8. The Closed Path

Deacon meets up with Myra, much to his dismay. Some decisions cannot be undone.

Deacon hissed as the early morning sun filtered between the weathered slats of the old ranger cabin he'd spent the night in. He fumbled around for his sunglasses groggily, slapping gently at the dusty floor around his sleeping bag. The spy winced as he nearly cut himself on a broken bottle. Right. Probably not the wisest action in a filthy scavver den. He raised a hand to his forehead, creating a visor for himself. That helped a little bit.

Eventually, he extracted his sunglasses from a pile of trash to his right, pulling them on with a sigh of relief. They weren't just a shield of anonymity any more. Over the past few years, he'd grown truly reliant on them. Even a normal amount of light was too much, after having accustomed himself to the shadows.

Deacon groaned as he stood, bending backwards to stretch the kinks out of his back. He winced as he discovered a few new bruises from the night before, courtesy of a particularly angry synth who wasn't too keen on being rescued. She'd been confused, he reminded himself. And at least this time his target wasn't armed.

"Man, I really miss gathering intel," he muttered. "Intel isn't so...punchy."

Things in the Railroad had only gotten worse over the past few months. They'd lost so many agents, so many hideouts and safehouses, that everyone was pulling quadruple duty. This particular op had been his fifth consecutive solo run. While he was used to working alone, Deacon was more accustomed to just being a spy. It turned out that he wasn't a particularly great runner, let alone heavy. Honestly, he was lucky that he'd pulled the rescue off at all. Things couldn't continue like this. The Railroad needed help. And even though he wasn't thrilled about it, Deacon still knew where he might get some.

He chuckled to himself as he pulled on a Minuteman uniform. Preston had confiscated his old one, and the poor overworked Colonel had probably thought that he'd nipped Deacon's infiltration in the bud. It was kind of sweet, really, how trusting Preston was. Did he really think that Deacon wouldn't just acquire a new uniform? It wasn't like finding an already dead minuteman was hard. The 'Wealth was riddled with their corpses these days, and Deacon had long ago accustomed himself to looting the dead.

The spy wasn't thrilled about his current plan. Even though the Minutemen were relatively harmless on their own, they weren't true Railroad allies. One of the dangers of a militia over a true military order like the Brotherhood was that everyone was entitled to their own core values, their own beliefs. So long as the militia members showed up when asked, no one among their leadership gave much of a shit about what they believed. Deacon could respect that, but it did make things very dangerous for him. Many members of the militia hated the Railroad. A lot of them still held the secretive organization as responsible for the settlement attacks, even though Preston had worked hard to dispel that rumor. If an unfriendly minuteman discovered his little costume party, Deacon would be in serious danger.

There were other risks to reaching out at this juncture as well. Deacon knew full well that the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel were close to formalizing an alliance. While he could gamble on the sympathies of a militiaman, Deacon wasn't a big enough fool to believe that he could count on his charms to save him from a Brotherhood presence. The window of opportunity was closing, and quickly. Even the Brotherhood's laughably bad attempts at diplomacy wouldn't hold back the changing tide for long. If peace had already been reached, he was in serious trouble.

Still, he didn't have much of a choice. He needed supplies, and more than that, he needed information. And Sanctuary was about as far from the peace talks at the Castle as he could get. Even if the worst had happened, they might not know yet. It was his best chance.

Deacon strode right up to the gates of Sanctuary, his hat pulled low over his face.

"What'chu want?" Old Frank snarled from his post.

"I've got a message from the Abernathy place," Deacon lied, holding up a piece of paper. "Blake said it was important."

Frank's eyes narrowed. "Ain't I seen ya here before?" he asked. "Yer not a courier."

Deacon groaned internally. "Not usually, no. But you know how it goes. Desperate times, Frank."

The old man frowned. "How do I know yer not a synth?"

The spy shrugged. "I think I'd know if I was a toaster, Frankie."

Frank watched him carefully. "They say ya don't always know if yer a synth," he muttered suspiciously.

"Well, then I guess neither of us can be sure," Deacon replied flippantly. "Come on, man. You really want to be the one to explain to Colonel Garvey why no one knew about the exploding brahmin problem at the Abernathy place?"

"Exploding...brahmin?" The old man's eyes widened. "Why I never heard of such a thing!"

"No one was more surprised than old Bessie," Deacon said solemnly. "Rest her freaky, beefy soul."

