They didn't intend on staying long, or dwelling on their recent emotional confessions. They left Goodneighbor quickly, stopping only to top off their ammo supplies before heading out.
Morgan seemed re-energized, more clearheaded and focused than she had been in weeks. She declared that the Glowing Sea was their new focus. They needed to get ahold of some suits of Power Armor, and the best weaponry they could find. Their guns suited them well enough, but two high-quality suits would be harder to find.
They looted the biggest raider encampments, where raider bosses often fashioned their own suits of armor over antique power armor frames. It didn't take much to kill two bosses and walk the frames back to Bunker Hill, where they asked Stockton to look after them, as a personal favor. But that left the matter of the armor itself.
Dingy Pre-War stuff wasn't uncommon, if you were brave enough to kill a Mr. Gutsy or two and loot the military trucks they guarded. But they were designed to stop bullets, not radiation. They needed modern armor if they were going to head into the Glowing Sea. Luckily, Joe Savoldi offered them a deal. He knew a guy who could get them the armor pieces they needed, and in return, they'd retrieve a Savoldi family heirloom from some sinkhole up north.
Trouble was, the sinkhole was right near a Deathclaw nest, meaning the few who agreed to go never returned. But, if Morgan and Deacon could come back in one piece, heirloom in hand, Joe would hook them up with a mechanic and a heavy discount. A small price to pay for the size of their project.
You know. So long as they didn't die.
"I wonder how long it's been since these Deathclaws have eaten a human."
"Sooner rather than later, if you don't shut up."
"But I mean it. Sure, bloatflies are good for cleaning your teeth with, and yao guais are big, but they put up a fight. Mutants aren't very tasty - heard it from a friend - and ghouls are too dry. Radstags are good, but they're skittish and tend to stay out of Deathclaw territory. Humans are tasty, and juicy, and just dumb enough to wander into a Deathclaw nest."
"You're not being very helpful."
"I'm being comedic relief. Easing the tension." Though he kept conversation light, Deacon was on guard, watching their backs and listening for any unusual sounds. He clutched his laser rifle, letting the warmth of its battery steady his hands. "What are we looking for, again?"
"A hat."
"Covered in diamonds, I assume."
"Nope. Just a hat. Belonged to his grandfather, some Minuteman from years ago."
"Ah, Savoldi, you sentimental bastard." Deacon stopped. "Hear that?"
They hadn't heard much of anything until now. They'd crept through the neighborhood surrounding the sinkhole, their skin covered in goosebumps as battered Pre-War houses watched them with baleful eyes. It was quiet. Too quiet, as Deacon gleefully remarked. No radstags patrolled the hills, no bloatflies bobbed clumsily in the air. Not even a lonely ghoul shuffled around its ancestral home.
But as they approached the center of the small town, the sound of rushing water wafted to their ears. Sharing a look, the pair followed the noise, keeping a leery watch for following creatures. The ground beneath their feet loosened and grew moist, squishing under their boots and leaving tangible tracks. Here, a few houses were off-balance, with one side or corner sunk into the ground, or their walls cracked and warped from water damage.
The roaring rapids grew louder, and soon they stopped at the edge of the sinkhole itself. It stretched several stories below them, and at the bottom, the remnants of a large sewage pipe lay broken and exposed. Bits of house jutted out from the dirt, too, hunks of brick and wood still in vague house-like shapes. Squinting, they could each see water pouring from the busted sewer pipe, falling into a broad pit at the very bottom of the sinkhole. Still no sign of a deathclaw.
"I don't like it," Morgan announced.
"What? No," Deacon scoffed, gesturing dismissively. "I love bizarre sinkholes with underground waterfalls and potential deathclaw nests around every corner. It's great."
Morgan nudged his side with the back of her hand. "I'm gonna go down, see if I can't sit on one of those houses, maybe get some cover and a better look at the hole."
"Yes, the... moist, dripping hole." Deacon waggled his eyebrows at her.
She rolled her eyes, hiding a faint almost-smile. "Shut up. And be careful. Don't walk in front of my bullets." Taking careful steps down the thick, muddy slope, Morgan inched her way down. The mud sucked at her boots, forcing her to step lightly or risk losing her boots. Deacon, however, went the opposite way, trekking around the breadth of the sinkhole. Morgan didn't bother pestering him to explain himself. Deacon had a habit of wandering off, then showing up later in a different outfit and a funny story. Most of the time, she trusted him to find his way without killing himself.
