Games We Play: Waffling
Notes: Everything belongs to Bethesda and Obsidian, I'm just playing with their toys.
waffling
verb (informal)
to fail to make up one's mind; to dance around a subject
or: to speak or write, especially at great length, without saying anything important or useful
When he was a boy in school, Deacon read an ancient myth about a man named Sisyphus. A crafty king caught lying for personal gain, Sisyphus was doomed by his gods to roll a boulder up a mountain for eternity. Whenever he got close to the top, he would lose his grip and it would roll back over him and down the hill, and he would have to start again.
He finds himself thinking of this story more often than it really merits over the following weeks. Clearing out Spectacle Island is actually easier than he thought it would be, thanks to Glory and her minigun. Calavera sustains a minor acid burn, but it turns out Derby has some untapped skills as a field medic, and before Glory leaves the following morning, Deacon has faith that their little operation will be successful.
"Let Des know she can start sending care packages anytime," Deacon tells Glory as she climbs into one of the two small skiffs they brought to the island. Derby's planting some seeds in the hopes of starting a small garden and Calavera's wiring up a turret that'll face the bay to help keep intrusions to a minimum. He figures in a week or two, he'll be set to go back to HQ, to start dealing with the rest of his life.
Glory's lips flirt with a smile, and she gives in when Deacon chucks her lightly on the shoulder.
"Take care of yourself," she says as she revs the engine and slowly turns the boat towards the mainland.
The last thing Deacon wants to do is 'take care of himself'. He needs to work, he needs to help the newbies get the safehouse up and running, build up the defenses and start preparing enough food for winter. Work is a great distraction from everything he doesn't want to think about, everything he's afraid of.
Like, for example: what exactly did they do in Goodneighbor that night? Her hands were down his pants, which felt like a pretty clear signal, but - he keeps thinking of the way she cried, of the shoulder of his shirt growing damp and salty. The way she smelled of whiskey and something sweet and synthetic. The way she walked away.
Of, if he feels like beating himself up, how about the way he doubted her allegiance to the Railroad? The way he accused her of sleeping with him for information? It's a well-worn sore spot by now, but that doesn't mean he can let it go; in fact, it's so practiced and accessible for him, sitting at the top of his miseries, that not a day goes by that he doesn't take it out and taunt himself with it.
Not enough? He can pick at the oldest scab of all, the fact that he's a worthless human being. Each time he sheds a face or a name like a snake's skin he becomes a little less himself. Reborn anew, optimistic again, he makes the same mistakes each time; each new version of himself fails in the same way, usually by thinking he's more deserving than he really is. He doesn't deserve whatever it was Charmer represented to him; at his age, he should know this. A family, a home, a life - he tries to secure these luxuries for others, for those who are new and clean and not corrupted by the world around them.
Like Sisyphus, he restlessly rolls this discontented boulder up the mountains in his mind only to be crushed by it, again and again.
Deacon stays on Spectacle Island longer than planned. There's always another project to be done, and he doesn't delegate these tasks; Derby and Calavera are busy enough dealing with the garden and getting the water purifier running. He runs himself ragged, setting up more and more turrets, getting an old generator running so they can have lights and even hot water. He builds a small shower house and lets Calavera test out the hot shower. The kiss she gives his cheek after makes his skin crawl at the puckered skin of her cheeks, but he finds he flushes in pleasure just the same.
It's nice to know he's done something that made someone else's life easier; his boulder feels a little lighter.
He spends his days repairing the structures on the island, taking scrap metal and other junk to create beds and traps and all manner of other things that might make this safehouse more of a home. He wades into the shallow ocean around the island - wincing at the thought of the radiation and always after taking a double-dose of Rad-X - and hauls the wrecked boats to shore. He paws through shipping containers and water-logged boxes to see what's still usable.
He's grateful for the warm summer air and the breeze off the ocean. It's been so long since he spent this kind of time working with his hands and finds it suits him. The small late-forties pudge that had been developing around his waist disappears; his skin grows dark from working outside. He buries himself in the work and finds he hasn't time to think. It's a relief to lie down each night too tired to do anything but fall asleep.
It's the sound of the boat that gets his attention. He'd been thinking of calling it a day soon anyway - the clouds blowing in from the southwest have the faintest tinge of irradiated green to them, signaling the storm brewing might pack more of a wallop than the average thundershower.
The boat is small, a speedboat with an engine that sounds like it's struggling; behind it, a narrow wake is quickly beaten back by the waves beginning to form. It pulls up to the small dock he built last week and the driver cuts the engine. By the time the first pair of feet steps off the boat, Deacon's standing at the guard tower, his rifle aimed at the approaching figures. Looking through his scope, he feels himself relax. Three men and two women, only one of whom look like they might be a threat - and that one is Charmer.