Frank sighed, cranking the gate mechanism. "Fine. But I'm watchen ya, kid. No tricks or mind reading crap."

"I'd expect nothing less," Deacon muttered, sliding through the opening gate before the old man realized he looked familiar.

As he walked through the streets of Sanctuary, Deacon felt a gnawing dread build in his chest. The settlement had continued to prosper, for the most part, but even here, the stain left by the Watchers was clear. Burned stalks of razorgrain littered a few fields. Yet another old house had collapsed, and no one had bothered to break down the precious scrap and rebuild. While they had only suffered minor damage, the citizens of Sanctuary looked gaunt, frightened, like feral cats caught in a flashlight beam. Even with tripled patrols, the so-called Safest Settlement north of Diamond City was falling to its own paranoia as surely as Goodneighbor nearly had.

He stopped in front of what had been the Larimer residence and lit a cigarette, holding it delicately between his fingers. He let the smoke rise like incense, coiling a serpentine path to the heavens. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes. The last time he'd been here with Myra...he saw it all so vividly. The cheeky grin on her face as she teased him and Mac, the smell of her homemade shampoo, the almost hungry glint in her eyes as she tried to probe beyond the surface, to really understand him...it was all so very long ago. It might as well have been a snapshot in the life of someone else. He should be used to that feeling. Most of the time, he swore he was. But when it came to her...

Deacon glanced around to make sure he wasn't being watched before he popped open Myra's old mailbox. As he expected, there was a small package inside, wrapped in torn blue cloth. He removed it, replacing it with a holotape. Then, as quickly as he'd arrived in town, he left by the back gate, heading for the cemetery in the woods.

It wasn't until he was nearly at the old vault that he stopped to open the package. Inside was a few small bits of dried rations. He sniffed one, recoiling at the pungent smell. Mirelurk jerkey. "Preston, you have one sick sense of humor," he muttered, pouring the horrible grey-brown scraps onto the ground for whatever poor wildlife hated itself in the near future. Underneath was a note in what he supposed Preston thought was a clever code.

Cousin Lettie,

I hope you enjoy the treats. I remembered they were your favorite, from that little raider bar down in Revere.

Uncle Bob is doing well. He asks about you often. Maybe you should pay him a visit? I hear the salt air is good for that skin condition of yours.

- Dickie

"Dickie?" Deacon muttered in disbelief. "Of all the code names you could have given yourself..." Preston never failed to disappoint when it came to spycraft. Still, the message was clear enough. There was information to be had in Revere, and between this and the note from Myra, Deacon had a multitude of reasons to visit. He just hoped that the churning in his stomach was caused by the fishy reek of the package, and not a premonition of some horrible complication.

"It's gotta be the lurk meat," he grumbled. "Yeah. Because my gut is usually wrong. I've got nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

Deacon grimaced, tightening the straps on his pack and heading southeast. He had more than enough time ahead of him on the road to second-guess himself, if he wanted to. But right now, he couldn't pass up any lead, no matter how fishy. In spite of his best judgement, he had to trust Preston.

Deacon groaned in frustration as he walked into the Waterfront Tavern. The bar was a mess of rubbish old and new, of course. But the grime around the hardwood counter wasn't what prompted his dismay. No, that honor belonged to the leggy, extraordinarily cavalier young woman who leaned against it, an ambiguous smile playing about her lips. Damn it, he should have seen this coming. He had, in fact, seen this coming. But somehow, in his infinite stupidity, he'd shown up anyway. "Well, Bob really is my uncle, huh?" he pondered.

"Hey there, stranger," Myra crooned. "Come on in. The place is a shithole, but the drinks are free."

He slowly approached the bar, his eyes fixed on her. The spy could barely feel his feet as they pressed onward, as if he were drifting through a dream. It might as well have been one, for how many of his nights were plagued by Myra's memory. Elation and betrayal fought for purchase in him, both growing louder with every inch. It was damned good to see her, to know that she was alive and safe. But at the same time, no matter how close he drew, the gap between them seemed to be wider than ever. Deacon missed his friend, his partner, the woman he'd been trying to protect since the moment he met her. He couldn't allow himself to be fooled into thinking that the Myra before him was still that woman. Not after everything that had happened.

"You can't be here, Whisper," Deacon protested. In spite of his better judgement, he still hadn't drawn his weapon, though his fingers lingered on his holster. "I'm just here for what's mine. Not to exchange social calendars with the Brotherhood of Steel."