She stopped at a building that stuck out about halfway down the sinkhole, with some rocks and debris clustered at the edge that she could use as cover. Still, nothing a deathclaw couldn't tear through. Come to think of it, she couldn't think of something a deathclaw couldn't tear through if it was determined enough.
She peered through the scope of her rifle, turning the small screw on the side of it to increase the magnification. The wreckage of a caravan was strewn along the bottom of the sinkhole, and a few mostly-rotted corpses laid around a handful of footlockers and trunks, some busted open, others not. They looked like they'd been devoured by some kind of animal, but whoever - whatever - had eaten it was nowhere to be seen.
Morgan frowned. It made no sense. If a deathclaw had dragged its kill down here, this must be its nest. And deathclaws didn't stray too far from the nest. Unless it was out hunting, it should be here, especially if it had young. It wouldn't-
Something moved at the edge of her scope. She looked back, increased the magnification as far as it would go. There, lurking in a shadowed building, a set of golden eyes glimmered, and black-tipped claws pierced the shadows. The beast crept from its nest, hunkering down as if it prepared to pounce. She followed its line of sight, trying to find what it was after.
She gasped.
Based on the mud clinging to his pants and shoes, Deacon must have gotten caught in the muck and slid to the bottom. He talked to himself, flicking mud off of his weapon and looking up around him, nodding at the different broken buildings. In the shadows, the deathclaw moved with a deadly silence, its heavy paws unnaturally agile and quiet.
"Deacon," she hissed, dropping one hand from her rifle and flailing it above her head, trying to grab his attention without alerting the creature. "Deacon you fucking shit, you piece of fucking shit. Look at me, I'm begging you." Deacon walked to one of the footlockers, nudging it open with his toe. "Deacon, please. Come on. You can't be this fuckin' dumb. Please." The deathclaw crept closer.
Morgan grit her teeth. "Deacon, you unbelievable fuck!" Both man and monster jerked their heads up, staring at the woman above them. "There's a fucking deathclaw!"
Deacon froze. Then, slowly, he turned, and their eyes met. Human to deathclaw, dark shades versus shiny gold. The moment lasted maybe a second, maybe an eternity. Then the beast released a guttural, terrifying roar, and Deacon stumbled back, firing his rifle as fast as he could. It lunged forward, claws raised, and leapt from its hiding place to swing a heavy paw at Deacon's chest. Morgan heard his cry over the sounds of gunfire, causing a cold rush of panic that gave her goosebumps.
Then, there it was. Standing proud at ten feet tall, a mix of leather and scales and nightmares. Two dark, demonic-esque horns jutted out from the sides of its head, and a mish-mash of terrifying teeth filled its jaw. A weighty tail swished at its rear, flicking like a cat on the hunt. It loomed over Deacon like a vision of hell, murder in its eyes.
Morgan's gaze sharpened, and her mind went quiet. The military gave her many things, most of them terrible. But, at least in this instance, its training paid off. She hunkered down and fired like a machine, loading and reloading and scouting weak spots on the creature. Deacon kept point - an uncomfortable position for him, but he was fast enough to dodge when the creature got too close. But she could see the effort weighing at him, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He wouldn't be able to keep it up forever.
Her bullets pierced the beast's hide, but she couldn't be certain of the depth of penetration. She saw Deacon's gun jam, saw him flail and curse and eventually chuck it aside, pulling out his laser pistol instead. Morgan's shoulder was starting to bruise from her rifle's recoil, the stock jamming into the crook of her arm with every shot. Her hands grew stiff, sore from the effort of holding her gun so still, of making her shots so precise for so long.
But the deathclaw switched tactics. It couldn't fend off two adversaries at once, avoiding Morgan's attack while also pummelling Deacon. So it focused its energy on him, pinning him against the side of the sinkhole with fast, deadly swings. His space to dodge narrowed, as did his margin for error. Soon, they went below Morgan's ledge, beyond where she could see. She cursed and picked up her weapon, vaulting over her cover and hitting the mud with a thump.
