Deacon had seen some weird shit, but this time, he almost couldn't believe his eyes.

It was her. She, his former companion that was supposed to be dead, was standing there, on the Vault platform, wearing the same set of clothes he'd last seen her in just over two weeks ago.

"Jesus. I knew I would go off the deep end one day," he muttered to himself. This couldn't be real. A dream? He pinched the back of his hand, a habit he'd developed to pull himself from a dream when… well, when shit got too real.

Before he could stop himself, he moved in her direction. She was just standing there, on the lift, looking at the horizon over Sanctuary Hills, the same dreadful view she'd been greeted with after waking up from her icebox. The same barren land, the same dilapidated structures, the same blue sky. She was just watching the horizon as the sun gradually slipped lower into the sky, a strange gloom settled around her.

Deacon stopped. He'd had enough nightmares to know how to pull himself out of a dream state, and this was as real as it got.

Still the possibility of him going off the deep end, though. He composed himself before she could see him in such a state.

"Hey, there."

Wanderer turned nimbly to see him standing there, leaning casually against a large rusted crate, as if everything was completely normal. His expression was completely neutral, the shades concealing all hint of emotion. Skeletons littered the ground around them, a reminder of that day the world as it had been met its end- the freshest memory in her mind.

She wiped the tears that had been threatening to spill from her eyes and, almost against her will, broke out into a wide smile when she saw him. The movement didn't go unnoticed, on his part. He pushed himself off the side of the crate with his heel and sidled towards her.

"Do you have some secret superpower for following me, or something? That would explain a lot," she said, her sudden smile slowly receding back into the melancholy expression that seemed to dominate these days.

"Aww, who told you? You weren't supposed to know that! Now my cover is blown," he joked. Truthfully, that statement held more truth than she even knew. He couldn't help but to take in her appearance, searching for some clue of what she'd been through these past two weeks.

Her wavy blonde hair was clean, cleaner than he'd ever seen it, the kind of clean you just didn't see out here in the wasteland. Her clothes were a little ragged, but no more ragged than the day she'd stepped into the teleporter. She still had her trademark Pip-Boy locked around her wrist and the .44 magnum holstered to her waist. Something else was different, though- the fire and determination in her eyes that he'd always admired, seemed to have waned.

"See? You aren't so tricky, after all, D."

"That's what you think, Wanda. I've got all kinds of tricks up my sleeve, just you wait."

He stopped a few inches from her, remaining far enough to give her space.

She shook her head and didn't reply, the momentary silence hanging in the air between them. He could tell something was wrong.

She said nothing, turning back around to stare out towards Sanctuary. Deacon had caught her off-guard, and she hadn't yet planned what she would tell anybody, let alone him. Especially him.

All her friends had worked so hard to get her to the Institute in hopes that she would reunite with her baby boy, and now, what could she tell them? She couldn't bear to tell them that the boy she'd been searching for, for so many months now, was the one responsible for the fear that now lingered all across the Commonwealth. Her son was responsible for the lost innocents in the night, the hatred towards synths, the massacred safehouses, and likely much more that she wasn't even aware of. The thought was sickening.

"Thought I lost you there for a bit," he said carefully, testing the waters. Considering that she didn't have her son in tow like she had hoped, it was safe to assume that whatever she'd found in the Institute hadn't been what she was expecting. "Glory's been having to run all the big ops alone, she's been having entirely too much fun. She and that minigun are a match made in heaven."

"My son is gone," Wanderer blurted out. And wasn't it the truth, in a way? This man, this… Father, was a stranger to her. If the Railroad had any idea that her son was the leader of the Institute, would they even allow her to keep her role as an agent? She was too much of a liability, even she knew that. If- no, when she was forced to choose between Shaun and the Railroad, even she wasn't sure of what she would choose. It was clear that she would eventually need to make such a decision, and there didn't seem to be any escaping it.

Besides, Deacon had lied to her more times than she could count. Honesty isn't always the best policy- that's what he was always saying. He didn't need to know the truth- nobody did.

She looked back up at him, almost hoping in some way for words of comfort that she knew wouldn't come. Not in the way she needed, anyway. Nate would have been the one to hold her and cry with her, but her husband was no longer there to fill that role. All that was left of him was a frozen corpse, bullet wound still perfectly preserved in his chest, not a hair out of place. He hadn't changed since the day she'd woken up, she thought, the image of his body still fresh in her mind.