Myra snorted, pulling an absolutely filthy bottle of bourbon from behind the bar. She sniffed at the spout, reeling back in mild disgust. "Gotta wash the apocalypse out of that one, I'm afraid," she muttered to herself, pulling the spigot from the bottle and tossing it in the sink. She free-poured a couple fingers worth in a chipped rocks glass, sliding it to him. "Here. Drink up, then we'll talk."

Deacon held the glass tightly, his eyes fixed on hers. "We have nothing to talk about, Whisp. I came here for the watch you owe me and the information Preston promised me. That's it. I really, really can't be seen with you."

She sighed, pouring a heavier glass for herself and tossing it back with a sputtering cough. "Hoo, that did not age well! Maybe don't drink that."

The spy rolled his eyes. "Wasn't planning on it."

Myra tossed a silver timepiece at him. "Here. Since that's why you came. I promise, I'm not here to trick you, Deacon. Whatever you need to know, I'll tell you. I owe you that much."

He ran his finger cautiously around the seam of the watch face, noting with reluctant appreciation that the note inside seemed to still be intact. Well, Myra hadn't screwed up everything. Or he hadn't. If he was being honest with himself, he supposed they'd both screwed things up. He wanted to make amends, if only to try to rebuild their friendship. He wanted to tell her that he forgave her, that no matter how much she'd turned her back on her friends and allies that he was still there for her, that he'd always be there for her. But he couldn't. He couldn't trust her, even if he...no matter how he cared for her.

"You know I used to work here?" Myra mused, tracing a finger through the dust on the bar. "Before the War. Place was a hole back then, too, but the tips were good most nights."

"I thought you were a lawyer," Deacon questioned in spite of himself.

Myra nodded. "Yeah, for like, a few months. But how do you think I payed for that degree?" She sighed, pouring herself another shot. "If I'm honest, this swill tasted about the same back then. But the customers didn't seem to mind. This was their haven from the horrible things happening outside. The war, the protests, the failing economy...none of that mattered here." She looked up, meeting his gaze with searching, vulnerable eyes. "I hoped, foolishly, perhaps, that it could be a haven again. That I'd feel safe here. That I'd know what the hell I was supposed to do now."

Deacon's heart fell at the desperation in her voice. He ached for her. It was all he could do not to gently touch her cheek, or...He cleared his throat. "Why are you telling me this?" he growled. "I already told you. If Dez finds out where you are, she'll kill you. If you really want to be safe, you've got to stay off my radar."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not afraid of Dez, Deacon."

He snorted. "Well, that's a big mistake. Even for you." He took a sip of his drink. It was...tingly. Was this stuff even safe any more? Maybe he should have listened to Myra after all. "You have no idea what that woman's capable of. What I'm capable of," he murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"What I mean is that we have bigger problems than Dez. Even bigger ones that whatever's in that watch," she continued, nodding at the silver timepiece in front of him.

"Yeah," Deacon retorted. He steeled his resolve. Myra wasn't his friend. Not anymore. She was a dangerous enemy. "We definitely have problems. And one of them's tending bar."

Myra sighed, tossing back her whiskey. "Look, I know that in your eyes, I screwed up."

"That might just be the understatement of the apocalypse," Deacon shot back. "Do you have any idea how completely boned I am because of what you did? And not just me, but Trailblazer."

Her eyes flitted to him, confusion twisting her features. "What about Talise? What happened? I noticed she wasn't at the Castle, but..."

"Dez made her come back," he explained coldly, unable to meet her gaze. "She's back in Stanwix under constant guard, because Dez wouldn't accept two failures on my part."

Myra's emerald eyes widened. "Two failures? I...oh, god, I..." she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Deeks. I really am. But right now, you need to listen to me. The Brotherhood's close to activating Liberty Prime. When they do, you and I both know how hard it will be to stop them."

He couldn't help but laugh in surprise. "Why would you want to stop them? You made it pretty clear the last time we saw each other that you were on their side."

She nodded. "I am. I was. I don't..." Myra hesitated for a moment, biting her lower lip. "Deacon, the more time I've spent with them, the more I understand your concerns. The Brotherhood isn't as bad as you think it is. At least not all of it. I still think there's hope for them. But I've got a terrible feeling that Maxson's not telling me everything."

"You think?" Deacon replied sarcastically. "No, I'm sure he's filled you in on all his genocidal plans over a nice brunch." He sighed. "I told you that you couldn't trust the Brotherhood, and you didn't listen to me. So why the hell should I believe that you're listening now?"

