
He would have said you were out of your mind, as she realizes she's unarmed.
He would have helped anyway, as she rolls the now collapsed man over.
It takes a minute for her to realize that she's seen the man before, that he was the guard she'd spotted in Bunker Hill this morning. He's still sporting his sunglasses, now accessorized with a stylish belly wound.
She thinks, for a moment, that she is going to throw up.
It's not the blood, not the wound. It's not even her nerves as she hauls the man to his feet. She can handle Jack, can handle Edward. She's even relatively certain she can handle taking care of any lingering after effects.
But she looks at him, at the trail of blood behind him, and can only see Nick.
It's the gunfire. It's the wound. It's being in this place, in this city, on this day. It's the ache she feels every morning, and the emptiness she fears every night. It's blood soaking through cotton and the way his breath is too wet, too ragged.
She won't leave him.
There is the matter of where to keep him, though. The house is, obviously, out of the question. There are too many people; there would be too many questions. More importantly, it'd be a serious breach of security. Jack may like to interview those who catch Edward's eye, but even then, they don't get near the house without first passing the body man's litmus test.
The simple fact is that they live in balance, on borrowed time. Introducing an unknown is dangerous. She cannot, and will not, endanger the people she has come to care so deeply about.
She also will not leave this man to die.
Instead, she drags him to the side of the house, through the alley, and into the small building made to appear abandoned. The ground is slick, and she struggles to keep the man upright, bundling him into the small, makeshift, two-story shed.
Once upon a time, it housed an icehouse; then a summer kitchen; then, a guesthouse; now, the generator for the entire Cabot complex. It is small and secure; Edward had included the building in the post-war renovations, allowing it to keep power and running water. There is a small cot mounted against the wall, and the small guesthouse bathroom had been left intact.
It is perfect.
She bundles him through the door before locking it behind them, and lowering him gently to the floor. She shrugs off her sweater, tossing it aside before kneeling down gingerly next to him. She opens the kit, and begins her task, pulling on gloves, and gently lifting away the layers of clothing from the wound.
Or, more accurately, wounds, as she quickly realizes.
There are two holes, a perfect entry and exit, through the left side of his gut.
She bites back the bile rising in her throat, and peels his shirt over his head, knocking his sunglasses asunder. His eyes are glassy when he meets briefly meets her gaze.
Jenny recognizes a dying man when she sees one.
She could let him pass, load him up with Med-X and give him someplace quiet and safe to spend whatever time he has left. It'd be the merciful thing to do, the sensible thing to do. She would have helped in her own small way. She wouldn't have left him out there to die. She would have at least given him some dignity.
But this is all too close, all too familiar. He is not Nick, but it might as well be Nick's face gazing up at her for the way her hands are shaking. The man might have a wife, a husband, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend, There might be someone waiting for him, someone wondering where he is, someone who will go through life with a hole, an emptiness that nothing quite fills, nothing quite repairs.
So, she gives him a dose of Med-X.
Binds his wounds as best as she can.
Monitors the transfusion from the sterile blood pack.
And stabs him with a dose of the serum.
As far as stupid, reckless, egregiously bad decisions go, this one is up there. Keeping the serum's existence on the down low is paramount to keeping off the radar of everyone ranging from petty crooks to raiders to the Institute itself. Even without Lorenzo, there's a hundred million ways everything could blow up in their faces, and any one of those players would be enough to do it.
She'll just have to hope her patient doesn't notice.
Dragging him onto the cot is a challenge all its own. He's half a foot taller, and practically dead weight. It's been years –centuries, really– since she's had to do any heavy lifting and she is woefully unprepared. Finally, after much time and effort, she gets him onto his side on the mattress.
She turns her attention, then, to the layers of clothing cast off in pursuit of the wound. There's a tattered shirt, a leather jacket, and a cap.
Jenny tells herself she's looking for a contract, a letter, some hint of this man's identity. She tells herself that she should check for which caravan team he's with, so she can let them know their man hasn't abandoned his duties, that he's just taken a hit.
She would never admit that what she really wants to find is a little more personal. She wants a note, a scribble, a drawing, something. She wants to picture this man's family, the people he who count on him. She wants to know whom else she's spared, who's waiting for this man to come home. She wants to know that she's taken this risk, this terrible risk, for someone else, someone beyond this man.
Someone beyond herself.
In the inside pocket of his jacket, her fingers find the sharp crease of a folded note. She can barely make out the penciled writing in the dim glow filtering in from the spotlights; she finds the man's lighter, and reads by that instead.
The hair on the back of her neck prickles, and she feels goosebumps beginning to rise along her arms.
There has been talk of the Railroad for almost as long as there has been talk of the Institute. In theory, she likes them. If the stories about synths are true, that they are sentient, that they are indistinguishable from a human, that they are stripped of their agency and threated as chattel, then she is glad that there is someone who cares, someone who is willing to help them.
But there are other stories, too, stories of entire towns wiped clean in the night, their inhabitants' belongings still scattered about. There are never any bodies. There are never any signs of struggle. There is just a vast silence.
She swallows hard, and tucks the note back into the jacket. Plausible deniability will not save them if the Institute has a tail on the man. She holds her breath, listening for what she doesn't know. Outside, Argos rolls on. There is the faint scampering of mole rats. The generator hums.
There's nothing to be done, she tells herself. You've made your bed, now lie in it.
She hopes that if the Institute is coming that they have the decency to be quick about it. End them, end the man, and move on. There's no need to make anyone suffer.
If you're out there, she thinks. Get us while we sleep. Don't make Jack or Edward go without the other.
Behind her, the man stirs.
She gets up, and heads for the door. She'll have to leave a note explaining something to Edward and Jack. She figures she can tell them a mostly true story; as far as she knew, as far as she should have ever known, the man was just one of the Bunker Hill guards. It never hurts to have a reputation for being helpful, especially with Jack's occasionally strange requests of the traders and caravaners. They can know about the Med-X, the blood pack, the bandages; they don't need to know about the serum. They can never know about the Railroad.
Sins of omission, her grandmother's voice echoes through her mind. The things you don't say matter every bit as much as the things you do.
She's back in the shed, water and mutfruit in hand, books under her arm, before the sun even rises.
Edward brings her breakfast and a gun in the morning, and lunch in the early afternoon.
"How's your friend doing?"
Jenny shrugs. "He's got a bit of a fever, but I guess that isn't all that surprising. He's been out of it since I hauled him in last night."
"Was a hell of a risky thing you did."
She braces herself for a lecture, for a talk, but it never comes. "Nick would have been furious," she concedes. "Would have told me it was a damn dangerous thing to do on my own."
"He would have been right."