"Shit. I'm sorry."

Wanderer let out a long sigh, and for a while, neither of them said a thing. She was grateful he didn't ask about Patriot just yet. It must have been difficult- she gathered he'd devoted his entire life to fighting the Institute, and yet he didn't try to demand what she'd learned or what the Railroad's next strategy should be. The gesture was a small one that would go unnoticed to another, but it was meaningful to her.

After the sky had grown dark, Wanderer turned to the old footpath and began the short sloping trek down to Sanctuary, Deacon a few feet behind. She paused when she reached the small bridge, seeing Preston patrolling on the streets. She didn't have the emotional capacity to be a Railroad agent right now, or even the General of the Minutemen. She just wanted to be a grieving mother, for one night.

After sending him a pleading look, Deacon seemed to understand. If he knew anything, he knew how to hide, and he understood the need to hide. Wanderer didn't know much about his life, but something about him seemed to hint that he'd been hiding for a long, long time. He rummaged around for a moment, producing a worn-looking ushanka hat and a pair of shades from seemingly nowhere. Wanderer reached out a hand to take them from him, but he had already jammed the hat onto her head and slid the sunglasses on, as if she were a child too inept to dress herself.

Before Wanderer could berate him for it, Deacon's hand had found hers and she found herself being pulled into the crowded (by nuclear wasteland standards) Sanctuary road towards the small home she'd built for herself near the edge of town. Unsurprisingly, thanks to Deacon's expertise, the ragtag duo didn't attract any of the curious stares that Wanderer was used to receiving. It was a pleasant change.

The small cabin was plain and unassuming- only a few of the Minutemen higher-ups including Preston knew that it was where the General resided, so the two didn't draw any attention upon entering. As soon as Deacon had closed the door behind them, Wanderer immediately felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders. She moved to sit down on the faded leather couch by the door, while Deacon proceeded to the kitchen area she'd set up in the back of the living area. She pulled off her coat and untied the laces on her boots, body overcome with aches.

The cabin was shabby and rustic at best, but it still felt more like a home than that white, sterile bedroom she'd been given access to in the Institute. She had a couple of worn-looking paintings on the wall accompanied by a dirtied American flag. A couple of comics she had collected were shelved by the counter in the living area. There were also a couple of vases that were dingy enough to match the rest of the cabin. Yes, she much preferred this to her Institute quarters.

"What's for supper, Wanda?" he asked, rummaging through her makeshift pantry.

"What?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of confusion.

"Supper. You know, the meal that's after lunch and before your midnight snack? What'll it be?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, D. Now some dinner," she teased, placing emphasis on the word, "that I would be up for." She heard a chuckle from the kitchen, the corners of her lips twitching in response.

"What are you in the mood for? I have quite the spread over here- Blamco Mac 'n Cheese, Cram, you name it," he called.

"What, No prime rib? You're a terrible host, D."

"This is your house, need I remind you. Mirelurk steak with salsa is the closest I've got."

Their silly nonsense could carry on for hours, if they weren't eventually interrupted by the real world. Eventually, he brought over a box of Fancy Lads, much to her delight.

"You know," started Deacon, glancing at the sugar dusting from one of the cakes that had made its way onto her cheek, "I say we should compromise."

Wanderer glanced up at him curiously, fishing in the box for another cake.

"You know, supper versus dinner? How about 'dipper'? Or, maybe 'sinner'?"

At 'Sinner,' she had to suppress a snort. "No, no, those are too easy. It needs to be unique, something that doesn't already have meaning," she said, squinting her eyes in mock contemplation. "Yes, it must be 'dupper,' no doubt in my mind," she answered him, reclining back into the sofa.

"Wow, not even a single doubt?"

At her defiant shake of the head, he declared, "Dupper it is, then."

Wanderer rolled her eyes. "Anything to drink back there?"

