Games We Play: Seduction (clean)
Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys.
I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this since I already posted a chapter this morning but then I changed my mind. Unlike Deacon, I am NOT a patient person and I wanted to share. An explicit version of this chapter appears at Ao3.
seduction
noun
a tempting or attractive thing; something that attracts or charms
Deacon's first instinct, of course, is to lie. Even with the trust she's shown by not shooting him on sight, the habit of prevaricating is ground in. His first impulse is always to make something up, something as far from the truth as possible. He knows better than to do it with Charmer and yet -
She knows better, too; she doesn't give him a chance. Before he can open his mouth to spout some primo bullshit, she starts asking questions. This must have been what it was like for her, before the war.
"You knew what I was going to find in there." Her tone is flat, not accusatory, not angry. Strangely devoid of feeling.
"Yeah." The admission makes him uncomfortable, more so when she starts enumerating his falsehoods and omissions.
"You knew about...Shaun. Father. My son."
"Yeah. We all did...in there. We knew he came from a vault, Vault 111. In the course of my…work, I discovered that someone else might still be inside." Her brow arches and for a moment he thinks she'll pursue this, but no - she starts pacing, gun held nervously at her side.
"And you used to work in the SRB."
"In programming. My job was to - well, I was supposed to help them blend in. The trench coats and sunglasses weren't really - well, you see how well that turned out." Oh shit, he's babbling. He needs to stop.
"Why did you leave?" She stops, looking at him carefully. The implication is that she'll know if he's lying.
"I think you can figure that one out."
"I want to hear it from you."
He sighs, fidgeting in his seat. The truth always feels awkward when said out loud. After so many lies, it can be hard to sound genuine. "I started to see them - the synths - as people. I didn't want to be a part of that anymore. It wasn't right."
Charmer begins pacing again, her free hand lightly smacking her denim-covered leg.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
At that, he lets out a humorless laugh. "Come on! Why would I tell anyone about that? Everyone would assume I was some sort of spy. No one would trust me."
"And how do I know you're not spying and reporting back?"
Barbara again, the wall of their kitchen spattered with blood. The way she made him love her. He realizes he's clenching his fists and makes a conscious effort to uncurl his hand. It's difficult, but he manages.
Charmer has stopped pacing again and is studying him intently. He wishes he could see past her eyes; they're as good a barrier as his own sunglasses.
"How do I know you're not? Now that you've been down there and found your son, maybe you're gonna flip." His tone is too casual. From the look on her face, she knows he's scared.
"Answer the question, Deacon."
"I guess you don't," he finally says. "It wouldn't be the first time they sent someone up here to spy. I wouldn't be the first to try to infiltrate the Railroad, even."
"Do any of the others know? Desdemona, Doc Carrington, Glory?"
Deacon forces his fists to unclench again. He's hasn't been so tense in years. "Glory," he spits out.
"Glory? Really?" She's still looking at him critically, but now she sets the gun down on a dresser.
"I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't tell Des. She's not as understanding as Glory is."
At this, one side of Charmer's mouth quirks into a smile. "No, I suppose she wouldn't be."
She doesn't know the half of it, Deacon thinks. If she knew about Sam -
But no, he wouldn't tell her about that. His own secrets aren't the only ones he'll keep.
The bed sags a little as Charmer sits next to him. Her hands are still nervous; she's bouncing the palms against her knees as if she doesn't know how to calm herself. He turns to her, planning to put a hand on her shoulder and ask if she's okay, to ask how she's handling the news of her son, but when instead one of her hands lands on his shoulder. It sits there for a moment, alien and anxious, before her fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket, pulling him to her.
She's kissing him, or he's kissing her; he's not sure how it started of if it was an accident. He's not sure this isn't another tactic to get him to spill everything he knows; if so, it just might work. Her lips are soft, welcoming. This close she smells like soap and gunpowder. She turns her head, offering him more access to her lips even as she moves her body closer to his. His sunglasses pinch the bridge of his nose.