"What was I supposed to do?" She asks, not really expecting an answer. "Leave him out there? It's not like ringing up the ambulance is really much of an option these days. He wouldn't have made it back to Bunker. God knows he wouldn't have made it to Diamond City. I couldn't … I … a gut shot's a terrible way to die. I couldn't just watch."
"Not when we had we he needed to have a fighting chance."
Jenny relaxes, letting go of the tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying in her shoulders. "Yeah," she exhales. "Something along those lines."
"He armed?"
"Was," she says, pointing toward the now-folded pile of clothes. "There's a holster in there, but no heater. Must've dropped it somewhere."
"Or lost it to whoever jumped him. Some punk who needed the caps for a fix."
"Thought we got out of the old neighborhood," she jokes. "You know, moved up in the world."
"You can bomb it to hell, but Boston is still Boston."
"Can't even think about what Southie must be like these days."
"Let's not find out."
She lets out a short laugh. "Agreed. There's enough danger around the neighborhood. Things any better on the home front?"
It's Edward's turn to laugh. "Come on, J, you know the storm never passes that quickly."
"Stranger things have happened!"
"Pigs ain't flyin' yet."
"Do you think any pigs still exist?"
"Why? Got a craving for bacon?"
"Edward!"
He grins. "I'll leave you to it, Florence Nightingale."
Her charge is still sleeping soundly when darkness falls. She ventures back to the house for a pillow and sleeping bag, unwilling to leave him unsupervised. She is still nervous, but reasons that, if the Institute wanted this man, they would already have found him, and they would all already be dead. After all, why risk missing your target?
Her gut still prickles when she thinks of the letter. It is the first real secret she has ever kept from Edward, or Jack. It weighs her down, reminds her that actions have consequences, that those consequences have a far greater potential impact than the loss of her own life. More than anything, she wants to tell them. They'd figure something out. There would be a plan.
But she's not sure they'd ever trust her again.
She can't risk that.
Sometime around ten, the man stirs, slowly coming to.
"Easy, sailor," Jenny starts, rising from her perch on the floor. "Your guts are all back where they should be, but you've still lost a lot of blood."
"Where am I?" He asks, and Jenny almost drops her mug at the California accent.
"In a shed. Not too far from Bunker Hill. What's the last thing you remember?"
"How'd you find me?"
"You weren't exactly inconspicuous. It's not every damn night a man gets shot outside my window."
"You're shitting me," He groans. "That huge house, it's actually occupied?"
"The Sentry Bot, spotlights, and 'KEEP OUT' sign weren't enough of a tip off?"
"I've seen some weird stuff out in the 'Wealth."
"Welcome to Cabot House."
He starts to push himself into a sitting position, admits defeat with a wince and a muttered "Alright, then."
"You had a clean entry and exit. That doesn't just heal over night."
"Why help me out?"
"What can I say? You were my type; bloody, dying men have always left me weak in the knees."
She grimaces internally. It's a dark joke, even by her standards.
He laughs, then winces again. "You got a name?"
"Name's Jenny."
"Nice to meet you, Jenny. Call me Deacon."
"So," he ventures during breakfast the next morning. "What's your story? Aside from patching up strange men."
"Officially, I'm a research assistant, and one half of the house's staff."
"Unofficially?"
"I read a lot, and sometimes venture out. I negotiate with traders. I take care of the gardens."
"Gardens?"
"We have a sort of greenhouse. In the basement."
He eyes her over his sunglasses, now back perched on his face. "You're bullshittin' me."
"You don't believe me?"
"I know a story when I hear one."
"Stay there," she says, though she's not quite sure where she expects him to go. She breezes into the house, sidestepping the second round of the Wilhelmia-Jack debacle, throwing a sympathetic glance in Edward's direction.
Descending into the garden, she finds herself strangely excited. The apple trees were one of the last additions, brought in by burly men in the last few days before the bombs. They'd had a hard time the first few weeks; Edward once said that she'd gotten them to thrive on force of will alone.
Luck, love, force of will: the how had never mattered to her. It still doesn't.
The latest crop had only really come into its own within the last day or so. She'd been planning to harvest them in earnest just after the trip to Bunker Hill; her preoccupation with the man —with Deacon— had superseded that. Edward had taken up the slack in her absence, leaving her a basket of freshly picked fruit.
She grabs an apple, polishes it off, and heads back up the stairs, and out the kitchen door.
The sun is shining outside, and the world is quiet. These are her favorite kinds of days.
"Alright," she begins, shutting the shed door, and hiding the fruit behind her. "What'd you know about apples?"
"Apples? You mean like Dandy Boy?"
"I mean like real apples, ones that grow on trees. "
"Juicy red fruit. People used to bake'em into all sorts of things. Heard there's a lab down in Capital Wasteland, trying to get them planted in a hydroponic system."
"Ever had one?"
"'Scuse me?"
"You heard me."
"You see a lot of apple trees around here?"
"I don't know," she says, polishing the apple against the side of her dress before holding it up. "You tell me."
"Where did you-"
"Told you. I spend a lot of time in the garden." She crosses the room, depositing it in his hand. "Try it. We generally have a pretty good crop."
She watches his skepticism recede with each bite.
"How?" he asks.
She bites back a smile. "The folks who were living here before the war were concerned about how they would eat if the worst came to pass. They set up the greenhouse. Every subsequent generation's just maintained it."
"Must make resupplying a little cheaper."
"I wish. Can't grow bullets. Or books."
"Wait, you have books? Books that aren't burned, waterlogged messes?"
This time, she can't hold back the grin. "We have a garden. Are you really surprised to hear there are books?" She shakes her head. "You're gonna be here a few days more at least. Got any requests?"
"Something hopeful?" He ventures.
"You're askin' the wrong woman."
"Surprise me, then."
She comes back with an armful of books, mostly hardboiled pulp. She'd never taken up a taste for the literary canon; Nick had teased her about it on the day he'd finally taken notice of her bookshelves.
"Got a thing for detectives, Lands?"
"Just one
."
She loves them, but there's a reason she keeps them in their boxes.
"These should keep you busy," she says, setting the pile next to the cot.
"Damn," he says, picking the top one up. "Pristine."
A week in, and she's gotten used to him. He's back on his feet, and through a good chunk of her library. Emogene's still slumming in somewhere in the 'Wealth and Wilhelmina has graduated to the silent treatment for them all, but it somehow feels far less onerous than usual.
Naturally, she isn't looking forward to the conversation she has to have.
He's back in his gear, now free from blood, getting ready to head out. The serum's effects were subtle, but she's experienced enough to spot them. There's a scar across his back that's slowly been fading, and another ropey one on his left bicep that's starting to sink level. The entrance and exit wounds aren't even visible. He looks healthy, a miracle in and off itself.
"Deacon, I need a minute."
There's a lump in her throat and her hands have gone clammy.
"Lay it on me."
