Games We Play: Vulnerability

Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys. Some adult content has been cut from this chapter to meet FFN's ratings system but may be viewed at Ao3.


vulnerability

adjective

the quality of being capable of being physically or emotionally wounded

Glory was right: two days and nights after the Black Night in Which He Tried to Molest Glory, Deacon finds he feels better. It helps that he has no memory of the incident itself, which is in turn helped by the fact that Glory doesn't speak of it again, nor does she act any differently around him. She's still his friend - perhaps his only friend, the only one he's ever had - and their talk turns to other things. It's all forward thinking, plans for the future: what they'll do when the Institute is finally no more and how they'll get to that wondrous day. She says she'd like to see something beyond the Commonwealth, maybe take a boat south to see the coast. They don't speak of the past, or of their shared allies; nothing that skates too close to Deacon's tender center, nothing that might make him uncomfortable.

He's not sure whether he's touched or annoyed by the care Glory takes around him. In the end, he doesn't suppose it really matters; she's protecting him, and there's something intimately special about that.

On the third morning he feels strong again. His backslide was unfortunate but didn't set him back too badly, he thinks.

At least this time, the only person who got hurt was himself.

Back in HQ, things are the same as they always are. He finds it claustrophobic, being in this hole in the ground with so many other people, after spending so much time above ground, in the sun and the air.

"Deacon," comes the greeting from Desdemona. She looks more tired than the last time he saw her, with dark smudges under her eyes. She gives a pointed look at Glory, who returns with a half-nod, and Deacon has the distinct feeling of something sliding into place.

Oh. Glory wasn't alone in Operation Save Deacon from Himself. He can't tell if the flickering heat and pressure in his head is because he's grateful or embarrassed.

"Randolph is gone, wiped out by raiders some time back," he tells Des, segueing directly into the pertinent information. The boss nods, her lips pursed and brow furrowed.

"Dammit! I wonder how long that message was waiting." He can hear the frustration in her voice. To have lost another safehouse - well, it's not helpful, that's for sure. "In the meantime, we need to start established a couple more safehouses. By all reports, Calavera and Caretaker are ready to head their own houses. I'd like you to go collect Calavera and clear Spectacle Island."

At this, he's unable to hide his shock. "Really, boss? Sounds kinda...dangerous."

Desdemona's face knits itself into something of a frown. "It's out of the way and has a terrible reputation -"

"For good reason," he interjects.

"Which means," she continues, refusing as usual to let him interrupt her, "that no one's going out there just to look around. Which makes it a good place to keep hot packages until we're able to place them."

She has a point. He may not like it, but it's probably true.

He sighs. "I'm at least going to need a little extra help," he says. It's true - if the stories are accurate, and he has no reason to think they aren't, the number of mirelurks on that island could decimate a couple agents in no time.

"Well, Calavera's got a tourist we're converting, goes by the name of Derby. He'll be staying at the house with her. You'll meet them in Goodneighbor. And," she sighs, clearly not thrilled about what she's about to say. "You can take Glory, too. But as soon as the island is clear, she needs to report back in. You can stay for a while, help them get set up correctly."

The thought of Glory - and her minigun - is strangely reassuring. Deacon nods.

"Well, it's not like this hasn't been great, but we might as well go and get started. No time like the present, right?"

His boss quirks an eyebrow at him but ultimately decides to let it go. Maybe she knows how badly he needs this, how much he needs to just keep moving.

The only way to recover is to forget.


The Third Rail is swanky for the Commonwealth, although it doesn't hold a candle to anything he saw in Vegas on his last trip, about ten years ago. Deacon figures if Mayor Hancock saw Gomorrah, he'd probably give up, just close up shop and never be seen from again.

He thought about ordering a drink just for show, then decided it was too risky and got a Nuka-Cola, despite the sigh from Charlie. Glory - spectacularly failing to blend in despite the Nuka-World t-shirt they scrounged up for her - gets a vodka and sits with him. Barely a few minutes later, Calavera and the new guy, Derby, show up. Calavera stands out just a bit less than Glory, but Derby turns out to be another middle-aged white guy, much like himself, with graying hair and a thick Southie accent. He could be Joe Savoldi or anyone else; the man is entirely unremarkable.

Perfect.

They sit, and feel each other out, and drink, and Deacon's starting to feel okay about the whole thing when something makes him look up and he sees her leaving the VIP room. Charmer - it's definitely her, even though for once she's dressed like a woman in some slinky sequined number and pumps, the effect ruined only slightly by her Pip-Boy - walks past his table, arm in arm with the mayor. She doesn't seem to see him, which isn't a surprise; when she goes by she smells like a still.

Her hair, dark and shiny, tumbles in loose waves over her shoulder and the desire to bury his face in it is physically painful.

His heart stops, or maybe it speeds up; it's impossible, he thinks, but maybe it does both at once, somehow. Hancock's arm is around her waist, hand resting far too familiarly on her hip, though from the way she walks she needs the extra support. They head up the stairs together, her head settling lightly on the ghoul's shoulder. Everything around him seems to pause for a moment, or fall silent. He doesn't hear the laugh that falls from Calavera's cut lips, or the sound of Magnolia singing. All he can hear is the quiet clicking of her shoes doing up the stairs and the rumble of Hancock speaking softly to her.

All he can see is the way the mayor's scarred, dessicated hand tightens around Charmer's waist and gently rubs her thigh.


