Games We Play: Camouflage

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


camouflage

noun

hide or disguise the presence of (a person, animal, or object) by blending in with the surroundings

Disappearing in plain sight is easier than most people think it is. The trick isn't to avoid being seen but rather to be seen and immediately dismissed as inconsequential. Deacon has a natural advantage, being a nondescript middle-aged white guy, and he knows it. No remarkable scars, no rare birthmarks. Put a cap or a wig on him and he can turn into a completely different person. A simple change of clothes and he's a brahmin-herder, a mechanic, a raider. His completely unremarkable look is exactly what's saved him more times than he can count, even using all his fingers and toes.

It's something that's already proven harder for Charmer, unfortunately. She's shorter than most women, which means from a distance she's already singular. Up close there's the distinctive shape of her eyes, the pert tilt to her nose, the way one side of her mouth seemed permanently cocked into a wry smile. The small freckle near her right eye, on the bridge of her nose.

And all of that's before she opens her damn mouth and starts talking. In this country over two hundred years and she's still got an accent, he jokes to himself.

They're at Bunker Hill for the night, posing as caravaneers. He's in his trusty blue jacket and a battered fedora. Charmer's braided her long hair and looped it into a bun and the worn leather coat she wears over a plain flannel shirt looks like the same as everyone else's, but one look at her face and he knows anyone who sees her will remember her.

In a word, she's just too damn charming.

She's chatting with Joe Savoldi over a glass of whiskey, laughing at some joke the old putz made; he missed it. He was too busy listening to the chatter at the brahmin pen, Trashcan Carla and Cricket talking about something weird they'd both seen up the road.

He stares down at his own glass, debates drinking the whiskey in it. When he's sure no one's looking, he dips two fingers in the liquid, splashes a bit on his neck, and dumps the rest on the ground next to the bar, setting the glass back up before anyone can see what he's done.

"You need a refill?" It's only a moment before Savoldi stands before him, bottle in hand. Deacon lets a loose grin cross his face and he nods.

"That'd be great, thanks." The brown liquid sloshes temptingly in his glass. "What a day, huh?"

"Yeah, sure," Savoldi nods, turning away already to go back to the other end of the bar where Charmer is laughing with a couple other caraveeners. Her hair's coming loose from its braid, and the smile on her face shows the two perfect rows of teeth that old-world dentistry are responsible for. She takes a drag from her cigarette and sees him looking at her, and the wink she throws him is somehow subtle.

Deacon pretends to take a sip from his glass to hide his smile.

She may not blend in, but she's a hell of a distraction.


"Why do you buy whiskey if you're not going to drink it?"

That's the thing about her that always throws him off. Somehow she always sees him, even when he thinks she's not looking.

Deacon sighs, rubbing his forehead with his palm. How can she give him such a headache just by asking a question?

But he knows it's not just that she asked a question - it's knowing that she was watching him. As it turns out, being watched isn't so fun after all.

Payback's a bitch like that.

When he looks over at her, she's got that smirk on her face that always makes him want to poke at her, to tease something out of her that he already knows, something she didn't share with him. It'd be a small victory, but it would sure make him feel better.

Instead he sighs, and decides to go for the low-hanging fruit.

"I don't like drinking. It dulls the senses, makes it harder for me to pick up on what's going on around me, pick up on things I need to know." A partial truth. Safer than thinking about University Point again.

"There's more to it than that." Shit. Well, she was a lawer.

He laughs, putting his hands out. "Honest, counselor."

At this, she narrows her eyes, brows furrowed together in a doubting smirk.

And that's when it hits him: she never told him she was a lawyer before the war. He's not even supposed to know that she's pre-war, let alone what she did or where she came from.

Shit. This is bad. Real bad. He's not even sure how bad.

Is there any way to spin this that looks good?

"Deacon?" Charmer's voice matches her expression - it's stern, like an old-world school marm.

"Yeah, boss?" He tries to look casual. If he succeeds, it's all because of his sunglasses, because inside he feels like he's shaking apart.