She thinks about abandoning it altogether. There's no reason he ever needs to know. She could let him go, let him walk away with as a nice a memory of being shot as is possible. She doesn't need to end this on a sour note.
"I know …." Her heart is pounding. "I know you're not really a guard. Not full time anyway. I know you're Railroad."
He laughs. "Jenny-"
"I read the note. The one in your pocket."
He's quiet now, unreadable behind his sunglasses.
"I wasn't trying to snoop. But … I thought you were a guard. And I wasn't sure you were gonna make it. I've been on the other end of that, and, if you had family, well, I figured someone should tell them … if … you know … if you didn't." She pauses, swallowing hard. "So, I read the note. And spent the first two days you were here convinced the Institute was about to kick down the door."
She can't look at him. Instead, she focuses on wiping her hands down the front of her apron, just trying to get through her speech.
"Look, I've got people I have to protect. I'm not crazy about the thought of the boogeyman showing up to end us all. But … if you end up in a scrape or you need something or somewhere to lie low, well. Come find me. Is what I'm getting at."
There's silence.
She swallows hard.
"How do I get back in?" He asks. "Waltzing through the front door isn't my style."
"I'll add your palm print into the system. You can get in and out through the back gate. It'll ping my terminal."
Another beat.
"You sure about this?" He asks.
She's not. She doesn't want to put the house, or her family, in danger. She should back out, tell him to forget it. She should never have brought it up. There are levels of stupidity, of wanton disregard for personal safety and the safety of others, but this is a new personal low.
That's the story she's told herself for the last four nights, lying in bed. IF she was sensible, reasonable, she would never even have broached the subject.
But her heart has always ruled her head.
Her heart, the bastard, says 'do the right thing,' says ' you can't just stand by.' You hated the injustice you saw when the world was still whole; it sharers, and you're suddenly willing to roll over and let it slide? She thinks of The Little Prince, of foxes and roses: You are responsible for what you tame.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
He considers this for a moment. "You're gonna need a codename."
"Codename?"
"This isn't without its risks. Codenames are the first line of defense."
She chews on her lip. "You got any suggestions?"
"It's your call. Codenames are a personal business."
"Call me 'Nightingale,'" she offers.
"Like the nurse?"
"Like the song."
She doesn't recognize him when she sees him next, only believes it's him when he starts quoting Raymond Chandler books. He's got a gash on his gun arm, too deep for a bandage. She patches him up and sends him on his way, an apple for good luck.
He shows up again, six months later with another new face, gun arm akimbo, obviously dislocated. It's a quick visit, a shot of bourbon and a "scream quietly." He offers her a pained smile and is back out into the night in less than half-an-hour.
In between, the world is quiet. Emogene comes and goes, lingering long enough for the serum to take hold, and a quick chat before she's off again. Jack grumbles about how she's already had her Grand Tour and, really, must she keep extending it?
She and Edward keep on their rounds to Bunker Hill. She's never sure who to look for, but she can't help wondering if Deacon is there.
A year passes in much the same fashion. She finds him one night huddled in the back of the shed, shaking and sweating.
"This isn't gonna be pretty," he offers by means of an apology.
"Wasn't pretty with you leaking your guts all over, either. What is this, some kind of virus?"
"Detox," he grinds out. "Took my cover a little too seriously."
She helps him to his feet, and deposits him on the cot. "Christ, you really are a mess, aren't you?"
Even with the sunglasses obscuring his face, she can tell he's sheepish. "Figured if I kicked it once…"
"You could kick it again." She wraps two fingers around his wrist, and keeps an eye on her watch. "Your heart's going like a jackrabbit," she says after a pause. "I don't know where you were coming from, but you're lucky you made it here."
"What're you gonna tell-"
"Edward? That my guard friend came back, he's feeling under the weather, and he doesn't make enough to see a doctor."
"He'll buy that?"
"Edward's pre-War," she offers. "Grew up on the poor side of town. He'll understand."
She feels a twinge of guilt. Sure, she hasn't yet brought hell down on their heads, but she still doesn't like lying to Edward.
She's also not particularly good at it.
It's not really a lie, she tells herself on the way into the house. She did meet Deacon as a Bunker Hill guard. He is feeling under the weather. He probably doesn't have the caps on hand to see a real doctor or get his hands on Addictol.
Everyone else is asleep as she winds her way to the kitchen, filling a decanter with water, and a glass with juice. She rummages briefly through the pantry, in search of something salty, and coming away with a bag of potato chips.
She's seen Jet withdrawal before, a lifetime ago. She'd been working a story and stumbled on a group of veterans hooked on the nasty stuff after their stints in Anchorage. They shook and sweated and, usually, ended up right back on drugs again. She'd gone to funerals for two of them before the bombs had fallen.
Deacon's got the cot blanket pulled around him when she opens the door. He looks like a strangely oversized kid, crunched in the way he is.
"How'd you get clean last time?" She asks, handing him the juice.
"Luck," he says, taking a sip. "A good babysitter."
"So, the hard way, then. Just like this."
"Addictol's a little out of the price range when you've been slamming Jet for a month and a half."
She grimaces. "Suppose that makes sense. You get something out of it, at least? Other than withdrawal, I mean."
"Got what I needed," he offers, taking another sip. "All that's left to do is pay for it."
He spends the next two days shaking, shivering, and vomiting. He barely eats, and his skin takes on a waxy pallor. His heart races and the fever refuses to break. The third afternoon, he seizes, and she realizes that the hard way might be too hard; she remembers all too well what happened to the two vets.
Once he's back, once he's coherent, she leaves him on the floor, the breakables cleared away, and sets out for Goodneighbor.
She hates traveling alone. Edward's made sure she's a good shot, but it's hard to tell what's shadow and what's danger when you're only relying on your own senses. She knows she's no match for a group of raiders, let alone a single super mutant.
Once upon a time, the gun in her holster belonged to Nick. It's a six –shot .44 revolver with a 'V' carved into the grip. It had seen him through years of service, gotten him out of plenty of scrapes. She carries it in his memory and, in the faint hope that, if he's out there, he's watching over her.
The ramshackle gates of Goodneighbor are comforting, a word she never thought she'd ascribe to this place. She's dressed to unimpress, years of trips to market having taught her a thing or two about how to blend in. She goes first to Daisy, who's fresh out. Then to the Hotel Rexford, which likewise leaves her high and dry.
She huffs, and resigns herself to a trip to The Third Rail, and the faint hope that Charlie might have something for his often patrons suffering from a more demanding palette.
She makes it halfway to the bar before Emogene spots her.
"Don't tell me Jack and Edward sent you out here."
"Nah," she offers. "This is my own death-wish errand."
"Thought you were a bit more choosy in your intoxicants."
"I'm not here for me," she says, motioning Charlie over. "Or liquor, actually."