He should pull back. He should stop this now before it gets out of hand, but instead he reaches up and pulls the shades off, letting them drop to the floor beside them as his hand reaches up to tentatively stroke her cheek. The skin is smooth - say what you will about the old world, but they just made 'em softer back then - and she lifts her chin, allowing him to run his fingers through her silky hair. His hand makes its way to the back of her head and he holds her head still as he moves away from her lips to trail kisses down her neck to her collarbone.
Charmer lets out a moan, head tilted back, and runs one of her hands down his arm, squeezing gently at the bicep. He takes this as a sign, and leans into her, nuzzling her neck and nipping at her earlobe. At this, she giggles and pulls back a little.
She's never looked directly into his eyes before. He's taken off his sunglasses to sleep, or to wash his face, but she's always politely looked away, somehow instinctively knowing he doesn't want to be seen. She's always respected his need to disguise his vulnerability. But not now - now she looks at him as if she's never really seen him before.
Somehow he likes it.
"Their computer said you were dead. That you died in a fire."
If he thinks about it, he can smell their shack burning; the sickening roast meat smell of Barbara's body and the more chemical tang of their various electrical items popping and melting in the heat. More than twenty years, and when he closes his eyes, he can still see the flashes of flame. The heat of the structure burning like a pyre. Greasy black smoke billowing everywhere he poured the accelerant.
"I guess -" Charmer's hand silences him, her fingers across his lips.
"I don't want to hear any lies. Not right now." Her eyes, inches away from his own, finally seem to be telling him something. Under the thick lashes, her irises are so dark he can't tell where her pupils end. They're bottomless, a universe of longing.
So Instead he kisses her fingers, his lips tentative even though she closes her eyes and sways. It's been so long since he wanted a woman the way he wants her; every woman since Barbara has just been one distraction after another.
Charmer opens her eyes again, fixing him with a glare that's immeasurably softened by the naked yearning in her hands as she works the buttons on his jacket loose. She slides the rough denim off his shoulders with hands that seem to quiver whenever they touch him. He does her the same favor; taking his lead from her, he unzips the heavy coat she picked up somewhere, slipping it to her shoulders and allowing her to wriggle out of it. It slithers off the bed behind her to land on the floor, forgotten.
Deacon stares at her for a moment, trying to memorize every detail about her. There's that freckle on her nose, near her eye, the one that he always thinks is a speck of dirt. Her hairline is crooked, like her lips. Her nose is flat, broad, her skin like porcelain - albeit porcelain smudged with a bit of dirt.
He knows she's older than she looks - much, much older - but suddenly he feels ancient next to her with the wrinkles at his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth. He feels more than naked, he feels exposed. He wonders about picking up his sunglasses, but then she's on him again, her lips hot against his own, her fingers deftly working the buttons on his shirt in an impatient bid to get to the skin underneath.
Well, if she's not bothered about the fact that he's almost old enough to be her father, he's not going to worry about the fact that she's still, somehow, two centuries old.
He fumbles at the bottom of her t-shirt, savoring the softness of her skin under his calloused hands. She lets out a small gasp at his cold hands, but then she's got his shirt open and he shrugs it off, returning his hands to their exploration of her body. His skin prickles in the cool air of the guesthouse, and he pulls her closer, sliding her into his lap.
The sun is dropping and the light that makes its way into the small house is dim and golden, casting her angular body into mellow curves. He runs one hand down her arm, skirting the sensitive skin of her breast, and revels in the knowing giggle it draws from her.
Charmer props herself up on one elbow and inspects him.
"You love me." She's not asking. His thoughts drift to his outpost over Vault 111. Three years of waiting after a lifetime of wondering about her.
"No," he shakes his head, taking the opportunity to drop a kiss on one bare shoulder. She shivers, runs a hand up his chest to cup his chin.
"Liar." Her smile is self-assured, and cryptic.
