A/N: A bit more of Deacon's feelings in this one, so I suppose it's inherently angsty, since that man locks his feelings up like a max-security prison. And High Rise is back to give Deacon a hard time about his relationship with our Sole Survivor. Less action in this one. More interaction with others – Glory, Des, Tom, High Rise, Drummer Boy, Preston… More of Deacon's backstory with Barbara (my take on it) and his connection to the Institute. Also: concerned/possessive Deacon. Playful Deacon. Serious Deacon. All aboard emotional rollercoaster Deacon. Yum yum. Oh, and this is definitely T-rated at the end (I could do M, but I figured it might detract from the point of their interaction. I can still consider writing a more M-rated scene in the future, I guess, if there's any desire for it).
Four
Tinker Tom stared at Charmer like she'd become a literal gold mine. "This…" his gaze shifted towards the chip in his hands, freshly cleaned of blood, as if it were the holy grail. "Damn, woman. This is big."
Desdemona had a fierce look about her, a hybrid between a proud mother's smile and a war-hungry glare. If Deacon hadn't known the woman for as long as he had, he might've been a little perturbed. But that was the closest Des ever looked happy. And it was all because of Charmer, of course.
"You killed a courser?" Des asked for the second time, staring first at Charmer, then Deacon, who grinned like there was no tomorrow. As Tinker Tom had said, this was big. This was huge. The Railroad, which had been standing on its last legs just weeks ago, had the edge it needed. They could win.
Charmer just shrugged off their disbelief. "I've got a badass looking black leather jacket to prove it."
At this, Des almost smiled. "You took his clothes?"
"And his dignity," Deacon added, slapping a gentle hand on his partner's shoulder. "Should've seen the way she took him down, Des. Like he was nothing."
Desdemona nodded her approval. "Good work, agent. While I would have preferred being briefed on this op before you went," she gave both agents a warning look, "you two have gotten us closer to the Institute than we've ever been in Railroad history."
"That sounds suspiciously like a thank-you," Deacon flashed his white teeth and nudged his partner. "She never says thank you."
Desdemona rolled her eyes. "Like I said, good work. Tom, start decoding that chip. ETA?"
Tom stared down at the tech in his hands and deliberated. "Not sure, man. This thing – this thing is high tech. Gimme a few days to work with her. Most important part is not frying the data."
Des nodded. "Then get to it."
-0-0-
"I'm surprised you haven't disappeared yet," Deacon commented, joining his partner on the rooftop they'd climbed up to see the Prydwen a few days prior. When he hadn't found her in HQ, he had some strange sense he'd see her here.
Charmer was reclined against one of the cement posts, arms crossed loosely over her chest, legs splayed out in front of her. At Deacon's voice, she tensed and shot him a glare. "You know, you really are a spook. And it's not a good idea to sneak up on me."
"Trigger happy? Yeah, I know. I've seen you slaughter, like, twenty people at once."
"Well, don't add yourself to my list," Charmer grumbled. She relaxed once more and watched her partner carefully as he settled in beside her. "What do you mean, you're surprised I haven't disappeared yet?"
Deacon didn't look at her. It was getting harder and harder, especially now. They were so close to getting into the Institute, but everyone knew that only one woman was going in. And that was Charmer.
She'd be leaving soon. And things… things could change. Things would change.
What if she chose her brother, the Father of the Institute, over the Railroad?
Over him?
He always knew that was part of the risk. In the beginning, it hadn't needled at him so much. Now it was one of many things keeping him awake at night.
Instead of voicing all his fears, Deacon flashed a smile. "Normally after we complete a few ops, you run off for a few days or weeks," he pointed out. "Can't stand to be around my devilishly good looks for too long? Gets under your skin, huh?"
Charmer surprised him with a sharp smile. "Something like that."
They drifted into a comfortable silence. Charmer settled into the post some more, her shoulder brushing against Deacon's. Sometimes, he thought she did it on purpose. Now, he knew.
It hurt. She told him there were other ways to live, that he couldn't go on trusting no one forever, and she'd been right. But Deacon was twice her age and old habits die hard and big things were hanging just around the corner, things that could take her from him.
"The woman you lost," Charmer broke the silence, her voice soft, soothing, yet inquisitive. "She was your wife?"
Deacon's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Normally, he'd just laugh it off, tell her he'd been lying. Some elaborate trick. But this was Charmer. He knew her better than anyone else.
Scratching the back of his neck, swallowing the cotton-ball dryness in his mouth and fighting the urge to get up and run away, Deacon sighed. "Yeah. She was."
"What happened to her?"
Images filtered through his mind, a montage of gore, horror, loss. Deacon could still hear her crying out for help, his Barbara. Crying to him for help.
He turned his face away from Charmer; not even the sunglasses could hide his pain. "She was murdered." Murdered seemed like too nice of a word. Slaughtered. Betrayed. She was betrayed, by her devoted and loving husband. He had let her die. They had made him let her die. It was his fault.
"I… I'm sorry," Charmer grit out, sadness imbued in her tone. He couldn't look at her, but he could hear her run her fingers through her hair in frustration. Steeling himself, he turned towards her.
"It was twenty years ago," he said, as if it were mere fact and by that fact alone, it couldn't bother him anymore. Another lie.
Charmer shrugged it off. "I was tortured over two hundred years ago and it still hurts. Some things never fade."
He didn't say anything, couldn't think of anything to say, because she was right. Then he felt her rest her head on his shoulder, bringing him back to the day she'd slept on his chest, and he let her. Brought up his arm to wrap around her waist and pull her closer. Things were only going to get worse, and they might not get many more chances. He might lose her for good.
"If I go into the Institute," Charmer nearly whispered, her head pressed into his chest. "I might not come back."
His throat felt tight. "I know."
"You'll need a new partner."
Shaking his head, he let out a grim chuckle. "Nah, that was a one-time thing, boss. I'm a monogamous kinda guy. Can't go around getting a new partner every time one infiltrates a huge organization of dickheads."
Charmer laughed, but she seemed to understand his underlying meaning. "I'll try to make it back. I promise."
"You'd better. Or I'll have to find you myself."
-0-0-
"We're gonna need a lot of space," Tinker Tom explained, gesturing wildly with his hands. "Like, a shit-ton. We've gotta build a platform, a relay, a control system, and a damn big generator to keep it all running."
He spoke in a warning tone, as if building such a thing might prove to be too hard for the secret organization that was barely standing on its last limbs. But Desdemona was unfazed. She took a long drag of her cigarette and nodded. "We'll find a place."
"And the parts?" Tinker Tom went on, becoming a little frantic in the midst of his excitement. "Shit, we're gonna need shipments of steel, wires, gears, an old control system from a base— "
"Write out a list," Desdemona said calmly, "and we'll get it for you. Just be ready."
The alpha turned and headed back towards her office in the crypt, leaving Tom staring at Drummer Boy, Charmer, and Deacon. Deacon couldn't control his smirk – Tom was lit up like a tree on Christmas, or so he could imagine. It was the happiest he'd ever seen the paranoid man in the twenty-odd years they'd worked together.
After spitballing a few location choices with the master engineer, Charmer left the man to play with his toys and tried to disappear. Try being the operative word. Deacon would follow her anywhere.