The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at the Addictol purchase. "And Jack thinks I'm the only one who gets into trouble," she drawls. "I know you're not using, so who's it for?"
"You can't tell Jack," Jenny says, fishing out the caps. "Or Edward." Charlie hands her the syringe. "Especially not Edward."
"If it wasn't for Edward, you'd be as bad as me."
"If it wasn't for Edward, I wouldn't be here."
"What are you hiding?" Emogene asks, taking a sip of her beer.
"Not what, who."
The blonde barely manages to keep the liquid from coming out her nose. "You're hiding someone?"
"A friend of mine," she says, pulling Emogene along as she heads to the bar's exit. "Works at Bunker Hill. Got himself in a pinch. You know the story."
"Where is he -"
"The generator shed."
Emogene's face lights up. "Well done, Lands."
"I'm not proud of myself. Oh, but speaking of things I'm not proud of," Jenny trails off, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a syringe of the serum. "May it never be said I leave you high and dry."
"You're a good woman."
"If you get into trouble, get out of it with a good story," Jenny says, turning to leave.
"Should take your own advice!" The blonde calls after her.
The trip home is blessedly uneventful. When she slips back through the door, Deacon is sitting propped against the wall, half-asleep, sunglasses falling down his nose.
"I owe you," he says as she rolls up his sleeve.
"Find a way to put an end to that abominable classical music station, and we'll call it even."
She doesn't see him for months after that, but Stockton stops her one morning in Bunker Hill, pressing a note and a holotape into her hand.
This should be a temporary fix on that classical station, the note reads.
She can't help but smile when Ray Eberle's voice pours forth from her terminal.
It's the middle of 2281 before he appears again, and by that time, she's half-convinced herself he's dead. It's a new year, a new face, but an old shtick: Bunker Hill guard.
He stops her as she makes her rounds, a Dashiell Hammet quote whispered in her ear, and disappears before she can make a sound.
A few months later, he's back in the generator shed, blood gushing from a cut over his eye.
"Have you considered not wantonly pissing people off?" She asks.
He winces. "Awww, where's the fun in that?"
"Guess I should be grateful you're not bleedin' out your belly."
"Never gonna live that one down, huh?"
"It's been four years," she says, closing the gash. "And my back still hasn't recovered from hauling your ass in off the green."
"Don't look any worse for the wear."
"That's the bourbon talking, Deacon. Which reminds me, might want to lay off the firewater."
"Really," he says, taking another slug from the bottle. "You haven't aged a day."
Jenny laughs. "Really, it's the bourbon "
She flirts briefly with the idea of telling him, of letting him in on the secret. He's too drunk to believe her at any rate, but his expression, even with the sunglasses, might still be worth it. Instead, she runs a finger under the newly stitched cut. "Guess I'll be seeing you with a new face next time," she ventures. "That bad boy is gonna scar."
He grins up at her. "Think I can tell'em a Deathclaw did it?"
It's almost 2284 by the time he shows up again, though she's gotten better at spotting him around Bunker Hill, even with the face changes. On one of her sojourns back home, Emogene mentions a drifter around Goodneighbor, who also seems to fit the description; Jenny can't exactly say she's surprised.
He's sick as a dog again, but it's a new cause: radiation sickness.
"What, did you take a dip in Boston Harbor?" She asks, setting up the second IV of RadAway.
He's hunched over a bucket, forehead slick with fever sweat. "Heard swimming was good for your health," he offers.
"Mmm," Jenny intones. "You're letting your vanity get the best of you again. You know they can't see those muscles you've got under all those clothes."
He offers her a half-laugh, half-groan. "Could use Dorian Gray's portrait artist."
"You're not wicked enough," she counters. "And I don't think arts patron is really a profession that exists these days."
"Have you heard Magnolia sing? I'd support that."
He retches into the bucket again.
"Maybe you'd better focus on supporting your body through the rest of the detox process."
Deacon groans.
"You ever think of doctoring full-time?" He asks. "You might be able to do some real good out there for people."
"Me? Nah," Jenny answers. "It'd feel weird calling myself a doctor when I haven't gone to medical school with that group out in the NCR, or had much in the way of formal training. I can read all the textbooks I want, but it's not the same."
"I don't know," Deacon counters. "You've always done right by me. "
"Besides," she continues, unbothered. "I've heard enough stories about what goes on out there. People getting mugged, people getting killed," she pauses, and lowers her voice. "People disappearing."
"That one really eats at you, huh?"
"Haven't gotten over what you told me about Stockton's little girl. Don't think I ever will."
"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure if she knew, she wouldn't either."
She shudders, thinking of the likely fate of Stockton's biological daughter. "Poor thing. The whole lot of'em."
Deacon nods, then retches again.
"My feelings exactly."
By the end of 2285, he's ended up in the shed three times for the same injury: burns. Each visit brings a new face, a new set of scars, a new cover. She can't decide if it's a good or bad sign, and knows better than to ask.
The first time, the face is grim. He barely speaks. She can't tell if it's rage or fear, or some combination of the two.
The second time, the face is pained. His gun hand is beginning to blister, and she winces in sympathy when she sees it. It will be a long, slow healing process, and she knows he is not blessed with the option of taking time off.
The third time, the face is weary. There is relief in its features, and a kind of bone deep exhaustion. He drinks from a bottle of something that smells of something somewhere between pain thinner and scotch. He raises a toast to victory, and offers Jenny a shot, laughing at the way her nose wrinkles.
"You only ever offer me the finest liquor," she groans.
"Gotta pay the piper somehow."
He spends the next year as a goddamn fixture in her life, after getting himself hired by Edward under some other alias, and quickly working his way into the body man's confidence.
Jenny vacillates between wanting to know if the house, if Jack, Emogene, or godforbid, Lorenzo, have some sort of strategic importance, and wanting to be kept in the dark about Deacon's motives. She's never seen an ounce of malice in the man, but knows all too well that looks can be deceiving.
He becomes her unofficial bodyguard on outings, tailing her through the markets. She assumes it's a matter of pragmatism; from the bits and pieces she gets out of him, she assumes free, reliable, sympathetic medical care with discretion is difficult to come by. Still, she's grateful for the extra set of eyes; it's harder to disappear entirely with someone watching your back.
The stories of kidnappings pick up as the year goes on, and Jack asks Edward to have Emogene shadowed. Deacon takes to the task with aplomb, seeming to enjoy the risks of tailing a mark who's actively trying to lose him.
She patches him up a few times, though they're minor scrapes compared to what she's accustomed to seeing. It feels strange to sit with him in the pristine kitchen on padded chairs, surrounded by gleaming appliances.
In the sitting room, Wilhelmina turns the radio dial to the classical station, and Jenny groans.