"Think I saw a bottle of wine somewhere," Deacon answered, hopping to his feet again to fetch said bottle. She let out a sigh when he left the room, her mind spinning. It was thoughtful of him to joke around with her and not press her for information, but in a way, their dancing around the subject was becoming a bit nerve-wracking. She didn't much want to talk about it at all, but she couldn't avoid the conversation forever. Her mind spun with the possibilities of what was to come if she were to stay with the Railroad. She couldn't imagine betraying the people she'd grown close with, Deacon included. Wanderer believed in what the Railroad stood for, without a doubt, but she didn't want to be the one to fight her own son.

Maybe she could tell Desdemona what she'd learned, and then sit the rest out. She'd already gained valuable intel and established contact with Patriot- the Railroad could take it from there. Desdemona would understand, and so would Deacon.

'No,' cried the voice in the back of her mind. She was the only one who could carry out the rest of this mission, for she was the only outsider who now had free access to the Institute. It was precisely because of her connection to Shaun, that it had to be her. In some sick way, she almost wished she hadn't found her son at last, as the reality of the situation was much worse than she'd anticipated.

Frowning, Wanderer pushed the thought away. No, she'd found her son, and she had a chance to mend the bond that the Institute and years of cryogenic stasis had severed. There had to be another way to do this. Shaun would have to listen to her if she reasoned with him, right? She was his mother, he had to.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Deacon returned, the bottle in one hand, and a couple of chipped cups in another. "Here we go," he told her with a grin. "Falmouth Winery Merlot, vintage 2060."

She held out her hand and he gave her a cup, pouring her a healthy amount and doing the same for himself. Wanderer didn't see him drink very often- only when he was trying to pick up intel at a bar. She knew from experience that bars were one of his favorite spots to learn secrets from inebriates, and it would be suspicious if he didn't have a drink as well. All part of the game. Of course, she caught him one such time watering his drink down so he could still learn everything he needed to without suffering the same loss of inhibitions as his informants.

Deacon set the bottle aside on the table and raised his glass. "To dupper," he said, before clinking his cup gently against hers.

The bitter taste of the wine disagreed with the lingering sugar on her tongue, but she drank anyway. It was a funny combination, vintage Merlot and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, one that her old self would have laughed at, with all her soft prewar sensibilities, refined palate and all. As it turns out, there unfortunately wasn't much room for preference in a nuclear wasteland.

Despite his sunglasses, Wanderer could feel Deacon's eyes on her. She knew that he was watching, waiting for the opportunity where she'd be loose enough to talk. He had taught her the trick, after all, she knew how to recognize it. Patience and persistence would wear down any target, like the waves of water beating against the earth. Water waits, and waits, eventually overcoming any obstacle. Deacon followed an extremely similar philosophy.

She would play along. Why not?

A few inches away from Wanderer, he sat beside her on the sofa, matching her reclined state with his own casual pose. Facing her from the side, his right arm propped himself up.

She mimicked his pose, narrowing the distance between them. Such behavior was normal, for the duo.

"So," Wanderer drawled, taking another sip from her drink. "What have you been up to these past few weeks? Didn't have too much fun without me, I hope." She caught a slight raise of his brow, but the action was mostly concealed by his sunglasses. She had always suspected that the shades were key in maintaining his poker face.

"Of course not," Deacon started. "You are the fun. I've had nothing but long, lazy, dull days for the past two weeks. I didn't even get to massacre anything."

"Why not?"

"Well, believe it or not Wanda, before I met you, I'd go days without massacring a bunch of things. Weeks, even. Honest!" he added at her dubious expression.

"That doesn't sound like very much fun, D. You must have lived quite a dull life, before you met me."

The corner of his mouth twitched a little. "Well, travelling with you ain't dull, I'll say that much."

She rolled her eyes. "Is that flattery, I hear?"

"Not a chance," he said with a sly grin.

She heard a familiar, eerie rumble from outside, forcing her attention away from him. She stood and crossed the room to peer out from her small window near the door. Sure enough, ominous green storm clouds lingered on the dark horizon. Across the street, Wanderer noticed some of her settlers ushering others inside, distributing protective masks and water along the way.

She knew that she should probably be out there helping the settlers prepare, but the sight brought a smile to her face. If kindness had been rare before the bombs fell, it was most certainly unheard of now. That wasn't to say that there weren't kind people, but resources were so scarce that the average Commonwealth citizen had no choice but to put themselves or their family first. Nearly everyone was on some level of desperation- meaning acts of kindness were few and far in between. This community she had built with the help of her friends and the Minutemen proved that humans could still be selfless, here in this wasteland.