Something had been off with her since they'd spoken up on that rooftop days ago. Something that made her distance herself from Deacon, disappear at strange times, go out on ops alone.
Deacon was already nauseous with images of Charmer in the Institute, re-meeting her brother, possibly becoming one with the enemy. Father was family to her – how could she not stay with him? How could she ever choose anything else over family?
So he followed her as she slipped out of HQ and into the moonless night of the Commonwealth, edging around corners and blending into shadows like the master spy that he was. To her credit, Charmer was always more perceptive than the average joe. She'd stop here and there, glance over her shoulder at intermittent times, as if expecting to see someone trailing her, and would occasionally dance out of his sight. But he could keep up. So far, he could keep up.
When he finally realized where she was going, his heart dropped to his toes. It felt like he was dangling at the edge of Trinity Tower, he was so sick.
Charmer was headed to Goodneighbor.
Letting her fade from sight as she passed through the massive gates, Deacon slipped into a nearby alleyway and leaned against the ancient brick, sucking in a silent breath. Sure, he'd already been invading her privacy just by following her… but leaving her to hang around the likes of Hancock, having already seen the aftermath of the pair being alone together once before, made him nauseous.
So he swapped clothes, pulled a hat down over his smooth head, and sauntered in to the criminal city of the Commonwealth.
-0-0-
Of all the things Deacon pretended to be, a member of the Neighborhood Watch was the easiest. All he had to do was scowl, look like an old-school mobster-wannabe, make nasty remarks to the others on Watch, and look altogether suspicious of any poor soul that happened to cross paths with him. A perfect disguise, an easy mold to fit into.
Before Charmer rose from the vault like a fucking phoenix however many months prior, this sort of thing would've made Deacon giddy with satisfaction. Every glance, every dismissive look he earned from those he was hiding in plain sight from, would have made the master spy swell with pride. It was the only sort of benign sentiment he had allowed himself, all those years after the incident at University Point. It was the only sort of sentiment he thought he deserved to take anything from, now that he'd been helping the Railroad for some twenty-odd years… or so he tried to tell himself, at least. And then there was Charmer.
Deacon already knew how powerful one person could be in changing the trajectory of his life. After what happened with Barbara… he was a changed man. A different man altogether. A sad patchwork places and things he could change into, pretend to be for a while. The face changes stopped being about hiding from the Institute, instead becoming a way to distance himself from his ugly past, the macabre images painted behind his eyes. It had worked, for a while. He could tell himself he was a different man. The face in the mirror had been swapped out so many times since he'd lived at University Point that he couldn't even remember what the man who had preceded Deacon had looked like. Things got easier, incrementally, over time. But Charmer… Charmer had crashed into his life, and things started to change, again.
After watching his partner slip into the mayor's mansion, Deacon had to ignore the pit hollowing out his stomach and count balconies until he found the right one. Scaling the wall would've been easier for a younger version of himself; as it was, Deacon's knees were aching fiercely, protesting against his determination to hoist himself up onto the second story balcony, and then again with the third.
Settling himself back against the wall of the ancient building, Deacon glanced at the pair of French doors beside him, one cracked open ever so slightly in order to let some of the Wasteland's cooling night air inside, and to let some tendrils of smoke from whatever drug-fueled haze Hancock was in slip out into the already polluted night.
A door opened within the room just as Deacon felt the old brick of the building bite into his spine. Biting the inside of his cheek, he evened out his breath and strained to listen.
"Nora," Hancock drawled in his raspy voice, surprise coloring the two simple syllables of her name. Deacon bit down harder, ignored the sharp metallic tang of blood trickling into his mouth. Nora. "We heading out on another adventure already?"
The small chuckle from Charmer vibrated all the way to Deacon's core. "No, old man," she said playfully. "Just came by to talk."
There was a moment of silence before Deacon heard the sound of a couch cushion depress as he assumed Charmer seated herself in the mayor's quarters. She sighed, and it was only then he realized how exhausted his partner must be. She wasn't sleeping much, lately. Was always moving, always heading towards that fixed point he knew wasn't so far off in the future anymore.
"I'd offer you something," Hancock finally said, amusedly, "but after our first and last experiment together, I was given some… incentive not to."
Deacon's already knotted stomach dipped to his toes. Ugh. Leave it to fucking Hancock to let the cat outta the bag. He wished, desperately, that he could read Charmer's face right now, could see if she was putting the pieces together, if she was angry or amused or anything.
"So that's what happened." By her tone alone, he couldn't get anything, except that Deacon's bloodied and bruised hand so many weeks ago still nagged at her. "I guess I should have known."
"Didn't think lover-boy had it in him?"
"Not that," Charmer said with a clear smile, but she didn't elucidate further.
There was probably something to be said about eavesdropping on your partner – in fact, there was probably much to be said about it. But Deacon was still a shameless liar, and was he wasn't about to change, now. Despite his mind urging him, softly, to leave her be, now that he knew Hancock wasn't going to offer up his collection of drugs again.
Deacon remained firmly planted against the brick wall, despite his better judgement, which made the occasional visit to his consciousness. He told himself it was to make sure his partner would get home okay. He told himself that calling HQ Charmer's 'home' made sense.
"I came to let you know I might disappear for a while, sometime within the next few weeks," Charmer finally said, but she sounded distant. Like her thoughts were elsewhere. "Just wanted to give you a heads up."
There was another pause as Hancock absorbed this information. "Yeah? That why you look so goddamn gloomy?" He was clearly trying to remain playful, to keep the concern from his voice. "Going on a little trip somewhere?"
There was a huff, or a sigh, before Charmer admitted, "I might not come back." Before Hancock could interject anything, she rushed on to add, "So I thought I'd just stop by. Give you a heads up in case anyone comes looking for me, and let you know that the settlements I established with Preston are open to any of your people, any time. As long as they don't try to kill anyone, that is."
Hancock barked with laughter. "Hard to teach an old dog new tricks, Nora, but I hear you, and I appreciate the offer. And the heads up."
Deacon stared down at his hands as he heard Charmer shuffle to her feet.
"On your way already?" the old ghoul asked.
"If I stay any longer, you might receive another punch to the face," Charmer noted slyly, a laugh on her lips.
Deacon froze. Did she know? Did she realize he was right outside the balcony, listening to every word they said?
Fuck.
Hancock seemed to rise to his feet as well. "We wouldn't want that. Gotta stay handsome for the pretty dames who slink into the Third Rail every blue moon."
Charmer laughed again. "If I don't see you… I hope you take care, Hancock." And then her booted feet made their way out of the room, but not before being stopped by the mayor one last time.
"Nora."
Deacon imagined her lingering in the doorway. "Yes?"
"For lover-boy's sake… I hope you come back."
He felt nauseous. Like his skin was crawling off his body, like he should be there in the room with her, rather than Hancock.
For the first time since she rose from the vault so long ago, Deacon realized that losing Charmer had always been inevitable. It hit him in the stomach like a sucker-punch.
A moment passed before Charmer's soft voice could be heard adding, "Me too, Hancock. Me too…"
-0-0-
He was following her lean, dark shape back to HQ minutes later, dread filling his body with every step he took.
At one point, whether he was so distracted with his inner turmoil, or she was getting better than he realized, he lost sight of her. He lost sight of her and he felt afraid. Terrified. Charmer wasn't there anymore, cutting across old abandoned alleyways, and he felt alone.