"Why did you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"You know what. Counselor." Now she's exasperated. Impatient.

He takes his hat off, tossing it so it spins in mid-air and lands on top of the dresser next to his bed. She stands, facing him, her arms crossed over her chest. He's never seen her face so serious; there isn't even the usual twinkle in her eye.

Say something, Deacon. Say anything.

But for the first time he can remember, his mind is a total blank.

There's a flash from her lighter; she's taken a cigarette from his pack and takes a long drag on it before blowing the smoke out towards the ceiling.

"How long have you known?"

Always.

"A while," he admits, loosening his scarf. She tosses the pack of cigarettes onto his bed. He leans over cautiously, as if she might bite him, and takes them. Pulls out one of his own and lights it.

She seems as jittery as he feels. Her hand seems to shake a little, and then she reaches over and taps the cigarette against the side of the ashtray. No ash falls; the cigarette hasn't collected any yet. Her cheeks brighten a little and she looks back over at him, her gaze fixed, intimidating.

"I mean, I'm not an idiot," she continues. It's one of her more endearing tics, this need to talk when she's upset. Not that most people don't want to talk when they're frustrated or angry; somehow he likes the way she does it, though. "I know you were following me. You knew about the courser after all."

"And Kellogg." Shit. What was that? Why's he helping her nail him to the wall?

"And Kellogg," she agrees, sucking in a little smoke. When she breathes it back out, it's in three perfect rings, her mouth a pink circle behind them. He's impressed; he's never seen her do that before.

What other hidden talents has she neglected to share with him?

The action seems to calm her; her eyes seem placid when she looks at him again. Or maybe she's just gotten herself together again. It can be hard to tell; she's pretty good at hiding her feelings.

"Before that, though," she says, placing her cigarette in the ashtray. "I noticed you the first time in Diamond City. Then again, outside Daisy's stall, in Goodneighbor. In the Memory Den. And here - sitting where you were tonight, outside Savoldi's." As she says this, she shrugs off her jacket and pulls her gun from its holster. The pistol she places on the dresser next to the ashtray, then she goes back into her jacket pocket, rifling around for something.

"Probably a coincidence," he smiles around his cigarette, projecting a confidence he doesn't feel. She's too close to the truth, but there's no way he can tell her.

At the same time, he finds himself reluctant to tell her a bald-faced lie. Wonder why that is?

"Could be," she agrees, pulling her flask from an inside pocket. She twists the top off the flask slowly, looking at him with the expression he's beginning to associate with cross-examination. She takes a long drink - he hears gulping - and then finally comes back up for air.

"I think," she begins, tossing the flask onto the bed, "that you don't drink because of something in your deep, dark past." She says the last three words with a comical waggle of her fingers, as if talking about ghosts.

"Could be," he mimics, taking another drag of his own cigarette and crossing the room to put it in the ashtray. He fumbles at the buttons on his jacket. Is it hot in here?

It's been a long time since lying made him this nervous.

Charmer sits on her bed and puts one foot in her lap. She starts unlacing her boot, then looks back up at him. "I think you used to drink and lost control and that's why you won't touch it now. Tell me when I'm getting warm."

There's a thump as her boot drops to the floor and she puts her foot down. Pulls the other one into her lap and starts unlacing the other.

That's about when Deacon gives up for the night.

Maybe it's not worth hiding everything. After all, a little truth is the chewy center of the best lies, right?

"You're pretty much on fire, boss," he tells her, hanging his jacket over the window to block the earliest sunlight. It hangs crookedly over the uneven frame.

Her other boot hits the floor with a muffled thump and she lets out a happy moan at having her feet free.

He knows the feeling. After walking all day, his feet are tired too.

"How'd you know it was me?" Deacon sits on the edge of his bed, across the room from hers, and starts unlacing his own boots. He does it differently from her, bent at the waist, his head hanging around his knees, and so she can't see his grin when he hears her answer.

"Come on. I'd know you anywhere."