"Tell me, mister," she asks, feigning nonchalance. "What's your going rate on a big job?"
"How big's the job? Mr. Deegan pays me 200 caps a week for trailing Ms. Cabot."
"Mmm," Jenny intones. "Not really sure how to describe the scope. Part search and find, part demolition."
"You've got my attention."
"My kingdom if you can blow up that damnable classical station's transmitter. Or, better yet, it's station."
"'Bout eight years of doctoring is my going rate."
Jenny grins at him.
One afternoon, about four months into Deacon's tenure with them, Edward knocks on her doorframe. She's knee deep in translation notes for Jack, five books open on her floor to cross-reference the charts. She's only half-paying attention, and jumps at the sound.
"Sorry, J," Edward starts. "Didn't mean to startle you, but I've got a question."
"Tell Jack I need more time."
Edward furrows his brow.
"It's … not about the translation?" She asks.
He shakes his head. "It's about one of the guys we hired."
"What's wrong?" She asks, sitting back on her haunches. "One of'em go missing?"
"One of'em … one of'em's itchin' to take you on a date."
Jenny goes bug-eyed. "Who?!"
"Johnny." Deacon.
"Oh," she says, face softening. "That's … a surprise."
"Say the word, and I'll put a stop to it."
She sighs. On the one hand, she's at least confident it's not actually a date. On the other hand, she's not sure she's ready for whatever it is she's actually being drafted into. "I mean, it's been 200 years, right?"
"You gotta do what you're comfortable with. I've got your back either way."
She chews on her lip. In for a penny, Lands, she tells herself. "Let it play out, I guess. See if he gets the guts up. "
Edward nods. "You change your mind, let me know."
"Appreciate it."
It takes Deacon two days to ask her, on the way to Bunker Hill, a perfectly bumbling performance, complete with a near inability to make eye contact. She plays the surprised, demure school girl, and graciously accepts.
Her terminal pings later that night, and she ventures down to meet him in the shed.
"Alright, I give up: what's this about?" She asks.
"Your quiet charm and stunning beauty?"
Jenny rolls her eyes. "Try again."
"Your refined sense of style and taste?"
"Deacon, I'm wearing pajamas."
"They're nice pajamas."
"Deacon."
"Alright, you got me. I could use your help on an op."
"Me? What, somebody get hurt?"
"Negative. Need you to play the distraction."
Jenny crosses her arms. "I'm a little out of practice," she says before she can stop herself. Oh, fuck, she thinks, her heart beginning to pound. Universe, Nick, whoever or whatever's out there: don't let him have noticed that.
He raises his eyebrows at her.
"What?" She asks. "Sometimes Emogene needs an accomplice."
He doesn't push the issue. "You live in a pre-War house, wear pre-War clothes, and are probably the most knowledgeable person I know when it comes to the old timey stuff. Hell, you could pass for pre-War yourself."
Jenny bites her tongue to keep from laughing. "Go on."
"We've got a package stalled, and a merc who I'm pretty sure is on the Institute's take. Rumor has it he's got a soft spot for old world dames."
Her lips purse, and her brow furrows. "He lays a hand on me, and I'll lay'im out."
"He lays a hand on you, and he's gonna have trouble," Deacon offers. "I'm not looking to even put you in range of that."
"So, what do you need me to do?"
"Rumor has it our guy fancies himself a regular Romeo with the old world blues set. You saunter into Goodneighbor, catch his attention, and get him drinking at the Rail. You keep him occupied, and I get our package out."
"I'm not going in unarmed."
"Wouldn't dream of asking."
"Alright, you got a deal."
She tells Edward that the date is set for Saturday, that they're going out for drinks at The Third Rail, and that she'll keep an eye out for Emogene. Edward tells her not to bother, that he's heard Em's shacked up somewhere in the Upper Stands of Diamond City, and that if she needs an escape clause to let him know, no questions asked.
Saturday afternoon, she stares into her closet. All of her clothes from her old life are here, including her wedding gown, tucked away in a garment bag. She's not sure what she's supposed to wear to attract her mark's attention, not sure just how 'old world' she's supposed to look.
Her eyes drift to a red dress, the red dress, and her chest clenches. She knows it will do the trick, yes, but it seems wrong to taint it. She'd made that dress, met Nick in that dress, been proposed to in that dress. It had seen her through office parties, precinct Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries.
It's a dress, she tells herself.
But that's bullshit and she knows it. The dress is everything she's lost wrapped up into one neat package. It's Nick, and her job, and Chicago, and the paper. It's Navy Pier, their small green kitchen, and the dive bar they'd first met in. She runs a hand down the side seam, remembering how hard she'd worked to make sure it fit so perfectly, the way she'd admired herself in the mirror before stepping out that fateful night.
She moves it into the garment bag, next to the unworn wedding gown.
She settles on something green and lacy, smart flats, and curled hair. Her face looks strange with make up, and she feels ridiculous concealing a handgun in her pocketbook.
Deacon meets her outside the house, hands tucked into the pockets of slacks she's never seen before, and gun on display in a shoulder holster.
"Old world enough for ya?" She asks.
"A fashion plate for the 2077 summer season."
He briefs her as they walk. Their mark's name is Jimmy Halloran. He's from the Capital Wasteland, moved up about five years ago. He's your rank and file merc, but with too many caps to play with for that kind of lot in life. Irma noticed him snooping around the Memory Den just after the latest package arrived, and tipped off HQ. Her job is to catch his eye, keep him busy, and give them enough time to move the package on.
She smoothes down her skirt, and checks her lipstick in a small compact just outside the gate.
"Ready?" Deacon asks.
She nods. "Let's go."
She's half way to the Hotel Rexford when the mark notices her. He's slick, oily, and probably hasn't bathed in two weeks. Jenny smiles sweetly, and plays to his vanity. She bats her mascaraed eyelashes and humors him with red-lipped smiles. She offers to buy him a drink in her most honeyed tones, slipping Charlie a generous tip in the process.
He waxes poetic about the world that was, and she fights the urge to burst his bubble, tell him it wasn't all that great. She feigns horror at his description of baseball, biting back a laugh the whole way, and listens attentively as he describes the wonder of General Atomics Galleria, forever preserved.
She fights the urge to tell him that the Galleria was a tacky publicity stunt, one armed with several hundred accidents waiting to happen, and that if he wants true majesty, he should go find himself a print of the Windy City's skyline.
Instead, she nods along, oohing and ahhing as expected. He tells her he's come into some money lately, that there's a lot more where it came from, and that he's looking into getting out of the merc business. He's thinking about setting up in Diamond City's Upper Stands, decorating it in obeisance to the old world. He tells her how he's been collecting pieces, found some real museum grade ones, but that he's still missing the thing that'll make it all complete.
Deacon's hand is on her back before their mark can even finish his next thought.