It'd been years since he felt so alone…
"No moon, tonight," a soft voice said, close to his ear.
Deacon's hand didn't even instinctively reach for his weapon. His body already knew it was Charmer there, with him.
Turning to face her, just barely making out her sharp green gaze in the darkness hardly a foot away from him, he managed a casual, "Hey there, boss. Fancy running into you, here." If there was a slight tremor to his tone, Charmer pretended not to notice.
Instead, she gave him a careful smile. "I promised you I wouldn't mess around with Hancock's… hobby… again," she said, as if he hadn't spoken. "I keep my promises, Deacon."
I'll try to make it back to you, she had said, just days ago, his arm wrapped tight around her. I promise.
In that moment, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Deacon swallowed thickly. His smile was watery, at best. "I hear you, boss." Because he had nothing else to say. There were some promises people couldn't keep, no matter what they intended. There were some things that were simply inevitable.
The pair was at a standstill. Her staring at him with unreadable eyes, him staring back, sunglasses hiding his every emotion.
When she began heading back towards HQ, he followed her again, this time right by her side. His hand slipped down to grab hers, tightly, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she gripped him right back, squeezed.
And they walked like that, hands locked together, back to the old crypt like nothing had happened.
-0-0-
Of course, he wasn't surprised when he woke the next day and Charmer was gone. Again. The mattress next to his had clearly been abandoned sometime early in the morning; it was cold to the touch, a light sprinkle of dust settled on it, as if the crypt itself was trying to reassert its presence, its purpose, over the agents that had hijacked it.
Deacon had to find a jacket to shrug into to fight off the cold. Afterwards, his eyes roamed over the agents in HQ, hoping to see a petite figure, a head of black hair, a wide smile for Tom or a secretive grin for Glory. Instead, he locked eyes with Drummer Boy, who gave Deacon a sad shrug.
"Said she had some business to take care of," was all the kid supplied, emanating a sense of loss, himself. "Took Glory with her."
Ah. That explained the gloomy look on the young man's face. Drummer Boy was always beside himself whenever the only other heavy left HQ. For a moment, Deacon realized he had, in some sense, become more similar to the younger agent. Both men waiting for their angels of death to return home to them, anxious when they weren't around.
A defeated sigh escaped his lips.
"Wanna check in on Ticonderoga with me?" Deacon finally asked the younger agent, watching with some amusement as the kid perked up a bit.
"Really?" Drummer Boy's eyes were as wide as the dirty ceramic plates littered over HQ's countertops. "You mean – you'll take me?"
Poor kid was never taken too seriously – just an errand boy for Des, really. Probably why Glory almost never looked twice at him. Deacon wasn't a bleeding heart – he really wasn't – but if he could make someone's life easier, then he would. Maybe give the poor guy a chance with the intimidating synth.
So he flashed Drummer Boy a bright smile. "Gotta learn the tricks of the trade sometime, right?"
And if it distracted them both from where those two women were at, all the better.
-0-0-
As soon as he saw the pitying look in High Rise's dark gaze, Deacon regretted taking Drummer Boy out at all. It was just a general check-in – ensure that the safe house's operations were running smoothly, there weren't any synths that had stayed too long, that they had all the proper supplies and weapons. Really, it should have taken ten, fifteen minutes tops.
Instead, his good ole pal High Rise decided to crack open a couple of beers and hand one off to an eager Drummer Boy.
"You two wanna sit for a moment?" He'd only asked after opening the beers. High Rise had known Deacon for a long time – too long. Had known the master spy would try to evade any sort of conversation that got too close to 'real' territory.
And Deacon didn't have the heart to say no to Drummer Boy's puppy-eyed face. God. He was becoming such a schmuck. A fucking schmuck.
Taking a pull of his beer, which was certainly one too many centuries past its intended drinking date, Deacon threw himself on an old beat up couch bearing several suspicious stains and grinned at High Rise, if only to throw the man off his scent. "So what calls for the occasion?" He lifted the beer in a mock-cheer. "Getting hitched or something?"
High Rise took a swig of his own drink before setting it on a nearby table. The mid-afternoon sun burned bright and high in the sky over the man's shoulder, and Deacon was glad for his sunglasses for more than one reason.
"Or something," High Rise replied obscurely, before nodding at Drummer Boy. "You're finally getting trained to take the old man's place?"
Deacon rolled his eyes at the old man jab. God, people needed to stop reminding him.
Drummer Boy, on the other hand, looked like a deer caught in headlights. "Uh, no – no, no, nothing like that. No one could replace Deacon. He's, like, a legend."
Another grin formed on Deacon's lips. At least everyone knew that. "Now I will drink to that," he said, laughing at the kid's burning red cheeks. To High Rise, he said, "We just thought the kid could use some more field work. As you oh so kindly pointed out, this old man is gonna die someday."
Drummer Boy looked perturbed at the thought while High Rise merely rolled his eyes. "I'd say you have at least a few years left in you. By the way, where's your partner at?"
And there it was. The reason for the pitying look. The beers. The mock-conversation. High Rise couldn't even make it to ten minutes before bringing her up.
While Deacon was busy glaring at his old friend, Drummer Boy decided to take on the responsibility of answering. "She and Glory went out. Said there was some business to take care of, but didn't say what kind."
High Rise nodded thoughtfully. "Quite a pair, those two. Don't you think?"
Drummer Boy nodded along keenly. "Yeah, they are. Honestly… they scare me, sometimes. D'ya know Glory named her mini-gun Karma?" He peered around at the other two men, as if anyone would be at all surprised that Glory named her beloved mini-gun. But Deacon could practically see the hearts in the young man's eyes, the way he worshipped the ground the woman walked on. "She's… she's sure something."
"Glory is one of the best we've ever had," High Rise agreed, taking another thoughtful sip of his beer. Then he stared over at Deacon, an almost challenging look in his eyes. "And Charmer – damn, that woman is impressive. Bet she keeps you busy, Deac."
"Yep, busy as a bee," Deacon agreed lightly, rolling his eyes.
High Rise's stare did not waver. "Heard about the courser she took down."
Ah, so it was going to be like that, then. A game of back and forth. Settling into the couch, Deacon gave a lazy smile. "Yeah, I watched her kick him right off the top of Trinity Tower. The lungs on that one – heard him scream all the way down."
High Rise grinned knowingly, catching the lie. "Heard about the Glowing Sea, too."
"She came back looking like the nastiest ghoul I've ever seen. Not sure she'll ever recover."
"And she's the General of the Minutemen. Heard she and Preston Garvey set up at least a dozen settlements that we can place some of our packages in, now."
"Even got Boy Scout to settle his grudge against me. Sure, it was the worst arm wrestling tournament of my life, but I've got bragging rights, now."
"And now the Institute?" High Rise said pointedly. "The relay? I'd say you two are a fucking power couple."
Deacon's mouth went dry. He snapped it closed, and although his sunglasses were hiding his eyes, he sent the darkest glower he could muster at High Rise. "Not sure who you've been gossiping with, but you've got the wrong information. Definitely not a couple."
High Rise chuckled and Drummer Boy gulped down more of his beer, likely wishing he was anywhere but in Ticonderoga's main living space at the moment. "My bad. Guess I got the details wrong."