She tore down the side of the sinkhole, trying not to trip or stumble as she fired into the deathclaw's head and chest, hoping to fend it off long enough for Deacon to get away. But it raised one meaty paw, thick blood oozing from the wounds covering its body, and preparing to deliver the finishing blow. She failed, she tripped, she couldn't get there fast enough, and her world stopped as the deathclaw readied its strike.
Then it let out the worst howl yet, rattling her eardrums and making her freeze in terror. The beast stumbled, and crumpled, falling backwards and away from Deacon, hitting the ground with a heavy landing. Morgan took the moment to slide all the way to the ground, everything below her waist covered in mud, her heart pounding in her chest. "Deacon?"
And there he was, pinned against the side of the sinkhole, hunched over with one arm curled around his torso. In his free hand, he held his laser pistol, the barrel still steaming. Morgan jerked towards him, but stopped herself, running to the deathclaw and pulling out her shotgun, levelling its barrel against the side of the creature's skull. A deep, satisfying sound rang out, and the deathclaw's skull crumpled, splattering dark red guts onto the mud.
Then she ran to Deacon. "Are you okay?" Her brow creased in worry, sheathing her shothun and pulling out a bulky medkit. "You could have been killed," she snapped. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I thought-"
"You thought." She pushed his shirt up, revealing three thick, dark red lines of blood where the deathclaw had torn through his armor and gouged his flesh. Deacon winced as the stimpack jabbed his sternum, but the numbing antiseptic flooded his bloodstream and his skin and bone healed smooth. "How the hell did you kill it? With a laser pistol? How?"
"Well, I-"
"And now I have to get you a whole new fuckin' chestpiece. Do you know how expensive combat armor is? Do you know? Why did you even come down here in the first place? Why didn't you just follow me onto the ledge? Why the fuck, Deacon?" She flailed, about to jab an accusing finger into his chest before thinking better of it. She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. She raised her head to meet his eyes, brow furrowed in a mix of concern and confusion. "Are you okay?" she asked, calmer.
Deacon gave her a weak shrug of his shoulders, taking slow breaths to test the limits of the newly-healed skin on his torso. "I mean, my underwear's in a shit state, but otherwise."
Morgan stared at him, her expression frozen. After a few seconds, she stood and turned away, throwing up her hands. "I swear to Christ, Deacon. You're going to give me a heart attack." She ran her hands over her face, staring helplessly at the sky.
Deacon chuckled and rose to his feet, putting his chestpiece back on and checking how much ammo he had left. "Can I have your stuff after you croak?" he asked, and walked over to nose through the deceased caravan's belongings.
"You can fuck off, is what you can do," Morgan snorted. She shook her head and let him change the topic, taking deep breaths to slow her heartrate. "All the locks busted?"
Deacon nudged open one footlocker with his foot. A few broken needles and some dirty clothes fell out. "Yep. Some stuff's worth taking, but most of it's worthless." He lifted a dirty plaid skirt from the open footlocker. "Morgan, if I wear this, is it a skirt, or a kilt?" He pressed it to his hips, as if seeing if it'd fit.
Morgan ignored him and approached the lip of the sinkhole, peering down into its depths. She grabbed a liquor bottle from a broken crate and tossed it in, waiting for the splash. It never came. She sighed. "We're going to have to go down there."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get your rope, Deacon, and tie it to mine." Morgan lifted a coil of rope from her pack, searching for the nearest solid thing to tie one end to.
"Gee, a little direct, don't you think?" Pulling the rope from his bag, Deacon made a sweeping gesture. "I'm a man of the road, Fix. The world's my oyster. I don't like being tied down. I have to explore, have to run, have to see what the Commonwealth has to offer before thinking about things like that."
Morgan stopped, turning to her companion and arching an eyebrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Deacon waggled his rope. "You asked me to tie the knot with you."
Morgan blinked, and shook her head. "I swear to God."
The man grinned and finally made himself useful, tying their respective ropes together. Once one end was secure, they stood together at the rim of the sinkhole. The sound of the waterfall was almost overwhelming when they stood this close, the roaring thunder of the water drowning out everything else.