"See you made a new friend, darlin'," he says, never once breaking eye contact with the other man. His smile's all teeth, and she can only describe it as predatory.
"You know me," she starts, looking up at him with what she hopes comes off as adoration. "Just can't help but find someone to talk to. Mr. Halloran here was just telling me about the General Atomics Galleria."
"Well," Deacon drawls. "Isn't that just fascinating? Come on now, darlin'. Time to go."
"Goodbye, Mr. Halloran," she says in her sweetest voice. "Lovely to have met you!"
His hand slides around her waist, as they turn to leave, the smile still plastered serenely on her face. Out of view of the gate, he finally drops cover. "Package is on the move."
She lets out a long, slow breath. "That's good news. "
"Find anything out?"
"He's definitely on the Institute's take. They're paying him enough that he's thinking of getting out of the merc business, retiring to Diamond City."
"Upper Stands?"
"Where else?"
"Mmmm," Deacon murmurs. "So, he's got incentive to stick around Goodneighbor for now. That complicates things."
"What he needs is incentive to take a goddamn shower. The way he talked, he's got more than enough caps to pay for a dose of Rad-X and some soap."
Deacon lets out a short laugh. "Can't disagree with you there. Thanks for the help, by the way."
"Anytime."
"You got a story to tell our Mr. Deegan?"
"Yup. And it's one that won't even get you fired."
She still doesn't like lying to Edward, but she has gotten better at it. When he asks the next morning, she tells him Johnny was a perfect gentlemen, while also noting that date might have been too strong a term.
"Poor guy's lonely," she offers. "He hasn't been up from Capital Wasteland that long, and he's still finding his footing. Between you and me," she whispers. "I don't think he gets out much, except for work."
Edward nods. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she says, smiling at him. "I'm glad it wasn't actually a date, though. I'm … still not ready. Don't think I ever really will be."
"For what it's worth," he says, turning to leave. "I'm proud'a you. Even if it wasn't a real date, there's no way that was easy."
Her smile is small, but genuine. "Thanks. I mean it."
Deacon's with them through November, and then is gone again, saying something about setting up his own caravan company. He tells Jenny he has plan on the back burner that's coming to head, one that might finally tip the scales.
She quirks an eyebrow, but knows better than to ask. Instead, she hands him an apple, and wishes him luck.
She hears from him from time to time, by way of Stockton. She even catches a glimpse of him once on his way out of the gate at Bunker.
When her terminal pings late one September night, she isn't prepared for what she sees.
He's covered in blood, and reeks of death. There's burns on his arms, and his right leg is gashed open. The bruise on his cheek is dark and his breathing looks pained. His hands are balled into fists, and his whole body shakes.
"Jesus Christ!" She hisses, shutting the door behind her and hurrying over. "The hell happened?"
"The goddamn … Institute bastards … found us," he grinds out. "Hit HQ."
Jenny's blood runs cold. "Oh my god," she whispers. "But you said there were families there."
"When … has the Institute … ever given … a flying fuck…"
She swallows hard. "Come on, let's get you patched up."
She pries his hands apart, and doses him with a shot of Med-X before yanking out the glass, and stitching the skin back together.
He's silent, gritting his teeth as she repeats the procedure with the two cuts on his leg. He doesn't even wince when she checks his ribs, just a sharp inhale when she finds the three that are cracked.
She's halfway through cleaning and bandaging his arms when he finally speaks. "We didn't … stand a chance. Came in so fast … didn't have time to trip … the defenses. Whole place … reeked. Burning flesh. Never … saw it coming."
"You do the best with what you can."
"Someone … sold us out. Or … got sloppy."
"Deacon."
"If we got … twenty … of our people out … it was a lot."
"Deacon."
"Fens … was six months pregnant … Left her a pile of ash."
Jenny squeezes her eyes shut. She's seen this before. She'd lived through it with Nick after a stakeout he'd been on got bloody. After his death, she hoped someone, somewhere bore the same kind of guilt.
"Deacon, you couldn't have stopped this."
"All year … all fucking year … and I got nothing.'"
"You got people out. That's something."
He shoves one bandaged hand under his sunglasses, rubbing at his eyes. "It's … not over.
"What d'you mean?"
"If they got … HQ … they'll get … the safehouses. … if they haven't already … Maybe not … all of them … but enough."
"So," she says, after a moment. "What now?"
He pushes himself to his feet, groaning. "Every minute I'm here … I'm putting you in more danger."
"From everything you just said, I'm already in danger. You-"
"No."
"No what?"
"No … written records of you. No … way to find you."
"So, officially, I don't exist."
He offers her a weak smile. "Couldn't … bring down the transmitter tower … Hope this is … enough."
"Deacon-"
"Nightingale. Jenny. I gotta go."
"You-"
"In case we don't … meet again, thank you. For everything."
He squeezes her shoulder, and is out the door before she can protest.
She doesn't hear from him for weeks. Stockton is mum. She hopes that, if he's dead, it was quick, and that if the Institute's gotten to him, that he found a way to end it on his own terms, one last fuck you for the road.
She tries to make peace with it.
Then, one day in late October, a man in caravan clothes with a hunting rifle slung over his back offers her a smirk and a salute across the crowd at Bunker Hill. Her eyes bug and the smirk softens into a smile.
If the exchange lasts fifteen seconds, it's a lot, but it's enough to carry Jenny through the blowout Jack and Wilhelmina are in the midst of when they make it back to the house. It's enough to carry her through Nick's birthday and her should-have-been anniversary. It even carries her through the growing fears of Parsons' insecurity, of serum shipments being disrupted, and raiders growing more clever in their tactics - almost as if they were being helped, or worse yet, guided.
It carries her, right until he ends up in the sitting room, brought in by Edward with another man.
This isn't the typical hire. It's not a new class of mercs contracted for standard work. Edward's plan was clear: go out and find the toughest looking sonofabitch he could, with the sole condition that he be easily persuaded by generous payment.
Jenny assumes Deacon is the accessory, rather than the target.
The man next to him is, well. It's safe to say he doesn't fill Jenny with confidence.
Clad in a vault suit and leather armor, he's sprawled across the divan, legs wide, hand on his gun. Ordinarily, she doesn't question Edward's judgment when it comes to people, but this time, she's got her doubts.
The man's got too much swagger, and too little care; she's seen even the coarsest mercs drum up the basest decorum on crossing the threshold into the house, but not this one. He just keeps his gaze roaming, appraising everything. She knows it's not awe, and doesn't figure it for envy. If anything, it's almost a blasé disdain.
Deacon, who is nigh impossible to read on the few occasions she's spotted him in the field, is obviously uncomfortable. He angles himself away from the other man, thumb brushing back and forth across a lighter. The tension between them crackles; she half-expects harsh words or a sharp rebuke to spill forth from either of them.