"I guess you did. Speaking of details, where do you hear all this from?" Deacon's white teeth flashed a sharp smile. "That way I can be sure to correct your source."
Drummer Boy choked on a sip, across the way, where he had settled into a wing-backed chair. Finally, Deacon really looked at the kid – he'd have to be blind, or at least wearing darker sunglasses than he currently was, to miss the way Drummer Boy's face, all the way up to his ears, turned the deepest shade of crimson Deacon had ever seen.
"I, uh. I, um, keep all the safehouses apprised of Charmer's operations," Drummer Boy sputtered out, careful not to meet Deacon's hard gaze. "Y'know – so everyone knows how much she contributes. There were a few people at the beginning, who were, uh, skeptical of her becoming a heavy so quickly…" He trailed off, daring to peek up at the master spy, before dropping his gaze back to his hands immediately.
Deacon was at a loss for what to say. Drummer Boy was making people think he and Charmer were a fucking couple? Are you fucking kidding? And aside from that – Des's compartmentalization scheme was fucked, if everyone knew about those little details.
Fuck.
Seeing Deacon's body coil up with anger, High Rise finally decided to intervene. "Hey, you can't blame the kid, Deac. Besides, we were all thinking it. Not his fault if he was the first to… imply it."
He wasn't sure when he'd gotten to his feet, but Deacon was tempted to pace. But he wasn't the kind of man to pace. Pacing was just another way of showing people how bothered you were, and Deacon didn't do shit like that. He didn't slip up. He didn't show anyone what was really underneath all the face-swaps and sunglasses and getups.
So he stood, frozen, and kept his hands very carefully, very purposefully loose at his sides. Abandoning his beer, he forced himself to shrug lightly, carelessly, and smiled again, as if he could possibly be amused at the entire ordeal.
As if having everyone know that Deacon, the legendary Railroad agent, had it bad for his partner. God, the stares he was going to get, when she went into the Institute, when she didn't come back…
"Y'know what," he said, barely noticing that Drummer Boy was trembling in his seat at this point. "S'all good. Mistakes happen, right?"
And then he headed for the elevator and punched the button for the bottom floor a bit harder than necessary.
-0-0-
The day had been long after he left Ticonderoga safehouse. Deacon stopped by Bunker Hill to load up on some supplies he'd been getting low on, haggled with the vendor for at least an hour, took out the odd raider here and there that was getting too close to HQ, and finally unloaded everything inside the crypt so he could organize his packs and create a new inventory of his supplies.
Because he could not think about how the agents around him apparently thought that he and Charmer were together. Romantically. A couple. That they had probably been thinking that for some time already, due to Drummer Boy's big mouth – or rather, his very liberal dead-drop updates – and probably due to the fact that he and Charmer were basically glued together at the hip, anyway. When she was here. And when she wasn't here, he was always moping about, trying to keep as busy as possible…
Groaning in annoyance, Deacon tossed his completed inventory list on his mattress and scratched at his black wig.
How did he not notice?
Because he couldn't dwell on it, lest he jump up and run away from the entire ordeal, Deacon then decided he ought to shove his nose in a book and just read. Snatching up his weathered copy of Swan's Way a bit rougher than he should, he settled back into the cool stone of the crypt and tried to focus on the words in front of him.
Until he heard Glory's pretty laugh echo in the main chamber of the crypt outside, and Charmer's light chuckle follow.
"You've got to show me how you do that," Glory was in the midst of saying. "I always thought knives were for sissies, but damn girl. You know how to work one."
Charmer laughed again. "Only if you show me how to use… karma." She said the mini-gun's name with a bark of laughter, further pulling Deacon away from being able to have any focus on his novel.
Fucking fuck.
"Sure thing," Glory replied easily. There was a pause before she asked, "Hey, anyone see Deacon around? I've got to tell him what Charmer did."
Muscles coiling up, Deacon debated the merits of slipping out the back entrance to HQ as he heard a few agents mutter his whereabouts. He only had about ten seconds to decide.
So before the pair of women could see him, he grabbed his jacket, shoved to his feet, and slipped out the escape pipe without a single glance back.
-0-0-
When he returned, sometime around four in the morning, Charmer was half-awake on her designated mattress, bleary green eyes staring down into Swan's Way absently.
He'd chosen to enter through the back entrance to avoid the stares of the other agents, but he could only evade the issue for so long. Especially now that Charmer's eyes snapped up to him when he pulled the back door shut, metal clanging on metal in a low echo through the small passageway, magnetic locks sliding into place.
"Where've you been?" she asked quietly, careful not to wake a trio of agents sleeping on the other side of the wall.
Deacon sighed when he saw them. Ugh. This place needed more privacy.
Shrugging out of his jacket, the master spy gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just out and about. Y'know the deal."
She didn't know the deal, and that was the whole problem. Or maybe she did. And that would be a problem, too.
Charmer was always more perceptive than he gave her credit for.
"Saw you slip out the escape tunnel earlier," she commented off-handedly, returning her gaze to the book. "Seemed like you might be avoiding me. Unless there's a reason you don't want Glory to see you."
Her voice was a perfect hybrid of casual and questioning. Anyone else would've felt the need to defend themselves right away, to reassure, to explain. Hell, Deacon was half-tempted to do all three of those things. But he kept his mouth shut a moment longer before grinning at her.
"Tryin' to say you missed me, boss?"
Tired green eyes blinked up at him, unreadable. "If I ever told you I missed you, you'd run away with your tail between your legs." Then she gave a false smile of her own. "So no."
There she went again, always saying things that rang too close to home. Showing Deacon how much of a fucking coward he was, running away from what she was trying to give him, what she could offer.
He was so tired. And he despised being predictable. Loathed it beyond measure. Loathed that she was right. He ran away from her too much. He took her for granted, and she'd be gone soon. So far out of his reach.
And if the others already thought they were a couple, what did it hurt, really?
The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. "And if I didn't run away?" he asked, his tone sharp and playful and deadly serious, all at once. "Would you tell me you missed me, then?"
They locked gazes, despite the sunglasses, and the dusty old air of the crypt thickened between them.
Charmer stared up at him challengingly, the light from the lantern beside her mattress casting an odd halo over her black-as-night hair. She waited – one beat, two – before she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and nodded slowly. "Yes," she said simply, candidly. "I would."
The breath in his lungs stilled. They had been edging along this territory for so long now, Deacon didn't know what to do. Part of him still wanted to run. To hide away from himself, from her, and be the legendary agent everyone thought of him as. But the other part of him knew that Charmer was going to leave soon, one way or another. And he only had so much time.
"Well, I'm not running away, am I?" He almost didn't recognize his own voice. Bereft of nonchalance, any pretense, any modicum of the version of Deacon that everyone knew to be happy-go-lucky and without a care. Instead, his tone had deepened. He sounded more like the version of himself that had cried out to a bleeding Charmer in an old store, after a supermutant had blasted a hole in her.
From the mattress, Charmer watched him carefully, her own expression cut off from him. "Maybe not now. In an hour, you would. A day."
He couldn't argue with that. "Maybe," he allowed. "But I always come back. I came back."
"For now."
He couldn't stand the accusation in her tone. "You're the one I'm worried won't come back."
Something in her eyes thawed. She looked at him softer, now, the lamplight making her eyes impossibly greener. "I promised you I would."