Maybe that's why so many in the Commonwealth were quick to dismiss the existence of the Railroad. To think that a group of people were out there, living in secret and risking everything to fight the Institute? And to save synths, who arguably weren't as real or deserving of freedom as humans? Who would do such a thing, and to what end?

Wanderer understood why many didn't sympathize with the Railroad, especially on the subject of synth freedom. Why worry about some robot that thinks it's a person while your family is just barely scraping by, especially when that robot might be there to kidnap or kill you or steal your belongings? It was much easier to hide and do your best to get by, without putting yourself in direct opposition to the Institute by voicing support for the Railroad. It proved that the people of the Commonwealth were living in constant fear under the shadow of the Institute.

But these people were helping each other. She remembered how Shaun had dismissed the people aboveground as savages- petty and violent, killing each other for scraps of food. No, he was wrong. These people had a home, and they were willing to help defend it, and each other. He just needed to see in the Commonwealth what she saw, and he would understand.

"Oh, Jesus," she whispered, as an ominous bright green flash of lighting lit up the street, much brighter and more intense than their usual radiation storms. It was going to be a big one.

"You called?" Deacon asked, sidling over to her side. "Just Deacon is fine, by the way."

"Alright, Just Deacon," Wanderer mumbled back, her eyes fixed on the storm clouds.

"Radstorm, huh? I always wanted to grow another head. Or a third foot out of my stomach, or something…"

"You're strange enough with only one head and two feet," Wanderer complained.

"Ouch," he said, pouting. "Well, look on the bright side. Since we're now stuck in here for what may be a while, we have lots of time to talk. You know, get to know each other a little?"

"Get to know each other, huh? I've been travelling with you for months, I don't think I'm ever going to 'get to know you' at this point."

"Come on Wanda, it'll be fun. Okay, so you ask me a question, then I ask you, and so on."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, seeing through his lie. In no world that she'd known Deacon would he willingly offer up information about his personal life. He was obviously trying to get information out of her in turn.

They sat back down on the sofa, popping some Rad-X and pouring some more wine. Wanda kicked her feet up on the small coffee table, and Deacon crossed his legs. "You ask first," he told her, his face deadpan. It was a game, and nothing more than that, she figured. Obviously, he'd be lying through his teeth at any opportunity, and would want her to do the same.

One of his weird training exercises, probably. She often found herself the mentee with him along, anyway.

"Me first? Alright, give me a second… Okay, how do you know so much about the Old World? You made a joke about Proust a few weeks ago, I remember. Most people in my time didn't read Proust, let alone out here, where almost everything is destroyed. Literature isn't exactly a priority anymore."

Deacon nodded thoughtfully at her question. "Good one, Wanda, but I'm afraid the answer isn't as interesting as you're hoping. You wouldn't know this, but, usually before we have someone join Railroad HQ, we'll have them tested in a couple different ways. Weirdly enough, we'll have recruits read some form of literature and then quiz them for comprehension. It sounds strange, but we need good minds back at HQ, people who know their ass from a danger railsign from an unabridged copy of War and Peace. It actually has turned out to be a fairly reliable test, anyone who can even read something like Proust out here is a rarity, and we want the best of the best. The literacy rate isn't so high these days. PAM has a collection of options that she can copy onto a holotape for anyone we think might be a good fit for HQ."

She maintained a straight face throughout his tale but at his mention of PAM, her thoughtful frown faltered slightly into a crooked grin. "So, what, PAM is not only an assaultron, a tactician, but a librarian too? Who would've thought?"

"Crazy, right? PAM prefers the title of 'archivist,' though. No wonder the Brotherhood wants to take us out. Welcome to the Railroad- saving synths as well as the classics."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a noble pursuit, I suppose. I'm sure the Brotherhood prioritizes weird tech over classic literature."

Deacon just shrugged. Brotherhood of Steel wasn't his favorite conversation topic, these days.

"Okay, D… so why didn't I have to take this initiation test, as you put it?" she asked with a sideways glance. He didn't hesitate to keep it going.