Morgan tied the free end of the rope around her middle. "I'll go first!" she shouted, fighting to be heard above the noise. "I tug once, follow me down. I tug twice, pull me up!"
"Got it!" Deacon took hold of the rope, making sure the knot was secure, and saluted her as she descended into the hole.
The water overwhelmed her senses at first. The force of it struck her like a punch to the chest, and the cold soaked through her clothes and made her shiver. Darkness clouded her gaze, and for a moment she was terrified she couldn't breathe. Then, she took a moment, breathing deeply and holding tight to the rope, adjusting to the dark and cold.
She couldn't see her hands in front of her face or hear her own breathing, but she felt the damp rope under her hands, felt the bottoms of her boots braced against the slippery wall. If she lifted her head, she could see the ever-dimming light of the surface above her. She swallowed, and focused on climbing down, fumbling with her Pip-Boy to get some small amount of light.
Eventually, the wall fell away from her feet and she hit down to the floor with a gasp, coughing and sputtering as the rope gripped tight around her stomach. Water sloshed around her boots, and waving her forearm around made her green Pip-Boy light shine off some slick cave walls. No deathclaws visible. Yet.
"Deacon!" she called, though she questioned if he could hear her. She tugged once on the rope, hoping he'd get the hint. A few moments later, his voice traveled down the passage, unintelligible but Deacon nonetheless. Morgan untied herself from the rope and trudged out of the water, feeling a shiver go down her spine. "I better not get pneumonia," she grumbled.
She kicked a radroach off the cave floor, the insect releasing a pained squeal as it splashed into the water. A few seconds later, Deacon made a similar noise of terror when his feet slipped off the wall and he hit the water pool, as she had. "Alright?" Morgan called, amused.
"Peachy," he gasped, wincing when she shone the Pip-Boy light on his face.
"Come on." She walked to the edge of the water pool, kneeling and extending a hand to help him up. "I think I found what we're looking for."
Through a few winding tunnels, they discovered a raised platform with a trickle of sunlight landing on its surface, the light falling through some cracks in the cave walls high above them. A single skeleton lay on the platform, clad in some mold-rotten clothes. A hat sat on his head, something glinting on the side of it.
Morgan hopped onto the rocky platform, kneeling to examine the object on the skeleton's hat. It was a pin, bearing what looked like an older version of the Minuteman symbol. "Looks like our guy," she said, and gingerly plucked the hat off the skull. She blew a bit of dust off it, grimacing at the feel of the water-warped leather.
"Power Armor, here we come," Deacon remarked, wringing water out of his pant leg. "So, how do we get out?"
A beat passed. "Fuck."
With some work, they escaped the sinkhole, Savoldi's hat in hand and their clothes soaked through. They arrived at Bunker Hill late that afternoon, slapping the worn hat on the bar counter and selling off their meager loot for some extra caps.
As the sun set, Morgan found herself hunched over Savoldi's bar while Deacon mingled with the caravaneers, dressed in some new clothes and an old alias. He joked and told stories with them, slyly asking just the right questions to get more information than your usual gossip. They'd already gotten some intel from Stockton to take back to HQ later, but Deacon had survived a deathclaw attack and was feeling saucy.
Savoldi arranged for them to start work on the armor suits in the morning, after getting some rest. Morgan swirled a fingertip around the delicate rim of her soda bottle, watching the carbonation bubble inside the dusty glass. "You all get back in one piece?" Savoldi asked, creeping down the bar like he wanted to strike up a conversation.
Morgan nodded. "Wasn't so hard. Got a bit soaked, but. A little cold water never hurt anyone." A few droplets of water dripped from her hair onto the counter surface. Savoldi calmly slid his rag over and mopped them up.
"And that story your boy's telling? About the fistfight with the deathclaw?"
Morgan huffed a brief laugh, her lips turning up in a wry, lop-sided smile. "Wasn't so hard. A little deathclaw mauling never hurt anyone." She took a sip of her cola, but her expression changed by the time the glass hit the bar again. "He's not my 'boy,'" she said, brow furrowed in defensiveness.
Savoldi set down his rag, resting his elbows on the countertop and raising his hands. "Meant no offense by it. I didn't mean to assume."