He hated the idea of using her words against her, but he couldn't help but grind out, "For now."
"Whatever happens in the Institute, Deacon," Charmer started carefully, as if the topic itself would send him sprinting for the hills, "it's not going to change things. You're still my partner."
But he already knew what would happen, once she was in the Institute. The things she would see. Would know.
Still, for a little while longer, he could pretend, right?
"You'll miss me?"
"I will. You know I will."
He opened his mouth to say something – anything, really – but was interrupted by a panting Drummer Boy, who couldn't quite look Deacon in the eyes. "Ah – Deacon," the boy sputtered, glancing between Charmer and the master spy, oblivious to the tension in the air. "PAM said she was looking for you."
The moment was shattered, just like that. He glanced back towards Charmer to find her pretending to read Swan's Way again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth but her eyes steadfastly on the book. He stared at her several moments longer, willing her to look up, to acknowledge him and the conversation they just had, but she wouldn't.
"Fine," he said at last to Drummer Boy, dismissing the young man. Turning on his heel, he headed for Des's office, away from the only place he ever really wanted to be anymore.
-0-0-
The sunglasses were endlessly useful. For starters, the Wasteland sun was relentless. So his eyes were guaranteed to be damn good, since he never had to strain them for a damn thing when he was wandering the Commonwealth. Then there was the simple fact that they hid his eyes, which worked out well for two main reasons: number one being that, even though he could swap faces, he could never change his eyes (though it wasn't as if he hadn't asked), and number two being that, before taking up the omnipresent accessory and owning it like the devilishly handsome badass that he was, his eyes always gave him away when he was in a tight spot. Something Barbara used to comment on.
Today, Deacon was thankful that they covered the bags under his eyes that he could feel – he hadn't even needed to look in a mirror to know they were there – which further saved him from any questioning or suspicious stares from HQ's agents, who were already apparently questioning and suspicious of him and Charmer.
Since their tense conversation the night before and his subsequent meeting with PAM, Deacon hadn't slept. Hadn't even bothered to try. It would've been too obvious if he slept anywhere other than at Charmer's side, since he'd been doing that for months now. And he couldn't go sleep next to her. His thoughts were too scattered, his desires too intense. If he would have returned to her at all during the night… honestly, he wasn't quite sure what he would have done.
So he took down the location of the control system PAM wanted him and Charmer to secure and decided to spend the following six hours securing some form of transport for the huge system. Ultimately, he'd had to turn to the Minutemen, who admittedly had far more people and resources than the Railroad did, even during their best year. Quite simply, the Minutemen were the only faction capable of handling the transport of such a massive piece of technology in any sort of discreet manner.
Or so Deacon hoped. It was wrong – he knew it was wrong, because it felt wrong – but he was hoping to use Garvey's soft spot for his General to the Railroad's advantage. If Charmer herself asked for a discreet convoy (and Garvey didn't have to know that it was Deacon, and not their General asking), then Garvey would whole-heartedly throw himself into the task and make sure it was done properly. No one would be the wiser, other than certain members of the Railroad and certain members of the Minutemen.
It was a decent plan. The only hitch was that he needed to see, and interact with, Charmer in order to initiate the plan whatsoever.
Determined to prove her wrong, he hadn't left HQ at all through the early morning. Instead, he had scrawled out a note in Charmer's handwriting and sent a page off to the Castle. As anxious as he was for his relic to wake up and join the realm of the living, he wasn't going to let her entertain the thought that he was running from her again. Not again.
There was so little time left, and you couldn't trust anyone, but Deacon had begun to trust Charmer to some extent, and he was fucked. So fucked.
"Heard we got an assignment from PAM," the woman herself said, suddenly appearing near his elbow. Shit, when had she learned to be such a sneak?
"Yup," Deacon said, popping the 'p'. He loosened his tense shoulders, glanced over at his partner to try to scrutinize her thoughts, but she stared back at him with unreadable eyes. "She give you the details?"
Charmer nodded. "Control system that would work for Tom's relay back in Fort Hagen. Mentioned something about needing to be careful about clipping the wires, though. And that you were working on setting up some way to transport it to a secret location."
"Already set that part up," Deacon said easily. "Got your boy Garvey to help us out – we'll secure the area and radio him and his team. They'll head in to help us move it on over to Bedford Station – Tom said it was the best location, and the place is infested with ghouls, anyway, so no one should drop by unexpectedly – and then we'll leave Tom to it."
For several long, quiet moments, Charmer just stared at Deacon. Her eyes flitted over his face, edged along the frames of his sunglasses, but what she was searching for, he wasn't sure.
"So it begins," she finally said, an ominous undertone to her voice.
He couldn't keep the frown off his face. "So it does."
-0-0-
Deacon glanced at Charmer wearily. The way she looked at Fort Hagen, it was almost like…
"You been here before, boss?"
Charmer's gaze slowly slid from assessing the Fort's obviously recent defense measures towards Deacon's covered eyes. "Yeah. Briefly."
One-worded answers weren't necessarily his partner's type. "Care to elaborate?"
"No?"
Deacon rolled his eyes. "This where you and Glory went the other day? Y'know, you could've given me a heads up. Had to keep an eye on a bummed-out Drummer Boy the entire afternoon, in case you didn't notice. Wasn't sure if he'd go running off after you two or not."
Charmer shot him a faux-sympathetic look. "Oh jeez, it must be so terrible to spend time with a kid who worships the ground you walk on, Deac." She rolled her eyes. "Really. It's not like the kid can't mention you without adding the word legendary into his sentence, somewhere, literally every single time. What a drag."
"Sarcasm noted. Hint received."
"Are you sure? I could keep going."
Deacon grinned. "As entertaining as that would be…" he nodded at the Fort. "If you and Glory cleared it the other day, why're there more turrets up?"
The frown marring Charmer's lips was indecipherable to him. She assessed Fort Hagen again, eyes narrowed. "Glory and I didn't clear this. We were… it doesn't matter. I was here a couple months ago. Had to find someone."
The fact that Deacon knew literally nothing about her being here or who she had to find disturbed him. Months ago? Hadn't his tourists been keeping an eye out for her, then? Why didn't he know about this?
He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah?" Casual tone. Charmer always clamped shut when she thought you really wanted to know something. "And who was that?"
When she looked at Deacon head-on, he wondered if maybe she was tired of keeping secrets from him anymore. "A man named Kellogg. He's the one who took my brother. To the Institute."
Kellogg. He should have known. Kellogg had been on his DO NOT APPROACH list. Kellogg, after all, had been the one to recruit Deacon, when Deacon was just a young man part of a gang in a life that was worlds apart from the one he lived now. Kellogg had been the one to start Deacon on his dark and twisted path.
He didn't realize how stiff he'd gone until he felt Charmer's hand grasp his forearm, her green eyes staring deeply into his, past the sunglasses and all the veneer. "What? What is it?"
But some secrets were better kept, at least for now. "Nothing. Just wondering why you didn't tell me, s'all."
Charmer smiled up at him softly, making his knees turn to jelly. "Probably for the same reason why you won't tell me what's wrong."
She gave his forearm an affectionate squeeze before turning on her heel, walking straight into the unknown threat lurking within Fort Hagen.