"Well, as I'm sure you're aware, the circumstances of your initiation were a little different than usual. As I told you that day when you stumbled into our little hideout in the church: we just don't have the time to recruit and train like we usually do. It was a fun little way to get to know our inductees, but everything with the Institute lately has gone into overdrive. Desdemona has put a lot of faith in you, you know. I mean, you could be anybody, and suddenly you're an agent in HQ? Amazing, and it was mostly my doing, too."

"Okay," she mused aloud, determined to catch him in a lie. "So… what did Desdemona read when she first joined up?"

"Oh, come on, Wanda. Isn't it obvious? Shakespeare, where do you think the code name came from?"

"Really, Othello? Okay, fine. What about… Tinker Tom?"

Deacon tried to suppress his grin. This was just too easy. It was a good thing he was wearing sunglasses, or she'd see the joke in his eyes. "I think Tom had read some Orwell when he joined HQ. Makes sense with the all the paranoia, doesn't it?"

Wanderer rolled her eyes. "I'm a Dostoevsky kind of lady, myself. Suspense, with just the right amount of realism…"

He pointed at her almost accusingly. "See? We know you're a prewar type, so there's not much of a point in making you read prewar literature. It's not hard to tell that you wouldn't have a problem with reading the classics. It just didn't make sense to give you that test. I mean, you spelled 'Railroad' correctly and everything!"

"I had no idea that being able to spell eight-letter words was comparable to being able to digest classic literature."

"I'm telling you, you'd be surprised. Okay, my turn! Hmm…"

Before he could think of a question, Wanderer interrupted his musing with a slight raise of her cup. "It can't be directly about the Railroad," she said. "I'm getting to know you, and you me, not the Railroad."

Deacon raised a brow, one of the only telltale signs that he had emotions what with his eyes being concealed with his shades. "Making up rules now, are we? What, you aren't interested in the Railroad?"

Her face had tinged with pink, whether it was from the wine or embarrassment was unclear. Perhaps a little of both, Deacon reasoned. To tell the truth, which he rarely did, even to himself, it was difficult to tell where he ended and the Railroad began. Impossible, maybe. They were one in the same these days.

Deacon was good with his words, could say whatever he could imagine to get the information he needed, but this was different, and he was almost at a loss for words.

Almost.

"Generic question- what everyone wants to know about you, I suppose," he began slowly. She quirked her eyebrow.

"Well? Spit it out, D."

"What's it like, you know, falling asleep in one world and waking up in a whole new one? Obviously, the world has changed and besides all the radiation, what stands out the most?"

Damn, that really was the kicker, she thought. So maybe this wasn't a game anymore, maybe they really were getting to know each other. He usually wasn't one for such personal questions.

It took some time for her to come up with a reply. His eyes never left her while she thought- attention drawn to her jaw tensing over and over, and her pursing her lips.

"Well, obviously it sucked," she began. "It was horrible to see everything or everyone I had known and loved had been long destroyed or dead. Strange, of course, waking up and having to live a completely different way of life, but… well, there's more to it than that."

He leaned in a little more, interest clearly piqued. As hard as he was to read, she always found it easy to tell when he was interested in a target.

"It's kind of difficult to explain, but it was almost refreshing to start over again. Everyone thinks that life was perfect in the old world, in reality, it was far from it."

"If it was perfect, then there wouldn't have been an all-out nuclear war," Deacon pointed out.

"Exactly," she agreed. "I had a perfect house with a perfect lawn, perfect job, perfect family. I miss my family more than anything but… there was something so nauseating about it all, I suppose. I remember everyone in the neighborhood was so passive-aggressive. My husband was often away from home, since he was in the military, you see. Toward the end of my pregnancy with Shaun, my wedding ring didn't fit on my hand for a few months, and I could hardly go in public without judgmental stares in every direction."

Wanderer shook her head. "Everybody back then, and their stupid social expectations. It's like everybody had this image that they wore, and behind closed doors, they became someone else. They spread nasty rumors about whoever they wanted." She straightened her back and glanced at the wedding band still around her finger. "This new world has its own set of problems, no doubt about it. Only now, I can blow a super mutant's brains out all over the pavement when I'm frustrated. Does that make sense?"

