Sanctuary really lived up to its name: plumbing, electrical, almost manicured dead grass, roofs that didn't leak… It was the real deal. In the year and a half since the Vault Dweller – er… Nora, had come out of 111, a lot had changed. The Institute was gone – because of her, it had been literally wiped off the face of the earth. It was now a crater the likes of which no one had seen before. It gave ground zero a run for its money. The Minutemen were a functioning, cohesive force. The Brotherhood, while it lingered, was no longer a threat under Elder 'I-Eat-Nails-For-Breakfast' Maxson. Everywhere that woman touched was better for it. She definitely was the shining beacon of hope for the Commonwealth.
It helped to think of it all. On cool summer nights, it brushed a little more topsoil in on the hole Deacon swore everyone could see in his chest. It could rival the crater where CIT once stood. Then again, maybe that was just the beer talking.
Sanctuary's little bar, tucked in nicely at the end of the cul-de-sac, was famous for two things – a killer mystery meat pie, and a bartender that never cut you off after you'd had one too many. Their motto had literally become, 'I don't know if there's a God out there, but if there is… Thanks for Drinkin' Buddy'. They had Preston to thank for that one. More often than not, that bar is where Deacon found himself.
Nora had asked about a thousand times if everything was okay. Hell yeah, everything was peachy-fuckin-keen! What could he really complain about? Arch enemy? Gone! Dead wife? Avenged! Still dead… He didn't have to dig a hole before tending to his own bodily functions. The water was almost as pure as pre-war. At least that's what Sturges claimed. He had his own house thanks to Nora. The lights worked. The electrical was even inside the walls! He really shouldn't have anything to complain about… But he did.
A few, pretty words came to mind when he thought about himself. Desultory. Lackluster. Void. Depleted. Whatever goodness waltzed into his life at that point was found at the end of a bottle. One that could be refilled as many times as he needed - and by that invisible sky man, he needed it.
Fixer could right the unfortunate outcome that had become the once glorious Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but she sure as hell couldn't fix him. It was too daunting a task for anyone to undertake, even someone like herself. He wasn't some organization, some house, some toaster. All those things could be fixed. He was destitute on an emotional level. John had died a long time ago. All that was left was a hollowed out, sarcastic, lying, son of a bitch…
That was the great thing about it though – he was a sarcastic, lying, son of a bitch, and he could pass off saying he was okay, because everything was okay. So long as he had a cold Pilsner in his hand, the world would go on about its merry business and he'd be okay enough to keep on keepin' on.
Sometimes it wasn't enough.
Sometimes desultory wouldn't be pretty enough to satisfy the 'one-day-five-beers-at-a-time' mentality.
Sometimes lackluster wasn't fucking shiny enough.
Sometimes void wasn't as deep, or wide, or far enough for him to justify one step forward for mankind, eight-and-a-half steps back for the emotionally stunted, out of work spy.
Sometimes depleted needed a few fucking things thrown in to make it seem worthwhile.
Sometimes he'd cheat on a smooth talking Travis Miles to check in with 'Radio Railroad' because mandatory retirement wasn't all that great.
It was one of those nights where the end of a bottle just didn't look okay enough for him to feel comfortable in his own skin. He needed a project, a newsboy, and a prime spot inside the walls of Bunker Hill. If it wasn't exactly that, something else would suffice. The dots and dashes spelled out something that had him seeking out Nora instead of the other way around.
Good Rockin' Tonight. Biggest cats in town… Meet me in a hurry.