-0-0-
"You radio Preston yet?"
Charmer was twirling around absentmindedly in an office chair just inside the main entrance of the Fort, blood splattered on her combat vest and face, looking for all the world like some hilariously macabre fusion of child and killer. Deacon would've found the image more amusing, had she not become more and more reckless…
She glanced up at him, waiting for an answer, before twirling around again, her short black hair fanning out around her head.
"I did," Deacon finally replied, not taking his eyes off her lithe legs, playfully sprawled out every time she rotated. "Maybe he can convince you how fucking stupid it is to rush into a fort filled with ammo and guns – oh, and those fucking bombs – without consulting anyone on your game plan. Since I obviously wasn't compelling enough for you."
Charmer paused her spinning to give him a fake pout. "Awe. You think you aren't compelling enough for me?" She smiled slyly at him, her eyes twinkling in delight. "That's cute."
Deacon pressed his lips together tightly. She was flirting with him? Now?
Why did his heart have to feel like a goddamn hummingbird flickering around in his chest?
"'Sides," she continued. "I had it handled. You saw."
"What I saw was you being reckless – "
Charmer snorted. "Please. I had it covered, Deac." Planting her feet firmly on the ground to keep from going another rotation on her stupid office chair, she stared up at Deacon innocently. "You worry too much."
"You like it when I worry."
She grinned. "Maybe I do."
A heavy knock at the double doors in the lobby interrupted any thought Deacon could have on that matter. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, sparing his Angel of Death one last look before heading over to open the locked doors.
"Took you long enough," was all Deacon said when Boy Scout's face appeared in the doorway, a line of eight Minutemen behind him, all shuffling about awkwardly in their silly little getups.
Garvey scowled darkly at the master spy. "It's been ten minutes, Deacon."
"Yeah. Ten minutes. Do you know what could've happened in ten minutes?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, Garvey cocked a dark brow. "I don't know – I think ten minutes was enough for you to leave me at the hands of three deathclaws-"
"Okay, boys," Charmer said, appearing at Deacon's side with an appraising look. "I thought you two already kissed and made up?"
Still glowering at Deacon, Garvey grumbled out, "Yes, General."
Ooh. Deacon honestly derived an endless amount of fun from pissing the Boy Scout off. And now with his General here? Garvey couldn't do a damn thing about it. He grinned to himself as Charmer led the group of men down to the control panel.
While he sat back and watched the Minutemen carefully clip the wires off the system and prepare to load it up on a push-cart, he remarked, offhandedly, "So, Garvey. You see your General in action much, lately?"
Of course, the question had some unintended innuendo, but Deacon shook it out of his head and pretended he didn't notice the blush that crept across Preston's dark skin.
"Why?" Boy Scout asked suspiciously, clearly thinking that Deacon was just trying to fuck with him again. He wasn't wrong, necessarily.
Shrugging, and ignoring the jab in the ribs from Charmer herself, Deacon flashed his white teeth at the Minuteman innocuously. "Shoulda seen her storm in here. Didn't even wait for backup, didn't sort out a game plan with me… Just waltzed right in like she's made of steel. It was a fucking bloodbath. Seriously. I think there's still some blood dripping from the ceiling." He watched as the Minuteman's eyes grew impressively wider and wider. "Yeah, that was my reaction. Seems like she forgot about the laser-blast she took, right about…" he poked Charmer in the stomach, right where her long-healed scar would be, "here."
Charmer squirmed away from him with a fierce glare.
"General," Garvey said tightly, having the exact reaction Deacon knew he would have. His eyes narrowed on Charmer, who was trying her best to look as innocent as possible – a true feat, for her, especially with the blood still drying in freckles on her face. "Please tell me Deacon's just making up his regular bullshit."
Ouch, but the man's logic was understandable.
Charmer's faux-innocent expression morphed into another glower, the full force of which she settled on Deacon. "Yep. You know Deacon. Always trying to stir up trouble."
Deacon placed his hand over his heart. "You wound me, milady."
But he didn't miss the look Garvey threw at his General as he ordered his men to get moving, hoping it was enough for the Boy Scout to knock some sense into the woman. You couldn't trust anyone, but you could certainly trust that Garvey adored his General too much to lose her to her own recklessness.
-0-0-
Deacon was growing worried that Charmer's expression had become a permanent scowl. After the Minutemen left with the control panel, headed out for Bedford Station, she rounded on him with the fiercest look he'd seen on her.
"What the hell did you do that for?"
Deacon brought his hands up and grinned. "Do what for?"
"You know what. You put it in Preston's head that he needs to keep an eye on me, now. He said as much, on his way out, you moron."
Wait, he did? Definitely not what he was going for… More like, he was hoping Garvey-boy would say something along the lines of General, just listen to Deacon. He knows best. He always knows what's best.
Was that really too much to hope for?
Deacon lowered his hands and crossed the main lobby of the fort to grab his jacket and pack. "Garvey knows that's unnecessary, since I'm the one who keeps an eye on you."
When he turned back around, Charmer had her hip cocked, her hand on it, and her eyebrows raised at him disbelievingly. "What?"
But he wasn't about to repeat himself. Especially not that… not about that. "I just thought he could knock some sense into you, since I obviously can't. What you did was dangerous, boss. Can't go marching in some place like a cowboy anymore, not when-" He stopped, biting off the end of his words. Not when you have to leave for the Institute soon.
Luckily, she pretended like she didn't hear him.
"Can we rewind to the part where you said you keep an eye on me?"
Deacon rolled his eyes and headed for the door. "Didn't the war teach you anything? Can't rewind life at will, boss. Now come on. We've got more work lined up."
And for once, he was the one to leave, forcing Charmer to hurry to catch up with him, her eyes wide and thoughtful and constantly peering at him.
-0-0-
"What are we doing?" Despite the sunglasses, Deacon squinted at his partner, the fiery sun already fading onto the cusp of the horizon just over her shoulder.
Charmer shrugged. "HQ's still an hour away. It's gonna get dark any minute now. Figured we could just shack up here for the night, if that's okay with you." She crinkled her nose in annoyance. "Wasn't gonna mention it before, but Glory snores like an eighty-year-old man."
Deacon stared at his partner. He'd been sleeping, at whatever HQ they'd had, near Glory for years now, and she decidedly did not snore. At all. Ever. "Yeah?" But he could play along. "You finally noticed that, huh?"
The twinkle in her eyes said she knew he was humoring her. "Took some time, but I finally realized it wasn't you."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he rolled his eyes. "I swear, if someone tells me another old man joke…"
"All right, all right," she grinned at him, shoving the door to the old, weathered house open. "No more old man jokes. Honestly, I was running out, anyway."
"I guess not everyone can be as clever as me," Deacon chirped proudly, following his partner into the ruined house to clear each room. After they'd taken out a pair of ghouls stuck behind a locked door on the second floor, they moved back to the living room downstairs and began shoving ancient, rotting furniture aside to make room for their sleeping packs.
An easy silence emerged as they worked, side by side, as they had been for so many months now. Charmer would make their sleeping arrangements as comfortable as possible while Deacon would shuffle through cabinets and drawers to find any odds and ends they might want. She might've thought he didn't notice, but Deacon knew Charmer was always trying to take some resources back to the settlements she'd set up with Garvey. She was always thinking about other people – what she could do for them, how she could help – and whenever possible, he'd nab a couple useful items and stash them in her pack for her to find later.