Deacon smirked. "Super mutant's brains? Sounds like an oxymoron to me."

She laughed and realized she'd reached the bottom of her cup. "Don't let Strong catch you saying that," she joked back, indicating to him that her cup was empty. He stood to pour them both another cup of wine.

"Come on, Wanda. Strong doesn't know what 'oxymoron' means." He handed her back the chipped cup now refilled and returned to his spot next to her with his. "Seriously though, I think you have the right kind of perspective on all this shit," he said gesturing vaguely around him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've faced ridiculous odds since waking up from that icebox. Everyone thought you were just some soft prewar type who wouldn't last a week in the wasteland, but you've done so much more. You hunted down the man who stole your child, you made allies in every corner of the wasteland, and you made it all the way to the Institute. No one has done that. And why? How did you do it?"

She was surprised by his outburst. She shook her head, clueless. She was on the tipsy side, and at a loss for words.

"Because you were so determined to find your son and recover what had been stolen, and you refuse to give up at every turn. It's incredible, honestly. Almost… well, inhuman."

Wanderer winced. He'd hit a sore subject, and he noticed right away. His face had reddened with hers; it was a state she'd never seen him in before.

They were quiet for a while. They listened to the rumbling thunder and the unsettling sounds of irradiated lightning that had rolled above Sanctuary. She poured herself another cup, and he did the same.

After several more minutes of silence, the air between them had grown tense. Wanderer downed this cup more quickly than she had the other two.

"I thought you were dead, you know," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear, as if it was some sort of secret. "I thought that we… that I had lost all hope."

Wanderer opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her.

"I don't expect you to talk about it just yet, that's not what I'm trying to say." Deacon allowed himself a deep sigh. "It's just, well… damn it."

She didn't press him, just waited in silence for him to finish his thought. She didn't have to wait awhile.

"Wanda, I promised you that your son was out there and that I would help you find him. I was so sure that there was a chance this time and… I'm sorry," he finally managed. Curse that damn wine, he knew that this wasn't what she needed right now, but Deacon couldn't help himself. He never could hold his alcohol very well.

Wanderer leaned in close and tried to make out his eyes from behind those sunglasses. They were the disguise that acted as the barrier between anyone else and his mind, his soul, whatever… She swore she could see his eyes, even in the dimly lit room, lightened only every few seconds by the green haze of the radiation storm outside her door.

She had just finished her fourth glass now, or had it been five? Either way, Deacon could tell by the clouded fog of her eyes and her proximity that Wanderer was getting to be drunk. Not the light, whimsical sort of drunk but the heavy kind, where your limbs felt like lead and the world sat upon your shoulders.

When she finally spoke, they were mere inches from each other.

"Listen to me, D. I need to tell you something important, because I trust you. You can't let anyone else know about this, not Desdemona, or Carrington, or anyone else. Please, D, please promise me you won't tell them," she pleaded. "And you can't ask any questions, either," she added hastily.

He was drawn in to her words- a part of him felt guilt at her urging, he knew if she hadn't told him whatever it was earlier when she sober then she likely didn't want him to know. She should have known better to trust him with a secret, that was for damn sure.

"I promise."

She laughed then, a deep throaty laugh from within her core. "You're lying, I know you're lying, but I'm going to tell you anyway, because why the hell not? You've already come this far with me."

Opening her mouth to tell him, the words were on the tip of her tongue when she jerked backward, stopping herself.

She'd almost just compromised her position as an Agent with the Railroad. How would Deacon have reacted, if she revealed she'd just met her son and they were now reunited? That he was the enemy?

"What is it?" Deacon asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

"I feel sick," she lied.

He helped her up, eyeing the empty bottle. How hadn't he noticed the wine ran dry?

"That's what you didn't want me to tell anyone? Come on, you've been through a lot. Let's get you to bed, Wanda."

Wanderer allowed him to lift her a little, hobbling over to bed using his shoulder as a crutch as she hobbled to the small bed on the opposite corner of the room. She settled into bed quietly, too regretful to look at his face again.

What a mess this was.

He pulled the blanket over her resting form before retreating to the living area and grabbing another drink from the kitchen and sipping it quietly, listing to the rumbles of the radstorm.