This fiction features a slash relationship.
Tags: Deacon/MacCready, slash, angst
Trigger warnings for dub con and drugging.
So why are Deacon and MacCready so snippy with each other when Sole swaps them out?
Deacon: Still killing people for caps, MacCready?
MacCready: I don't know...you still pretending to be anybody but yourself?
Deacon slumped down on the bench, eyes on the mark. Mark. Heh. Look at him, dropping names and dispensing justice. Just like the Silver Shroud.
The mark was currently rendering a perfectly good stingwing filet into an accumulation of fragments. Uneaten fragments. Trouble? Why sure, friend, let Deacon give you some advice. And some info in exchange.
He was some Gunner named MacCready, and one of the few that they had spotted travelling alone, both to and from the Plaza. He arranged shipments of supplies, carried a sizeable amount of caps, and seemed to be on good terms with Wes and the outlying commanders. All that added up to a target acquired. He didn't look like much, Deacon thought critically. He was wearing typical gunner leathers with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Reddish-brown hair. Not exactly muscle-bound.
Deacon sighed and suppressed the urge to shift around on the bench. He wasn't that big into personal recon. He was more of a watch and wait type. From a distance. But Glory was busy, others were recovering from the Lexington disaster, and Dez had pulled him off his periodic stakeout of the old Vault. As Desdemona had pointed out, it wasn't like he was doing anything useful. The way her lips thinned on the word 'useful' got his back up. It'll be useful someday, Dez, he told her mental image silently. Just you wait.
The Gunner picked up his half-empty glass of moonshine and tossed it down. Ugh. Deacon had his doubts that the stuff was actually intended for human consumption. Beside him on the bench was a bottle of the finest bathtub gin, courtesy of Tinker Tom. Speaking of which...he pulled the cork and took a quick swig, straight from the bottle. He rolled it around in his mouth and discreetly spit it into a cup. All of the fragrance, none of the drunkenness.
Ingratiate yourself, Dez had told him sternly. Find out if there's anything to that dead drop about the Gunners. And stop acting like you don't know what ingratiate means, Deacon. All right, Dez, he silently acquiesced. I'll do my best ingratiating. Uh-oh, looky there. MacCready was putting down his glass and shifting around. All the signs of a gentleman that is preparing to leave an establishment. Big sigh from mental-Dez: And for heaven's sake, Deacon, don't over-complicate things.
Hey, that offended him. He never…well, rarely. Okay, occasionally he over-complicated things. But this—a bit of gossip gathering. No biggie. Mental-Dez snorted. Yeah, but…he'd picked up the mark at the gates, followed him to the Dugout, and positioned himself on a bench by the door, with MacCready none the wiser.
Now he rose, casually settling his sunglasses and hat, and picked up his bottle. Took a few casual steps until he was alongside the table. Allowed his gaze to drift casually over. Did a double-take. The guy glanced up too and their eyes met.
"Whoa!" Deacon exclaimed. "I know you. It's been a while..." He snapped his fingers, looked up as if searching his memory. "Uh, MacCready, wasn't it?" He grinned. "Yeah, from Gunner's Plaza. How ya doing, man?"
MacCready was obviously pulled out of his thoughts but after a few moments, he smiled guardedly. "Doing all right, I guess. How about yourself?"
Not waiting for an invitation, Deacon pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Table was small enough that their knees touched. "You had to ask! 'Bout got myself skinned poking around Fallon's. The big one south of here. More mutants than I remembered." He shuddered. "And those creepy dogs. Total Hound of the Baskervilles vibe."
He scooted his chair in a little closer and folded his arms on the table. His knee bumped MacCready's again. He set the bottle down next to the other's glass. Nice hands. Tanned, steady, long fingers. Hmmm…Deacon didn't subscribe to the theory that hands gave a preview of...other parts, but he did have to admit the guy had nice ones. Interesting. Dez hadn't told him to flirt. But then again, she hadn't explicitly told him not to flirt either. And really, what was the quickest way to get information? A long night spent getting drunk with the guy, or … A long night spent having sex with the guy? Okay, maybe there wasn't an actual time savings, but still-