Finding a few lightbulbs and some fuses in one drawer, Deacon carefully set them aside for Charmer to find later. As soon as he'd settled the items near her pack, his stomach rumbled, eliciting a chuckle from his partner, who was crouched on the floor, seemingly ensuring that she could see both entrances to the house – the front and the back – from where she'd be sleeping.
"Hungry much?" she glanced at up him, and the way her dark eyelashes framed the green eyes that haunted Deacon's every waking moment made something else stir in his stomach, too. "I think I spotted a cooking pit out back. If you get a fire going, I'll make us something to eat."
Something about that sentence, the way it was so casual and so normal of her to say, made Deacon's chest constrict painfully. He was feeling too many things at once, thinking too many things at once – so he grabbed some oil from his pack and a flip lighter, and headed outside without a word.
Deacon wasn't sure if what he needed was some space from the relic or a subtraction of space. He really wasn't sure anymore. High Rise's insinuation – that Deacon and Charmer were some kind of silly Railroad power couple – echoed in his head, again and again; the nonchalance with which his old friend had implied it, the accepting tone. He tried to replay all the moments he and Charmer had returned from an op, how all the other agents would gawk and stare at them, how their eyes would flash with something he had only ever thought was curiosity or envy or something of the like, but upon real reflection, was probably something closer to High Rise's assumption.
And Des – what did she think? The Alpha wasn't one to gossip, but surely she'd heard something, from Tom or Drummer Boy or even Glory. Yet she had never mentioned anything to Deacon…
Deacon sighed to himself, pouring some oil over the firepit Charmer had mentioned and lighting it up quickly, carelessly enough to almost burn himself.
"You good, Deac?"
Her voice startled him, but it shouldn't have. Deacon was never startled. Ever. He was always acutely aware of his surroundings and everyone in it.
Turning to face her, shoulders stiff, mouth pulled into a tight frown, Deacon snaked his eyes up and down her figure.
A bad idea – his stomach squirmed once more – because she'd removed her combat vest and the rest of her armor, now standing before him in only the tight black pants she'd found when out with Glory and a black, form-fitting long-sleeved shirt.
He'd tried hard not to ever linger on her curves before, but fuck. She was making it difficult.
"Yeah," he ground out, staring determinedly at her eyes. "What're we cookin' up tonight? Don't tell me it's the Mac n' Cheese again. I swear to God, boss, you have an addiction that not even the best addictol can cure."
Charmer smiled up at him strangely. As if she knew he was all twisted and tangled inside over whatever was going on between them; as if she could feel the tightness in his chest when he looked at her, really looked at her, and kept remembering that one of these days, he might not get to even do that anymore.
She'll be gone.
One of her scarred, small hands reached up to tuck a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. The ends of her dark hair were jagged again, freshly cut to just above her shoulders, likely from Glory or one of the other agents back at HQ. No barber would've let her leave in such a state – disheveled, but in the best possible way.
"Deacon," she said softly, pulling him out of his trance of memorizing every detail that made her into the woman she was. "Talk to me."
He wasn't sure if he was tired in the physical sense or the spiritual sense, but Deacon just couldn't put his mask back on right now. His frown lingered, despite his brain telling him to cover it up. Hide it away. Make everything seem normal and okay. "Nothing to talk about, boss."
How the woman managed to look both indulgent and irritated would forever puzzle him. "That so?"
"Yep." He popped the 'p', shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans to do something with them.
Charmer stared at him for a long moment. A long moment which turned into several long moments; her staring up at him, across the meager three feet that separated them, her dark eyelashes bringing out the bright green in her irises, her lips pulled into a tiny frown, brows furrowed so that a cute little line appeared between them.
There was barely three feet separating them, but it felt like three inches. His chest constricted again – God, he hadn't felt this way in years, since – no, he didn't want to think about that now, didn't want to taint his memories of Charmer with his wicked past – he just – he just what? He couldn't stop staring at her, wishing he had one of those old-world cameras to take a photo of her with, something he could hold onto. Something he'd always have.
Finally, after several minutes had passed this way, Charmer suddenly shook her head, the disappointment coloring her eyes almost tangible.
"I've given you so many chances, Deacon," she spoke quietly, her hands gesturing to the house around them, the fire pit, the small distance that separated him from her. "So many chances. And things may not –"She caught herself before saying it, but he already knew. And things may not go well, in the Institute. Biting her bottom lip, she glared up at him. "Aren't you going to miss me?"
There were so many ways to answer that question. So many things he could say, could do. God yes, he thought. God, you have no idea. He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed again. What could he possibly say?
Yes I'm going to miss you, but while you're gone, you'll find out who I really am and what I've really done and you won't miss me, anymore? You won't want anything to do with me?
Yeah, no. Those words weren't itching to pour outta his mouth. Not now.
Charmer soaked up his silence for another moment before turning resolutely on her heel, shoulders taut and pulled back, jaw clenched. Something about the way she was holding herself gave off the sense of such… finality. As if she were done handing out chances. Done trying to get him to fess up to how he felt.
She didn't make it a single step back inside before Deacon's hand latched onto her forearm and twisted her back around. A surprised sound fell from her mouth, low and airy and honestly music to his ears, before she was facing him again. They were nearly chest to chest now –her bosom heaving with surprised breath and Deacon trying to hold impossibly still as he tugged her closer.
There was so little time left, and fuck, fuck his cowardice, his hesitation. There weren't any more chances, after this.
There was nothing gentle about it – his hands trailed up her arms before snaking into her hair, pulling her against his chest as his lips crashed against hers, ravenous, starved for this thing he had wanted for so long. Charmer hesitated for only a moment before responding, wrapping her arms around Deacon's neck, making him groan into her mouth as she nibbled at his lip and ran her fingers across his smooth head.
For so long, Deacon had been carefully constructed to never lose control. To always be aware, alert, and ready to respond to anything or anyone. But Deacon had lost control completely now, so wrapped up in memorizing the sensation of her lean, petite body pressed up against him that he didn't care anymore.
This was what he wanted, and for a short while longer, this was what she wanted, too.
Pressing another hard kiss to her mouth, Deacon bent suddenly and scooped Charmer up into his arms, eliciting another gasp from her pretty, pretty lips. Kicking the back door open, he carried her inside, knees turning to jelly when he felt her tongue begin to explore his neck, her teeth run across the outer shell of his ear, suck his earlobe into her mouth.
That's when he lost it.
Settling her beneath him on the sleeping mats she'd arranged earlier, he cursed and moaned and peppered her collarbone with chaste, lingering kisses, making her squirm beneath him.
"Deacon," she gasped, her fingernails running along the base of his skull, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth back to hers, sucking on his bottom lip and sweeping her tongue over it.
There was too much he wanted to savor, too much he wanted to do. "Nora," he panted into her mouth, the name never once spoken on his lips but so right. So fucking right. God, he just wanted to say it again and again, to make her his finally, no more distance or codenames or hidden looks.
She pulled away from him, lips parted and swollen, eyes hooded with lust. For him. For him, of all people.
How was he worthy of that?