She lingers in the lab, watching the proceedings from the mezzanine until she's called down. Edward stands to the side of Jack. The new man is now standing, and Deacon rises to his feet as she descends the stairs.
"Gentlemen," Jack begins. "My research assistant, Ms. Lands."
"Don," The vault suit says, extending a hand.
"Pleasure." She says, taking it.
"Bobby," Deacon says, taking her hand. "Nice to meet you."
"You as well," Jenny offers mildly, ignoring the piece of paper he's slipped into her hand. "You gentlemen think you can retrieve our shipment? It's rough territory out that way."
"I'd be more concerned with how your men let it slip in the first place," Don says.
"Believe me," she says, never breaking eye contact. "We're concerned. We've built a reliable network; some of the men have been under our employ for ten years. "
"Allegiances shift."
Deacon tightens his jaw.
"Yes, well," Jack intervenes. "I'm sure Edward will address any personnel problems that arise."
Jenny nods and excuses herself, retreating back to the lab. Her notes are still sprawled out across a table; adding one more is hardly conspicuous.
"Bobby's" handwriting is cramped, but legible. Don't know what your people are keeping out at Parsons, but you don't want him near it.
It's surprisingly direct. She's come to accept, and even expect, a certain degree of cloak and dagger in his missives. The odd update she receives through Stockton is always, at the very least, a bit cryptic. Coming straight out with anything is dangerous; that he's willing to take the risk speaks volumes.
Grabbing the lighter from Jack's desk, she walks over to the sink and sets the paper alight. She doesn't need any unnecessary questions.
She stops Edward in the hall later that day. "You got a minute?"
"What's up, J?"
"Look," she starts. "I know personnel is your call, and ordinarily, I think your judgments are unimpeachable, but I don't have a good feeling about this Don character."
"He handled Jack alright."
"I know, and sometimes, that's a worry in and of itself."
"I'm listening."
"I think he can do the job. That's not my worry. But if … if our worst fears come to pass, if someone else is somehow involved in this … what's to keep him from a taking a better offer?"
"What? More caps?"
She shrugs. "I don't know. And that's what worries me. We don't have a damn thing pointing to an inside job. There's not a soul working Parsons who knows the full extent of what, or who, they're guarding to leverage it. But having a courier carrying the serum get hit? "
"Raiders can hit anyone, J. It doesn't mean anything. I don't think we're looking at a turncoat risk."
She shakes her head. "I know you're right. But … be careful with him. Watch your ass."
Jack spends the next two days puttering in his lab, looking into something about the zeta gun. Edward works to manage his ever-slipping hold on Wilhelmina. Jenny starts off another translation.
Everyone is tense, all busying themselves with whatever they can find. Edward excuses himself to check on the state of things at Parsons. The Jack-Wilhelmina shouting starts early this time, and continues at periodic intervals. They're in the midst of a match when Don and Deacon finally return.
Jenny's outside when they get back, staring up at the stars. She'd slipped out just as Emogene returned, keen to avoid reunion drama. Don and Deacon follow soon after; even with the sunglasses, she can spot the sourness in Deacon's mood.
"Are you coming?" Don asks when they reach the door. His tone is clipped, irritated.
"In a minute," Deacon says, matching his ire. Once he's sure his traveling companion's won't immediately be coming back out, he turns his attention to Jenny. "Can I have a word with you? Alone?"
She raises her eyebrows, but heads back towards the generator shed.
"How well do you know Emogene?" He asks once they're inside.
"Emogene Cabot? Pretty well at this point."
"She ever tell you about this 'serum' of hers? Makes it sound like a fountain of youth, but it's gotta be bullshit, right?"
Jenny's eyes bug. "Fucking hell, Em," She groans, burying her face in her hands. "Look," she says, turning her attention back to Deacon. "I'm gonna tell you a story, and you're not gonna believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe me. So, I'm going to get the proof beforehand. You got a minute?"
Deacon's eyebrows are almost in his hairline. "I got time."
Making her way up to her room by the back stairs, Jenny can feel the knot forming in her stomach. It's all consuming, enough to drown out the chaos she can make out down below. Showing him the box means showing him everything. It means telling him the story, telling him about Nick. She's had enough practice sobbing in front of strangers to have lost the shame attached to it, but that doesn't mean she's looking forward to this.
"You ever read the old Boston Bugles hanging around?" She asks Deacon as she begins to unpack the box.
"Few of'em, yeah."
She nods once. "So, you've read the story about the cop the mobster had gunned down."
"Yeah. Guy by the name of Nick Valentine."
She nods again. "How much else you remember?"
Deacon shrugs. "Something about the mob boss being let go, the fiancée going mad with grief …" He trails off.
She hands him a pristine copy of the paper. "Here, you're gonna want to refresh your memory on the details."
"How'd you find one so nice?" He asks, scanning it over.
She doesn't answer.
He looks up at her when he finishes. "Yeah, I've definitely seen this story before."
"Alright," she pauses. "Now comes the part where you stop believing me. I'm the fiancée."
Deacon's silent for a moment. "Is this some kind of family joke I'm not in on? You can't be her. You'd be …"
Jenny shakes her head. " 242 years old, I know. I'll prove it."
She hands him her license, then her press badge from the paper in Chicago, then her birth certificate. She moves on from there, pulling out her marriage license, the photo they'd had taken the night Nick proposed, the invitation proof. Then the clippings. There she is, shell shocked at the funeral. There's her article, the one that had set her on the path to Cabot House. There she is, being led from their apartment in handcuffs. Accompanied by Edward on the way out of the Mass State Correctional Institute. All in pristine condition.
He's silent while he reads, shifting from document to document as if to confirm the details. Jenny picks at her hands, somewhere between crying and vomiting, and ferociously determined not to do either.
His voice is soft when he speaks. "Christ, you really are her, aren't you?"
She nods. "Yeah," she says, trying to speak around the lump that's sprouted in her throat. "Would've told you sooner, but …"
"No real easy way to bring it up," he finishes.
"Yeah," she says. "I met you on the anniversary of Nick's murder. Two hundred goddamn years to the day." She sniffles. "The gut wound, the shape you were in … you could have been the worst raider in the 'Wealth, and I wouldn't have left you out there. Not that night."
"I always wondered why you took that kind of a risk."
She shrugs, looking away to blink back the tears she can feel sprouting. "I figured … I figured even if you had no chance in hell of making it, at least you wouldn't be alone when the end hit." She lets out a short, mirthless laugh. "Don't know what I would have done if that had happened."
"How'd you end up on Jack's radar to begin with?"