"The Brotherhood has never lied to me!" She retorted. "And you withhold information from me all the time!"

"Yeah, but I'm honest about lying to you," he said. "That's how things work in the Railroad. But heaven forbid you realize that your white knights aren't exactly as shiny as you thought they were."

Myra's eyes brimmed with tears, but she quickly wiped them away, slamming back another shot. "That's a shocker," she snapped bitterly.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but no one's motives are as pure as they say they are," Deacon continued, trying to ignore his desire to pull her into a hug, to take back the vitriol he was spewing at her. But she needed to hear this. And damned if he wasn't also enjoying getting it off his chest. "Your buddy Maxson's got so much dirt on him that he'll pollute everything he touches eventually. And you not only sided with him, but you helped him build a giant robot full of nukes." Deacon laughed in disbelief. "Hell, Whisp, I've known you to make some awful choices, but that has got to be one of the worst decisions you could have made. Do you really think he's going to be content with just destroying the Institute?"

Myra shook her head. "No. I don't. That's why I came to you." She sighed. "I know we parted on bad terms, but-"

"Bad terms doesn't even begin to cover it," Deacon shot back. "You turned your back on me, Whisp. On our friends. That's not something I can just forgive away. Do you have any idea how close I came to…" No. He'd better not. Myra didn't need to know how he'd almost murdered her and her infuriating Paladin. Even thinking about how close he'd come filled him with guilt. Myra was dangerous. She was the enemy. But even still, he cared too much to rip her from the world.

"To…?" she asked, her eyes boring into his. Even through the growing haze of drunkenness, how was she always able to pierce into the deepest part of him?

Deacon shook his head. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters, not right now. It's too late for this, Whisper. You're an enemy of the Railroad, and that's not something that you can just come back from."

"But Liberty Prime's-"

He sighed. "I'll tell the appropriate people, and we'll do what we can to disable the Brotherhood's giant death machine. But you can't be involved. Not after what you did. We...I can't trust you, Whisp. You're too dangerous, too unpredictable."

"But Deacon, I -"

"No!" he snapped, slamming his fist on the table. "Stop, and listen to me. You're a smooth talker, just like me. And just like me, you're a damn liar. How can you claim to believe in our cause when you can so easily give it up? It's not just the Railroad, either. Do you even know what's been going on since you went away?"

Myra's eyes were fixed on the bar in front of her, the tears flowing freely now. She scrubbed at the glass in her hand, trying to get at a water stain that had set hundreds of years prior. "I...I've heard rumors," she murmured.

"Dozens of people have died, Whisp. Whole settlements and strongholds have been basically wiped off the map. Families. Children. I'd say it was the end of the world, but that happened already."

Her lip quivered pitifully, and Deacon wished he could relent. He wanted nothing more than to tell her everything was okay. But now, more than ever, she needed the truth.

"Look," he continued, his voice softer, "I'm sorry, but we needed you on the ground. Preston needed you even more. And if we can't count on you in our darkest times, what the hell is the point of you? You're no hero, Myra."

"I never claimed to be," she grumbled, reaching for the bottle of bourbon again.

Deacon sighed, grabbing it from her. The last thing he needed was her being even more of a drunken mess. He hadn't exactly forgotten the last time she'd been drunk with him. How could he? Every beautiful, perfect moment was etched like ornate glass in his memory. And though he wished he could redo that night in Salem, could undo the way he'd failed her and kiss away all the pain and mistrust between them, repeating the same beautiful mistake would not fix anything. Besides, she'd made her choice. She didn't want him. Not the way he wanted her. "Well, like it or not, that's who you've been asked to be," he retorted. "People put their faith in you. I put my faith in you." He scoffed. "Stupid, I know. But here I thought you might actually be able to live up to your hype."

"Sorry I disappointed you," she snapped. "I made a mistake, okay? I just wanted to salvage something for myself in this shithole, Deacon! I never meant to hurt anyone!"

"You were salvaging things, Whisp," Deacon replied testily. "You were building a better world from the ashes. Giving hope to people. Even sarcastic assholes like me. That wasn't enough?"

"I fell in love!" she cried. "I'm sorry, okay? But that's all I did. Why the hell was that so wrong?"

