Games We Play: Flattery
Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys.
flattery
noun
insincere or excessive praise
The thing about complimenting people is that they're always more willing to share things with you if they like you. After all, who do you like the most? People who say nice things to you, people who appreciate you. It was pretty early on that Deacon discovered this cute little trick, and after that, it was incredible the tidbits that dropped out of people's mouths. If all they could remember was "that nice guy in the sunglasses," so much the better.
He can't remember who taught him that one. The list of people he definitely didn't learn it from is a helluva lot longer. Ayo favored shouting at people who didn't get things done right, and Des, for all her great leadership skills, tends more towards using disappointment as a motivator. But it's amazing how many doors have been opened by a genuine-sounding, "Wow, what're you cooking? It smells amazing."
Which is why he's pretty damn mad at himself when he finally realizes Charmer's been doing it to him. He's not even sure how long it's been going on, or why he's surprised. It's right there in her name, after all: she's charmed him, and now he's not sure what he's let slip without realizing it. Needless to say, he's a little perturbed.
"Hey, you're a pretty good shot. Where'd you learn?" That was about a month ago. He'd made something up about shooting with his uncle Ted down near University Point. She'd asked about Ted, and he'd said it was Gif Ted, and had a chuckle at her expense, even as she gave him the look she always did when she was filing something away for future use.
"Gosh, you seem to know an awful lot about synths and the Institute. How did you learn all that with the Railroad? From talking to the...packages?" This was last week, when they were escorting another package to Ticonderoga. They'd been huddled behind a busted wall with the synth between them, his head between his knees, and she'd listened as he ad-libbed a tale about a chatty synth named H7-07 and everything he'd had to say about working as a courser. The real H7-07 wasn't going to come back and contradict him, after all - not all the way from his farm in the Capital Wasteland.
"That smells great. Who taught you to cook like that?" They're at Rocky Narrows for the night, huddled around a small fire. Deacon stirs the pot before him. It does smell good.
Even though he knows what she's doing he decides to tell the truth for once. What's it going to matter? She already knows about Barbara. It won't hurt to tell this one little thing.
Will it?
"My wife, Barbara. When we met, I...well, I didn't know how to cook." At this, Charmer raises an eyebrow, and he wonders briefly how he's already managed to give her more information than he intended. "She was really talented, made the best tato stew I've ever had."
Charmer nods, smiling slightly.
"I guess the gang didn't prepare you for real-life skills like cooking."
A tingle goes up Deacon's back. If it were him, he'd use a wrong name for the gang he ran with, just to see if his mark agreed or if he'd catch them agreeing to it.
"I mean, the 'University Point Mirelurks' don't really sound like amazing chefs."
Bingo. Got it in one.
He's so pleased with himself he actually laughs out loud, "Caught you."
Charmer has the balls to look surprised and a little confused. "Caught me? Caught me what?"
Deacon drops the ladle back against the side of the pot and pulls off his oven mitt, chuckling to himself.
"You know it was the Deathclaws, right?"
She shakes her head. Either she's really misremembered the name of the gang, or she's a better liar than he's been giving her credit for.
"I thought you said the Mirelurks?" She says it a little too fast. She's got to be lying.
Right?
Better to hang onto that and not let her know that he knows. He puts his hands up in a placating gesture.
"Ok, my bad," he laughs once more, trying to get it out of his system. He's sure she's lying. "I just thought you were trying to catch me in a lie again."
Charmer laughs. It sounds genuine, but then again, most of what she says sounds real. That's why it's so hard to catch her.
"Why would I try to do that?"
Deacon leans forward, gripping the ladle between his thumb and forefinger and blowing on the handle to try to cool it enough to grab with his whole hand. When he's finally able to, he pours two bowls of stew and hands her one. Charmer takes it with a nod and settles back on the cot across from his.
"I guess I just thought, since I told you so many things that weren't true that maybe you thought I still wasn't being honest with you."
The best offense is a good defense, right?
Charmer laughs again. It's a nice sound against the chirping of crickets around them. The fire crackles and throws a shadow across her face.
"Well, you're right that I'm never sure when you're telling the truth and when you're not," she admits, taking a spoonful of stew and humming in delight. "This is delicious."
Deacon takes a bite of his own. It's hot from the fire and savory from the tatos and squash. It could use some salt, but he didn't remember to bring any. It's better than Instamash or Cram, though, so he's not going to complain. Hot food beats that canned shit any day.