"Edward," she sighs, brushing away a tear. "He and I grew up together. I was the mouthy younger sister he never had. He was my protector. There's nine years between us; he used to walk me to school." She finds the seam of her sweater pocket, and begins rubbing it between her fingers. "He and Jack have been together … Jesus. A long time. So, when he read what had happened, he got Jack, who at the time, was using his medical degree as the head psychiatrist at Parsons, to write an appeal to the judge. Said I was too grief-stricken to fully understand the consequences of what I had done, that it was, in effect, a temporary insanity."
"I'm guessing that's not quite the truth."
Jenny offers him her best attempt at a smirk. "I knew damn well what I was doing. I couldn't keep the courts from letting Winter walk, but I could sure as hell stir up some outrage about them doing it."
"So, you wrote the article."
"And got myself arrested, yeah. Anyway, Jack argued that I was in need of intensive care, that I should be seen privately, and that I should be remanded to his custody until it was decided that I was fit."
"But he had no intention of doing that."
"Exactly. " She pauses. "Edward made the argument that, after life as a reporter, digging up pieces, putting them together, that I might be a useful asset as a research assistant. Jack didn't take much convincing." She shrugs. "He'd do just about anything for Edward, but then again, that's mutual there."
"So, you found out about the family secret, this serum."
She shakes her head. "Not right away." Jenny bites her lip. She knows she has to get through the next bit quickly, if she wants any hope of maintaining some of her waning composure. "When Nick was killed, I was pregnant. Not enough to show, but far enough. About a week before the bombs fell, I had one hell of a miscarriage. " She takes a deep breath, and shuts her eyes. "Edward found me doubled over downstairs in the greenhouse, blood soaking through my clothes. He rushed me to Mass General. I'd only been home a few days when everything went to shit."
"The next few days were a blur. It was like losing Nick all over again, except only now, it was worse. The one piece I was supposed to have left of him was gone. Hell, the whole world was gone. " She pauses. "There was a man who came to the house, big, tough fella. I was sure we were gonna die. Jack and Edward had gone to Parsons; it was just me, Wilhelmina, and Em." She laughs. "Fucking Emogene. She's a goddamn terror when she wants to be. " Jenny shrugs. "Anyway, Emogene … dealt with him. And we survived."
"Things were touch and go the first few weeks. I found out had my folks had survived, by some miracle. They'd moved somewhere in northeastern Pennsylvania for retirement. They'd gotten fallout from the bombs dropped on New York, but nothing direct. That was some of the only good news. Edward got sick pretty quickly after that. Jack wouldn't leave his side. He came back … different, but at least he came back. That was when I learned about the serum."
"See, Jack realized that it was the serum protecting him, and Em, and Wilhelmina. They knew that it stopped the aging process, but they didn't realize the other piece. It's why Edward got sick, and Jack didn't, even though they were both out there. He radioed Em, and told her to stick me with a dose. I've been on it since." She realizes she's shaking. "I guess … in the long run, I'm luckier than most. My folks are still around - they ghoulified not too long after Edward. I have a beautiful safe place to live. I have food and clean water. I've seen … a lot of life. More than most anyone else ever will."
"But it doesn't fix it," Deacon adds, gently. "I know. Losing someone like that … it's like losing a limb. You compensate, but it doesn't fix it."
She nods.
"How long were you two together?"
"A little shy of ten years. Met him breaking my first big story. I got sloppy with my cover. He had my back. My codename —Nightingale—it was our song."
Deacon swallows hard. "Barbara and I had five. We didn't know it, but she was a synth. Local gang found out. It got bloody. "
It takes Jenny a moment to process the implication. "Jesus, Deacon. I'm so sorry."
"I took payment in kind. A few weeks later, a Railroad agent found me. Figured I'd be sympathetic."
"And here you are," she says.
Deacon nods. "Here I am."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole truth. Sooner, I mean. I just … everyone's got baggage. You didn't need to be roped in on mine."
"No offense taken. Hell, I'm not in a place to judge," He offers. "I've just got one more question."
"Shoot."
"What's got everyone quaking in their boots about Parsons?"
"Lorenzo."
"Who?" Deacon asks.
"Jack and Emogene's father. Back in the 1890s, he went on expedition. Discovered … well, discovered a lot of things, but an artifact among them. He came back … changed. Inhuman strength. Powers that can only be described as telekinetic. Homicidal lunacy. And," she shrugs. "A dead stop on the aging process."
"I don't have the full story, but Jack had taken a blood sample from his father, trying to understand what had happened. He noticed there was something funny with the cell structure. It was human, but it wasn't. It regenerated too quickly. So, he extracted the DNA, studied it, and used it to create what we all use. He tested it on a lab rat. Kept the little bugger alive right up until the bombs hit."
"I don't know how Jack synthesizes it. I don't think I want to. All I know is this: it's eternal youth, as long as you're on it. It effectively grants you a certain level of natural resistance to radiation. And," she pauses. "It's pretty good at stabilizing people who couldn't otherwise survive their injuries."
She waits a beat.
Deacon doesn't miss the implication. "So, that first night…."
"Yeah," she nods. "Bullet went clean through you. Tore open your gut and let a lot out. If the blood loss didn't kill you, the infections would have."
"How'd you know it wouldn't hook me?"
"It's not addictive. Not physically anyway. There's no withdrawal, no itch when it's wearing off. It's just … it's very easy to get used to being alive. I knew a single shot would last long enough to get you through the trauma and the healing, but not long enough for you to notice anything. And…" she trails off. "I was very set on not having you die."
"Look, " she says, after a moment. "I know I should have asked. You didn't ask to be dragged into this. And I know I haven't been on the level with you, not totally in any case, the whole time you've known me, but -"
"Everyone lies." He cuts in. "You're a good friend. Come on," he says. "We should head back in before they talk."
Jenny hoists the box onto her hip. "Mmmm," she intones, sniffling. "Gossip: just what the house needs."
"Mr. Deegan would have a canary."
She lets out a short laugh. "Actually, Edward would be -"
She opens the door to the sounds of more shouting, and Edward's voice made tinny by the HAM radio.
She sets the box down on the kitchen table, and makes her way to the front room. "The hell is going on?"
"Raiders are attacking Parsons," jack says, turning to his her. His face is drawn. "Edward's there now, trying to shore things up, but it isn't looking good."
"And our people?"
Jack's silence tells her all she needs to know.
"I can pay you both handsomely, if you can spare the time to come along," he says, turning his attention to Don. "I'll be frank: we're in dire need of help."
"If you've got the caps, we've got the time."
Deacon's jaw tightens, and his gun hand clenches briefly into a fist before loosening again. "Raiders are scum," he offers. ""It's no problem to lend a hand."
"Good, good," Jack answers, absently. "We'll leave immediately. We have a spare cache of supplies if you're in need of anything."
"We're good, thanks," Deacon says, cutting Don off. "Let's just get on the road."