"You think what you call love justifies what you did?" Deacon exclaimed. "Love is more than just fluttery stuff in your chest, Whisp," he chided. "Love is sacrifice. It's going a little hungry so your neighbors don't starve in a famine. It's offering up your life because you can't bear risking someone else's." Deacon sighed, trying to calm himself down. Why was Myra so very good at bringing him right to the edge of reason? "Whisp, you're built for that kind of love. I...I've seen it in you from the beginning. But who you are with Danse...who you've let yourself be to fit into his little ordered world? Whisp, surely you can see that you've been fading away into nothingness. I just can't bear to see you being less than what you really are."

She scoffed, pouring herself another shot. "Less than what I am? What the hell kind of pretentious bullshit is that, Deeks? Danse makes me better. He makes me stronger. He loves me, respects me, treasures me. You're just jealous that you'll never have that!"

Deacon recoiled as surely as if she'd slapped him across the face. To hear those words, especially from her... It didn't matter that they were true, that they were the same thoughts that haunted his mind every day. He felt sick, his skin crawling like it had as he'd lost control after Barbara. The violence that he worked so hard to keep at bay, the deep well of self-hatred that he covered up with jokes and devotion to the cause...he was so close to letting it all loose. "I never...Whisp...don't you dare turn this back on me, okay? You know what I've been through! How dare you?"

Myra stared at him, realization and horror seeping through the drunken haze. "Deacon, I...holy shit, I'm sorry," she said weakly. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have." He chuckled bitterly. "I'll give you that one. You know how to go for the jugular every time. Did they teach you that in law school, or were you always so cruel?"

"Please, Deacon," she begged, "I didn't mean it."

The spy swallowed hard, trying to keep his cool. He needed to run, needed to get out of her sight. He tucked the watch into his pack. "No, Myra. Don't lie. Not to me. You meant exactly what you said." He tossed a cap at her. "For the drink. Now, if we're done here, at least one of us has to go do their job."

Myra lunged drunkenly across the table, grabbing his wrist forcefully in her bony hand. "We aren't done here. Not yet."

He tried in vain to pull away. "Whisp. Don't. I can't listen to to your excuses and apologies. Not when your actions have made it perfectly clear that you don't mean them. I wanted to trust you. But you don't care about anyone but yourself."

Myra's grip tightened. "Do you think I haven't been worried about the Commonwealth? That I've just been sitting on my ass this whole time? Do you even know where I've been, or did your interest in stalking me around the 'Wealth end when it was obvious that I wasn't going to do what you wanted?"

"I was a bit too busy trying to end the Watcher attacks," he replied coolly, pulling her fingers off of his wrist one by one. "Babysitting you had to take a back burner. Even I can't be everywhere at once."

"Well, sit down and listen, then," she barked. "Before you judge me and execute me, you should hear the facts. That is if the truth matters to you more than your precious hurt feelings."

Deacon slid into the one remaining barstool carefully, afraid that it would buckle under his weight. "Fine," he grumbled. "But I might need one of those drinks after all if I'm going to stomach any more of your excuses, Whisp."

"I met plenty of Watchers after we last saw each other," Myra explained, pouring him another drink. "I had barely returned to the Brotherhood before my veritibird was swarmed by those damned birds. Danse and I were taken prisoner by what I think were some free synths." She shrugged. "I was pretty much unconscious for most of it, so sorry if I mess up some of the details. Apparently I almost died."

Deacon's eyes widened. "Well, if I had a cap for every time you cheated death, Whisp, I'd have a bottling plant by now. The top half, at least. But...free synths? Outside of the Railroad, I've never heard of such a thing."

"They call themselves Peregrine," Myra continued. "And apparently they tried to keep me alive, but... The next thing I remember, I was strapped to a table in the Institute. They drugged me. Interrogated me. Tried to make me help them. I was trapped there for five months, Deacon."

"Five months?" he gasped. How had he missed so much? His heart ached for her. To be in Institute hands for so long...

Myra gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Hey, I escaped eventually. Went to find MacCready, to at least try to keep one of my promises. I...I found his pack. Torn, bloody. I was too late. Deacon, I..."

Deacon grinned softly at that. So she really didn't know. Part of him wanted to punish her, to string her along and let her continue wallowing in guild. Lord knew she deserved it. But... "Whisp, Mac's not dead," he reassured her.

Myra gasped. "You're certain?"

He nodded. "I mean, he's still crazy as five irradiated possums in a sack, but he's alive. I was just with him a few days ago. So, I guess that's one thing you didn't completely mess up, huh?"