"It's not bad," he agrees. "It's better when I have some brahmin to put in it."
A nod from Charmer. "I could see that," she says, taking another bite. "So your wife taught you how to cook?"
"Yeah. She was really good at looking at an empty pantry and somehow making a delicious dinner out of nothing." He smiles a bittersweet smile and looks into the flames. The memory of the radroach roast she made for his birthday is just for him; he doesn't want to give it to Charmer to cast doubt on.
"My husband, Nate -"
Deacon has to try not to gasp; this is the first time she'd mentioned him, the great love of her life. They've been traveling together for months now and she's never spoken of him, let alone said his name out loud. At least, not awake - turns out she talks in her sleep, and he's learned a bit more about Nate than he needed to know that way to say the least.
"He really loved to grill," she continues, oblivious to his shock and awe at her sharing. "He'd pick up a couple steaks whenever we had something to celebrate, and when I'd get home they'd be marinating in the fridge next to a six-pack."
Deacon tries to picture this. A fridge, with steaks marinating next to a pack of beer. It's easy to imagine the fridge, clean and stocked with food as he assumes all pre-war refrigerators always were. And the beer he can envision - six bottles, labels new and un-ripped, standing proudly in a cardboard case. The refrigerator was probably really cold, even in the summer. He bets when you put your face in it, you could see your own breath.
It must have been nice to have things like that. He takes another bite of his stew, mulling this. Across from him, Charmer has finished her bowl and set it aside; in her hands is a small flask with the cap off.
She offers it to him and for a moment, Deacon seriously considers taking it. Then he thinks again of Barbara, of the look on her face with the back of her head missing, and the stew turns to ashes in his mouth. He shakes his head mutely and sets his own bowl aside, forcing himself to swallow.
Charmer takes a swig of her own and looks at him, her eyes opaque. Now there's a woman who doesn't need sunglasses to hide what she's thinking.
"Where'd you go just now?"
But he's shared enough for the evening. "Oh you know, I just took a fun little visit to Nuka-World to ride the coasters." And then he gives her finger-guns.
Christ, he gives her finger-guns? What the hell is he thinking?
It's pretty clear Charmer's not thrilled with him either; she turns from him and begins arranging a blanket and pillow.
In the morning, Charmer still hasn't thawed (he smiles at this thought, thinking of where she came from - it must have been damn cold in Vault 111, but surely she'd already thawed from that or she wouldn't be here? It's not funny but somehow still is). She packs her things calmly and her face is expressionless, but Deacon knows her well enough by now to know that she's still pissed at him.
He's not getting out of this one so easily. As he sneaks off into the bushes to relieve himself, Deacon debates the merits of telling her the truth versus making something else up.
She did tell him about Nate, which is a tally in the win column for him. But, on the other hand, he can't always tell when she's playing him, which makes him nervous about letting her win one at all.
When he comes back out, she's left a bowl of water and a sliver of soap for him. He washes his hands and face quickly and puts his glasses back on. She's standing on the rocky outcropping that gave the old park its name surveying the road below.
He always forgets how petite she is until he gets close to her. He's not a big man, but he's nearly a half-foot taller than her. She doesn't look at him when he approaches; she's busy watching a herd of radstags down the road, feasting on new grass. Instead of asking, she reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and lighter. The radstags don't notice the flash of flame as she lights her cigarette.
"Was any of it true?" Her voice is calm. Deadpan. There'll be no figuring out why she's asking from her tone. Deacon fumbles with the pack of smokes she hands back to him and lights his own. The smoke is hot in his lungs and he muffles a cough. Below, the youngest radstag is sniffing the air as if looking for the smell of their smoke.
"Any of what?" He knows what.
Her voice stays inscrutable. "University Point. The Deathclaws. Your dear, departed wife Barbara."
The way she says his wife's name stings. He swallows. "Most of it."
"Are you ever going to tell me the whole truth?"
The whole truth. He's not even sure there is such a thing, and if there is, he's sure he doesn't want to tell Charmer. He doesn't want to know what she'll think of him if she knows.
He doesn't want to know.
"You're smart," he says. "You'll probably figure it out someday."
At this, Charmer looks him in the eye. He's not sure how she always manages to do this, to lock on his gaze even from behind his sunglasses, but she does. Maybe all pre-war lawyers could do this kind of thing.
"Are you just buttering me up? Telling me what I want to hear so I'll leave you alone?"
"No," he lies.
She finally cracks a smile. "Ok, asshole, let's get moving."