Small, scarred hands reached up, tentatively, so that he could anticipate her move, so he had time to object if he thought it was crossing a line. His mouth remained pressed closed, and Charmer continued, her fingers slipping along the cool frames of his omnipresent sunglasses, pinching them and dragging them off of him, all in one fluid motion.
He couldn't help it, though. With his heart hammering away in his chest, his mind whirring at an unnatural speed, he pinched his eyes shut so she wouldn't see them. What would she see, if she saw the real him? If he stopped hiding away behind the sunglasses?
Soft lips pressed gently against his eyelids, a sweet supplication. "Deacon," she whispered before giving another feather-soft kiss to his temple, nudging him lightly with her nose. "Deacon… Look at me."
"Nora, I - "But what excuse did he have? That he was afraid? Because if he took away his fear, what was left?
His desperate need for her. For this.
"Deacon," she tried again, her voice hardly louder than a whisper, coarse from their ministrations, vibrating through his chest, his whole body, as she lay there beneath him. She nuzzled him with her nose again and sighed against his lips. "Please… Just look at me. Please?"
He would do anything she asked. Anything. Heart pounding fiercely against his ribcage, Deacon finally peeled his eyes open. He felt so exposed. So naked, so vulnerable, unable to hide all his ugly parts away. How she could even bear to look at him –
"I've thought about this moment," she said, breaking into his spiraling thoughts, her gaze warm and kind and gentle, "for so long now, Deacon. You can't even imagine."
God, yes, I can.
Staring down at her, his hips pressed just right into her soft, spread legs, he looked at her openly for the first time without the dark blue tint of his glasses tainting her perfection. For a moment, he could forget his insecurities and allow himself this rare chance to study her, so openly, without any barrier between them.
"Your eyes are brown," she said, a questioning lilt to her soft tone.
He wanted to pinch his eyes shut again, but fought every instinct he had to do so. Instead, he managed a lopsided smile. "Sounds like you're disappointed, boss."
"Not at all," she replied, a hitch to her voice, as she writhed beneath him, rubbing up against him in the most delicious manner imaginable. "You're beautiful, Deacon."
"I'll miss you," he said suddenly, the hand that wasn't holding him above her brushing a few strands of dark hair from her cheek. "I'll miss you like crazy. God, I'll miss you."
She stared back at him with hooded eyes and those long, dark eyelashes. "Show me."
Groaning, he did exactly as he was told, tugging down the collar of her shirt to place his mouth on the smooth, soft skin at the juncture of her throat.
-0-0-
It was hours later that Deacon was laid out on his back, a thin blanket from his pack clinging to his naked body from waist-down, Charmer sprawled out next to him with her head resting on his chest. He stared up at the decaying ceiling, the splintered wood and worn carpet and night sky he could see, peeking out through holes here and there. It had been so long since he'd looked at the sky without those damn sunglasses on – he forgot that it wasn't the faded, hazy black his lenses made them out to be, but inky, like Charmer's hair.
Her hair tickled his chest in the most wonderful way. Trailing a finger down her spine, Deacon blinked before he pulled her closer to him, until she was half-straddling his leg and half on her sleeping mat.
Glancing down at her was still hard – he felt so bare – but he did it anyway, a tiny smirk on his lips as she stared at him curiously. "Glory doesn't snore," he finally pointed out, fixing her with an amused I'm calling your bullshit look.
Charmer blinked up at him innocently. "She doesn't? Hmm."
Hmm, indeed. "You had us stop here for the night so you could take advantage of me, didn't you?"
The smile she gave him would forever be burned into his mind – something beautiful to finally displace the ugly that filled his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Deacon gave a playful roll of his eyes. "O-kay, boss."
Charmer readjusted herself, laying her palm flat against his chest, pressing her bare breasts against his skin so she was looking down at him. "I like it when you call me boss."
"I know you do," he replied easily.
"Good," she said, smirking. "Keep doing it."
Slipping his hands onto her lower back, Deacon rolled them over until she was beneath him yet again, her hair fanned out around her head like the night sky, her legs wrapped around his waist. God, he would never get used to the sight. Never. "Yes, ma'am," he said, skimming his nose along her cheek before kissing his way down her body, making his two-hundred-year-old pre-War relic gasp and sigh and moan into the night.
0-0-0
When they arrived back at HQ the following day, Deacon's hands clammed up. No one would've noticed, of course – he wasn't the Railroad's best agent, next to Charmer, for no reason. But he knew it, and fuck, he was getting too paranoid. Every look from any one of the passing agents he read as: I know what you and Charmer did last night.
But no one could've known, and besides, they all apparently thought he and Charmer were already together. What was the harm, really?
Whether or not they were actually together was a whole different issue. One they both had successfully evaded since getting up in the morning and walking back to the old church. One that thickened the air whenever she looked at him, with that smile reserved for him and him alone. One that needled at him as he remembered her upcoming leave for the Institute, hovering in the near future like the great monster that it was.
He ached to touch her. Now that he had, in the most intimate of ways, he was addicted. It was the simple things. Wanting to place his hand on her lower back when they were standing near each other, yearning to brush the hair out of her eyes, to just be close. It was all he could think about.
But Charmer was back to her old self – hard to decipher, tense, forward-looking and always on the move. She was focused. Everything he wasn't. She was nodding along to whatever Des was telling her, telling both of them, but he just couldn't put his mind in it. Images of her writhing beneath him, moaning, pulling his face down to smother him with kisses replayed over and over in his head, made his heart flutter every so often.
He'd known it the first couple of weeks they'd spent together, just traveling on the road from place to place, but Deacon was fucked. Wholeheartedly, thoroughly, utterly fucked.
Finally, when he'd zoned out for far too long, Glory's sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs, making him wince and rub at the spot tenderly. "Sheesh," he said, looking her up and down, like he hadn't been thinking of another woman very close by, the way her lips parted in ecstasy when he moved in her just the right way. "Someone's grouchy today. What, didn't get to take Karma out on her morning walk?"
Glory fixed Deacon with an odd stare. "Oh, Karma was very thoroughly warmed up this morning, just a mile east of here." The odd look faded into a sharp smile. "She's had a busy, busy day." Then she nudged Deacon, softer this time. "And you, Deac? You have a busy day?"
Once again, Deacon was surprised by the synth's perception. He'd known Glory for nearly ten years now, and never once had she been so keen on his private affairs, which was essentially part of the deal, when you worked for a super secret organization that could be wiped out at any moment. "Not sure what you mean. Day's just begun, right?"
"For some of us," Glory said cryptically, her lips quirking upwards. Then her eyes moved to land on Charmer, several feet away, engaged in a discussion with the Alpha of the Railroad, gesturing wildly with her hands. "She seems… more relaxed, than usual. Don't you think?"
Deacon gave Glory his best smile. "Must've been the traveling masseuse we ran into, between here and Concord. Honestly, man had fingers made of magic. Worked out a coupl'a kinks in my neck, too."
Rolling her eyes, the heavy made to walk away. "I'm happy for you, Deacon. I really am." But her warm eyes turned glacial in under a second. "But like I said before – don't fuck this up. Understand me?"
A sudden wave of nausea washed over the spy, hitting him like a fucking tidal wave. Don't fuck this up? This was destined to get fucked up. Charmer was going to the Institute… and then what?
Then his little slice of heaven, his reprieve from this ugly world, would be ripped from him. Again.