"Did he...do you know if his pack made it to Daisy?" she asked, her eyes shining with tears of barely conscious relief.

Deacon nodded. "The cure is already on it's way to Duncan. Hopefully it's not too late."

Myra sank down against the bar, her hair falling in her face. "Thank God," she murmured. "Thank God he's okay."

The spy reached for her instinctively, tucking her hair behind her ear with a touch far gentler than he planned. His fingers lingered at her temple, and Myra looked at him with questioning eyes. Deacon froze, his fingers suspended awkwardly in place. Her lips parted slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "I..."

Deacon cleared his throat, dropping his hand back to the bar. "I'm assuming that's not the whole story," he transitioned awkwardly.

Myra grabbed the bourbon back, and whatever moment had passed between them was gone. "Of course not. While I was on my way to deliver the cure, the Brotherhood found me and dragged me back to the Airport with them."

Deacon nodded. "After meeting one of that patrol in Goodneighbor, I sort of figured. I'll bet they were super nice about the whole thing, too, huh?"

"At least the Institute fed me and let me rest," she grumbled, forgoing the shot glass for a highball and pouring heavily with an unsteady hand. "My own supposed friends, and they wouldn't even let me eat for three days to make sure I actually had to. To be certain I wasn't a synth. So I'm sorry I wasn't able to save the 'Wealth during all that. I was a little bit busy just keeping my head above water."

"Shit, Myra, I had no idea," he said, his stomach twisting at the thought of what she'd been through. It didn't make the past few months any less horrific for him to know that, but at least she hadn't been watching all this unfold from a safe place.

"Yeah," she huffed. "You didn't. And that's just the cliff's notes, Deeks. I..." she tossed back another shot. "I'm not sure there's enough of these in the world to make me tell you the rest."

Deacon watched her carefully, studying her in a way he hadn't allowed himself to do since he'd entered the bar. Myra was haunted, hollow. He'd seen her nearly frozen to death, bleeding out, heartbroken, and she had still managed to have that vibrant gleam about her. But now, her light was tarnished. The past half a year had taken a considerable toll on her. Why hadn't he seen it before? Had his anger and mistrust really blinded him that much? "It's okay," he soothed. "Whisp, you've said enough. I...I'm sorry. I should have..." he sighed. How could he even tell her what he was feeling?

He was still furious with her. Of course he was. She'd betrayed him and the Railroad, had chosen Danse over her own reason and her supposed ideals. It hurt deeply to know that he'd lost, that at least some of that was his fault. He'd hoped that their friendship was strong enough to survive a few stupid mistakes, but he couldn't trust in that. Love had blinded Myra Larimer. But it had also blinded Deacon, had made him trust her with parts of him he'd never wanted anyone to see. The fact that she'd still walked away ate away at him.

But he cared for her. In spite of all his attempts to let go, he loved her. And seeing her like this, afraid of her own damn shadow, the light barely burning in her once-passionate eyes...all he wanted was to fix this. To show her that she was safe, and still his precious friend.

"You know we can't meet like this again," he cautioned, his voice barely above a whisper. "You can't come back, not from this."

Myra nodded. "I know," she replied. "I wish...but I knew what I was giving up. That there'd be consequences. Just..." she sighed. "I never wanted to hurt you, Deeks. I hope you know that. And if this is really the last time I see you, I want you to know I still...I'll always care for you."

Deacon could feel his heart fluttering like a caged bird, hope still struggling against the weight of certain doom. "Yeah," he managed. "Same, Whisp. Myra."

She blushed softly, her eyes meeting his at the sound of her name. "Goodbye, Deacon," she whispered. "Stay safe."

"You too," he replied, offering her his hand.

Myra shook it meekly, her fingers ghosting over his. For a moment, it looked like she was going to say something, but she instead grabbed her pack and left through the back of the bar.

Deacon watched the place where she'd been for a long time before he tossed back the dregs of his drink.

"I love you, Myra," he murmured to himself. "No matter what, I can't seem to stop."

The spy stood up, walking towards the door. He turned around one last time, surveying the counter and their empty glasses. "I hope I never see you again," he concluded under his breath. That would be best. Of course it would be.

But damned if it didn't feel like the biggest mistake of his life.

A/N: Well, Myra sure is learning to live with her choices. Will she and Deacon ever be able to reconcile? Or is this truly the end for them?

NEXT CHAPTER: Danse seeks sanctuary among those he once despised. But will he be able to overlook their greater agenda in the name of self-preservation?