Games We Play: Observe

Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys.

observe

verb

to regard with attention, especially so as to see or learn something

Deacon wakes in a sweat every night, seconds away from screaming. The nightmare is always the same: the feeling of his swatter in his hands, the ground rolling unevenly under his feet, the smell of gin. The crunch of Barbara's skull under the wooden bat, the way everything shattered.

Maybe nightmare isn't the right word for reliving that awful day down at the Point, but it's the closest one he has.

The dream always starts with her voice. The sound of her talking, laughing with someone he didn't know. He's standing outside, blood on his boots, feeling triumphant. He'd shown the Deathclaws, had taught them they couldn't spread dangerous rumors about synth replacements around town with no repercussions. Her laugh is pretty, drifting on the breeze through the open window like wind chimes. He wonders to himself who she's talking to, why the calm, detached cadence of their voice sounds so familiar.

Something stops him from walking in, though. And standing outside in the dark spring evening, the air heavy with humidity, he hears her say the words that would change his life.

"You can report back to Father that I'll have him neutralized and ready to return to his programming duties at the SRB before the end of the month."

He has to be imagining this; Barbara doesn't know anything about the Institute. She's from County Crossing, for crying out loud. She can't be an Institute spy.

This can't be happening.

The dream skips the next part, the conversation he hears that confirms everything, conveniently laid out for him as if it were planned. It fast-forwards through the door opening, and through Deacon hiding in the bush and waiting until the other synth is gone. It hops over the way he walked in, furious, demanding answers, too angry to think straight.

No, the dream goes right to the heart of it, to her crying, trying to explain. To the way her voice quavered when she begged him to please, please just let her go and she would never come back. To the way he knew that if he did, they'd just send another one after him. The dream lingers on the way he asked her if she'd ever loved him and the cold look she gave him, the sniff she gave when he started to cry. The way the tears were hot on his face; they burned.

He'd been young, just a kid. He'd trusted her.

He'd loved her.

He still loves her.

The dream savors the way the bat felt in his hand, even though consciously Deacon is horrified when he thinks of how smooth the wood was. It teases him, drawing out the moment she turned, hand on the door, ready to run. The way he swung, putting his whole weight into it, and the way his whole life ended in the moment that the bat connected with her head.

Deacon sits up, eyes unfocused, sweltering despite the cold of the safehouse, terrified of what Charmer might learn about him. Terrified of what she'll think.

The first week, Deacon throws himself into fixing things up around the safehouse. He adds barbed wire to the top of the walls near the road, fixes the finicky turret that sometimes goes off when the stream is heavy with run-off. There's dinners to prepare and he even starts fermenting some razorgrain so they can figure out a way to brew their own beer. That'll improve morale, he figures. At the end of the week, Jackpot and the package leave for the next stop.

In the second week, the nightmares get worse, so instead of sleeping, he takes more overnight watches. Even Calavera starts to give him the occasional smile, eerie as it is with the scars that extend from both sides of her mouth almost to her ears. Early in the morning, after he's relieved from watch duty, Deacon packs up some things and heads towards the river to hunt mirelurks. Most days he's successful, and after a midday nap - the dreams don't come in the day - he freezes the meat in blocks of ice made from purified water, and stores everything in the boathouse. It's reassuring to know the agents here will eat well when Charmer returns and he can move on.

The third week it rains and hails and when he goes outside Deacon can't seem warm up until the next morning. Instead he spends his days inside, listening to the same songs over and over again on the radio and feeling like he's going to crawl out of his skin. Jackpot returns, this time with a new package and a surprise - Glory's with him. The sight of his old friend is almost more than Deacon can handle, though he greets her with little more than a nod.

He's standing on the porch, having a smoke - the first week he was here, Clover primly asked him to keep his smoking outside - when Glory comes back out. He'd know her heavy bootsteps anywhere, and when she comes to stand next to him, he shoots her a tense, tired smile.

"Worried 'bout your girl?" Glory's never been one to beat around the bush.

"Nah," Deacon lies. "She'll be fine down there. I'm sure she's just learning everything she can so we're better equipped when she makes her way back out."

"That or she's defected, decided to stay with her son."

"Thanks for that. That's really what I want to think about." He gives her a sideways look. Glory's smirking at him; it's the closest he ever sees to a smile on her.

"Come on, you're not worried, are you? Tough guy like you?"

"Of course not," he takes a drag on his cigarette and gestures at the frozen mud in front of them, at the junk wall with its curling barbed wire, at Pinocchio sitting in the guard tower under a sheet of scrap and huddled in a blanket. "Who would give up all this for three square meals, a soft bed, and hot water? No, she's definitely coming back."

Above them, the rain beats hard on the repaired roof; the hail sounds tinny when it hits the tin Deacon secured over the worst holes the week before. The relay looks forgotten in the courtyard before them, one light blinking slowly and mud splattered on the platform.

"That's not exactly how I remember things," Glory says softly. "But then again, I wasn't on the 'right' side of things down there."

He's always wondered if she remembers him from before. He's always wanted to ask her - does she remember him? Does she know him? It's been thirty years since he first saw her training in the SRB, shiny leather coat and sunglasses covering her eyes. He was a different person then, with a different name and a different face, but still -

There's something in her tone that tells him yes, she does.

"I don't blame you," she says, turning to look back at the junk wall. Deacon's grateful; it's easier to talk about this without having to look her in the eye. "It's the way you were raised. You didn't know any better." She lets out a deep sigh, as if she's been carrying this around forever.

"How'd you know?" For this he gets another smirk.