The other are asleep in the Rexford - tomorrow morning they'll start the long walk down to the bay just south of the Castle, where they'll scavenge a boat and ride over to the island. The trek will probably take two days, maybe three if they run into trouble, or maybe even as many as four. It's going to be a long week with few creature comforts and Deacon should be sleeping in his clean bed, but he can't, not with the dreams that continue to plague him.

Instead he's out standing in an alley, staring at the neon and debating heading back to the Third Rail to get completely shitfaced. As if that ever solves anything.

He knows he should be more careful - wandering around Goodneighbor alone and at night is probably not one of his better ideas - but he's just so…tired? Sad? He's spent so much time lying to everyone, he can't even identify his own feelings anymore. The weariness of maintaining so many different fictions is settling upon him again.

There's the sounds of the door to the Memory Den swinging open and slamming shut, then footsteps approaching, and Deacon ducks farther back into the black shadows of the alley. He doesn't want to see anyone; he doesn't want anyone to see him.

A woman bursts into the alley; she's crying quietly, shoulders quivering. Deacon hurriedly stubs out his cigarette, hoping she hasn't noticed the coal burning in the dark, but it appears her back is to him. The door opens and shuts again; another patter of footsteps, this one calmer, less hurried. The figure who comes around the corner wears a tricorn hat, the distinctive shape glowing in the red of the Den's fluorescent lights. It dawns on him, way too late, that Hancock and Charmer are standing in the alley with him. Deacon shrinks back further, trying to become invisible, wishing he had just stayed in the room. The sequins on Charmer's dress catch the light and glimmer, casting a pattern on the wall behind her.

There's a consoling tone from Hancock, although Deacon's too far down the alley to pick out individual words. He wraps his arms around Charmer and she shudders, then seems to calm a little. It looks like she wipes her eyes, and then there's a dark laugh from her. Hancock rubs her hair softly, laying a kiss on the top of her head, but when he pulls her towards him, Charmer takes a step back. Deacon's stomach drops alarmingly, but then Hancock and Charmer are both laughing, and a moment later the mayor is tipping his hat to her and sauntering off towards the State House.

Alone.

He can wait here - he's sure she doesn't want to see him, not after the way they left things - for her to leave, and that's his plan, but before he can figure out what's happening, she's turned and walked halfway down the alley to him.

"Gotta smoke?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Wordlessly, he holds his pack out to her. She takes two, puts them both in her mouth, and leans forward so he can light them. Charmer's slim fingers pluck one from between her lips and she holds it out to him.

He takes it, still not daring to speak - he remembers what Glory said - and takes a puff, trying not to ogle her in that incredible, impractical dress. Maybe if he's quiet she'll leave and she'll never know it was him.

"I've missed you."

Well, maybe not.

She's looking at him critically, and for a moment he's embarrassed by the ratty t-shirt and jeans he's wearing, although he's not sure why. It's not like she's never seen him look so casual before. Maybe it's just that she looks so great; in those pumps she even looks leggy, which is a feat in itself.

"I missed you too," he finally exhales, and it feels like he's letting out a century's worth of tension. She flicks her ash and when she looks at him, her eyes are dark. All he can see is his own reflection staring back at him, tiny and distorted and lost.

"I never should have -" but she cuts him off with a wave, taking a staggering step closer. She's so close to him now he could touch her, but he won't - he'll be good, he'll take things at her pace. If she never forgives him and all he has is that one dazzling week, so be it. He can handle that; he can allow her to walk away from him, if that's what she wants.

"I don't want to talk about it, not right now." Her words are slightly slurred and in a way that makes him think it's not just drinking she's been doing. Well, she's been hanging out with Hancock - he shouldn't be surprised. He wonders what she's on - jet? Med-x?

With everything she has to deal with - no he doesn't blame her. He's in no position to blame anyone for self-medicating.

But he still has to know.

"Are you and Mayor Hancock -"

"That's none of your business." A snort from her, then softer: "He wishes."

A warmth spreads from Deacon's toes and up through his body. Whatever he saw -

She towards him, the hand with the cigarette in it dropping to her side, and for a moment he's too transfixed by the smudged eyeliner and fading lipstick she's wearing - who is she today? - to realize what's happening, but then her arms are around his neck and her lips are on his and he's stunned and confused and so fucking lucky he can't believe it.

Her body is delicious, pressed as it is against his own, her skin twitching as he rubs his hand against her cheek, her neck, across her pale exposed shoulders, down her back. Her lips are aggressive; they won't take no for an answer. She presses her mouth against his hungrily, greedily, her tongue seeking his, and her hands are running over his smooth head. Smoke drifts up from the alley floor where their cigarettes have been dropped and forgotten.

This is wrong, he thinks. It's wrong; he wants something more than this from her.

He loves her.


When she's wiped herself with a handkerchief from his pocket and taken another cigarette from his pack, he knows they shouldn't have done this. Not now. Not here.

Not without talking things out.

She's distant again, not really looking him in the eye. Regret, a hateful and cruel thing, tugs at him.

Not now. Not like this, he thinks again.

He tries - he reaches one arm out to her, tries to put his hand on her shoulder, but she steps away before he can make contact. Her face is closed off again.

If only he knew what to say.

"I need to get going," she says finally, her face hazy by the scrim of smoke she exhales as she speaks.

"I'm sorry," he tries. There's a flicker of something in her eyes, gone before he can figure out what it was.

"I'll be back at HQ later," she says. He knows better than to ask when 'later' is. It's not like he'd answer that question, either.

He leans down and kisses her on the cheek. She doesn't shy away, but she doesn't exactly lean into it either.

She does let him do it.

Then she's gone, heels making that distinctive tapping. The sound fades as she heads out into the night, back to the State House.