Morgan let it go, forcing herself to relax and stare into her bottle again. There was no reason for that phrase to bother her as much as it did. "Well, you know what they say about assuming."
"Makes an ass out of you and me." Savoldi drummed his fingers on the bar. "I was just sayin'. He doesn't seem like the kinda man to be a real... fighter type, you know. Not like yourself," he said, nodding at her. Behind her, Morgan heard Deacon describing how it felt to tear a deathclaw's heart from its chest. He gesticulated to a rapt, slightly-inebriated audience.
"He's a real mystery," she agreed, with a snort.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," the barman said with a shrug. "There's always more to people than you think. In my line of work, people tell you things. I don't judge another man's secrets, or problems. What's that Old World saying? Never trust a book by its... uh..."
"Never judge a book by its cover," Morgan said, taking another sip.
"That one," he agreed, snapping his fingers. "Yep. People'll always surprise you." He chuckled, and thankfully another patron came up to the bar, drawing his attention away from her.
Morgan brooded, her good mood dissipating she mused on what Savoldi had said. She hadn't liked him calling Deacon her "boy." That seemed too possessive, too… something. Besides, it's not like Deacon would approve of the title, anyhow. He wouldn't like the insinuation that he belonged to anybody. He was too much of a liar, too bad at emotional intimacy.
From behind her, a wave of laughter struck her ears. Mixed in with the other voices was Deacon's, beginning another story, one she hadn't heard. She looked over her shoulder, watching him use some nearby junk as props for his epic tale.
He wasn't a liar, not really. No, Deacon was a storyteller. All the things he'd told her meant something, lies or not. Tricks and jokes and stories, all designed to see if she was trustworthy, to find out what she believed, to see if she was a good person or not. Seeing as she didn't know that herself, Morgan wondered what Deacon thought of her. Still, he'd stuck around this long, he couldn't hate her. They'd been through and seen so much. Told each other their darkest secrets.
It occurred to her that she trusted him over near anyone else in the Commonwealth. Somehow she trusted this human paradox - this man, who was honest about being deceptive. She'd grown fond of him. She hid smiles at his jokes, she worried about him getting hurt. She felt odd when he wasn't at her back, trailing her footsteps or hiding in the brush just beside her.
Goddamnit, he was her boy.
"Having a nice brood, boss?" Morgan jumped as Deacon slid into the seat beside her. "That cola's gonna go flat if you keep staring into it." His faint grin and the gleam of his sunglasses calmed her nerves, making her more relaxed than she expected to be. She wasn't sure how she felt about his effect on her.
Morgan stared at him for a moment. Maybe this wasn't a bad thing. She'd come a long way since those first nightmare-ridden days when she entered the Commonwealth alone. Since killing Kellogg, she'd been almost… at peace. She'd lost her husband, her baby, everything she'd ever held dear. But now she'd found a fresh beginning. Found purpose, in helping the Railroad, saving synths and doing odd jobs with Deacon at her side. Maybe- Maybe given time, she could-
Her thoughts trailed off, and a wave of guilt washed over her, an ocean of mourning and memories washing away any thoughts of a happy future. Sean was still in the Institute. And she still owed it to Nate to try and find their baby. She couldn't start over. The last time she dared to hope for a happy ending, the world was obliterated in nuclear fire. She wouldn't make that mistake again.
"Morgan?"
"I'm fine," she stated, looking away. She'd stared at him too long, let him read her too clearly. She didn't want him to ask her, to try to comfort her. Friends, partners, people heading in the same direction - whatever they were, she didn't have the strength to think about it right now. She had to do her job. Had to work. Had to do something to take her mind off things. "I'm gonna go get started on the Power Armor," she said, standing from her barstool.
His smile faded, replaced by a look of vague confusion. "Savoldi-"
"Doesn't have all the parts yet. It's fine. I'll work on what he's got." She threw a handful of caps on the bar and knocked back the last of her soda. "Entertain yourself. Don't interrupt me."
Deacon stared after her as she walked away. What an odd mood change, especially after being so chipper - chipper for her, at least - after leaving the sinkhole. There'd been something in her eyes, though, something he wasn't quite sure how to interpret. But then that light had died, leaving her hard and cold, and she was closed off to him again. Deacon sighed, and ordered another beer.