"You're not as crafty as you think you are," Glory teases. "But really, it was your voice. All the time you spent changing your face and your clothes and you always sound the same."

Well, shit. He never really thought about that one before. For a moment he's embarrassed. Has he always been easier to read than he thought?

"She'll be back soon." There's a cold breeze and Glory shifts away from the smoke suddenly pointed straight at her. "She won't be happy down there."

"You really think so? I mean, it's more like what she's used to." He crushes the cigarette out against the porch rail, making a soot mark on the peeling paint.

"Yeah. I don't see her staying down there with those fucking monsters."

"But her son -"

"I heard all about that," Glory interrupts. "She's still not going in for slavery and murder, you heard her. She'll be back."

Deacon wishes he could be so confident, but he keeps thinking about the sound of Father's voice over the loudspeaker. The anguish on Charmer's face when she left the Memory Den. The quaver in her voice when she settled on the barstool in the Third Rail and asked Charlie for a bottle of vodka, and then another one. The way she drank until she blacked out and then collapsed in an alley in Goodneighbor.

The way she almost died, murmuring his name over and over again as Deacon carried her back in to Dr. Amari, begging her to resuscitate the vault dweller.

"You're not going to tell anyone about -"

"No, of course I'm not going to tell anyone, don't be stupid." The look she gives him is exasperated. "I think you've spent enough years proving your worth around here." Deacon lets out a sigh of relief. If anyone had a right to fuck him up over his past, it's her. He feels lighter somehow, knowing this. Maybe there's something to this honesty thing, he mulls as they go back inside.

Clover looks up from the card game she's teaching the package when he grabs her by the arm, the smile on her lips like a come-on. They go upstairs, scattering cards as they go, and Deacon spends the rest of the frigid, rainy afternoon distracting himself between her thighs.

At the end of the fourth week, Deacon can't wait anymore. The safehouse is too cramped for so many people with K0-14 waiting for pickup and Clover giving him flirtatious looks every time he turns around. With a heavy sigh, he fills his pack and gives Jackpot the sign and countersign in case Charmer shows up. The old man agrees to send word to the closest dead drop if she does, and promises to keep her from leaving if she returns.

The day that Deacon leaves is unseasonably warm; it feels like spring. He changes out of the raider armor he wore at the safehouse and leaves it upstairs for the next person who comes through. He takes a small amount of rations, figuring he should plan for at least one and maybe two nights on the road, depending on what he hits on the way.

He's figuring he'll head up to Sanctuary while he waits for her to reappear - with the ties she has there, it's a safe bet she'll head back there if she doesn't want to see him. He can't shake the nagging feeling that she knows and that's why he hasn't seen her.

He needs to explain.

The skies are clear and visibility is good. Deacon turns right; he'll take the road to the west before hitting Concord and go north there. He's in no rush; maybe he'll stay at Starlight for the night. He hears they've got some traders set up there, maybe someone in one of the caravans will have some news about Charmer. She stands out enough in the Commonwealth that if she's back, someone somewhere will have noticed.

He's passing Covenant when there's a loud boom from just outside the settlement's walls. A plume of smoke soars up, marring the blue sky, and then he hears a stream of creative, filthy words echoing across the water. He stands still in the road for a moment, trying to decide if he wants to investigate The smarter thing - the safer thing - would definitely be to continue up the road, on his original route.

Instead he turns, heading back towards Covenant, dropping into a crouch and drawing his weapon as he goes.

Up close, Deacon can see the reason for the smoke still billowing into the sky - the Corvega he used for cover some weeks back sits on its side, just off the road, its metal glowing red with heat and flames licking out of the rear. He stares for a moment, stunned, and then detects movement to his left.

Standing between the gates of Covenant is Charmer, her gun held casually to one side. She looks smaller than he remembers her, although it may just be the heavy coat she's wearing. He turns to her, takes two steps, and freezes when he finds her pistol trained on him.

His brain goes blank. What's the new sign he's supposed to use?

"I'm a little blue today," he begins, taking a step towards her. When he hears the safety click off, he freezes. "And idea how I could cheer up?"

Charmer stands, stock-still, as if debating with herself. In his chest, Deacon's heart is beating so loud he's sure she could probably hear it if it weren't for the rushing sound of the fire down the hill.

"You could moon someone," she says after what feels like a year. She lowers the gun a little, enough so that he feels okay about taking another few steps towards her, and eyes him warily. She gestures at him, waving him inside, and he takes his time, keeping his hands up where she can see them. The gates creak shut behind them, and Charmer bars them from the inside. There's new turrets clicking from atop the walls, and while he can still see dark spots where some of the settlers died, there's no sign anywhere of the bodies.

She's been here awhile; must be at least one week, maybe two.

Which means she knows. She has to.

Any doubt about that is cast aside completely when he feels the jab of her .44 under one rib.

"Why don't we go inside somewhere and have a seat." Although she's behind him, he can see her gesturing to the last house on the left. Deacon puts one foot in front of the other, taking small steps up the hill and into the quaint yellow house. Inside, she pats him down, reaching into his pockets and emptying them of cigarettes, lighter, caps, bullets. His gun she unholsters and puts in her own pocket. She directs him to sit on one of the three neatly-made beds in the main room of the house.

Charmer stands across from him, leaning against the wall. Her face is still, perfectly neutral. Not for the first time since they met, he wonders again what she's thinking.

"Not much of a warm greeting," he says finally. Someone's gotta break the silence.

Charmer arches a brow at him and lowers the gun a smidge.

Progress.

"You knew what I was going to find there." He nods; it's not a question. "You have a lot to explain."