The other four have the look most newly-rescued synths have: wonder mixed in with horror, curiosity tempered by fear. The bald man steps out of the boat first and walks up the dock towards land. A black man follows suit, helping out a dark-haired woman, and she's followed by a nauseated-looking man with shaggy brown hair, who immediately retches at his feet. Charmer brings up the rear, speaking softly to the shaggy-haired man and rubbing his back as they make their way up the hill towards the collection of shacks and houses Deacon's cobbled together.
He greets the synths with a smile, throwing his arms wide and invoking what he thinks of as his game-show host voice.
"Well, howdy there, guys! It sure is a pleasure to meet you all," he jumps down, trying not to wince as he lands on the rocky sand and his hips ache. Not such a young man anymore, he tells himself. He begins shaking the synths' hands, one by one, really hamming it up.
Why is he acting like this? Maybe it's just safer.
Maybe it's because of the hint of amusement he sees in Charmer's face as she watches him. Her eyes are as hard to read as ever, but there's the faintest trace of a small at her lips, and it eggs him on.
The woman introduces herself first, as B2-57. "And what would you prefer we call you, darlin?" He takes her arm in his own and begins walking her up the hill to the safehouse.
B2-57 blinks, then hesitantly says, "I've always liked the name Patricia."
"Well then, Patricia you shall be," he says, bopping her gently on the forehead with a finger. For a moment he thinks he's gone too far, but then he hears Charmer's amused snort from behind him and B2-57 - Patricia, now - breaks out into a timid smile.
Getting the synths settled doesn't take long. Derby gets them something to eat and Calavera shows them the shower house, and before long the four of them are laughing and smiling over a bottle of tequila that Calavera produced from somewhere. The lot of them are in the main building around the cookfire. Overhead the storm booms, but Deacon's relieved to see that he managed to make the building air tight enough that his geiger counter is only letting out half-hearted beeps every so often.
Despite that, the metallic groan of irradiated thunder and the sound of the acidic rain sliding down the tin roof still turn his stomach. He turns up the radio a little to cover the sounds of the storm and goes in search of Charmer.
He finds her in one of the back rooms, one that's no bigger than a large closet with nothing more than a bed and a small chest of drawers. Her pack is slung casually atop the dresser and she's reclining on the bare mattress, her back against the headboard and her legs crossed at the knee. She's looking at the locket again, her face drawn into a serious, distant expression.
"If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed," she murmurs, so softly he can barely hear her. The line is familiar and it strikes him suddenly, all at once, where it's from.
"War and Peace," he says to her, matching her volume, but still she startles.
"I didn't hear you come in," she says, scrambling to tuck the locket away. Her defenses are up again; it breaks his heart to see it even as some part of him is proud to have somehow gotten the jump on her, for once.
He takes a step back into the hallway, wondering why he had to intrude, but then she's waving him in, her hand fluttering near her face, then patting the foot of the bed. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, and then he's sitting and looking at her as she curls into a ball.
"I think we should talk."
A smirk from Charmer. "About what? You hate...talking."
"I used to," he admits. "Before...this." He's failing. He's failing at this and he doesn't know how to recover. He turns to her, pulling off his glasses. He has to look in her eyes.
There's no reading her, despite the slight lift of her lip.
"You're right," he admits, training his eyes on hers. "Six months ago, I wouldn't have wanted to talk to you or anyone else about what happened. I was a different person then."
An undignified snort from her. "You're a different person every six months anyway. This," she gestures to him, then to herself, "doesn't have anything to do with it. It's meaningless."
That hurts. It hurts more to hear the twinge in her voice as she says it, as though she doesn't entirely believe it. He drops his gaze, pressing his palms to his eyes. After a moment, he works them over to the sides of his head, then drops them to meet her eyes again.
She's still, unwavering. There's a dare in her eye.
"I want more than this," he finally says, carefully taking one hand and resting it on her knee.
She doesn't move, doesn't flinch. A good sign?
Maybe.
Finally, her veneer cracks - just barely, just enough to give him a glint of hope. She sighs, and her shoulders sag.
"There's only one way this ends, Deacon."
"There's only one way what ends?"
Her face doesn't seem to change but suddenly he realizes she looks so incredibly sad, so tragic that he wants more than anything to kiss her eyelids, or take a pratfall, or anything, just to wipe the heart-rending look from her face.
"This," she says, gesturing again, although this time at the world. "Everything. I can't - I can't let him keep doing what he's doing but I also...it means -"
He knows what it means. He's known from the moment he saw her claw her way out of the vault, her hair messed up and that blue vault suit soaked with melted cryo-gas and sweat. He'd watched her wander down to Sanctuary, holding her hand over her eyes in the glare of the sun, and seen the way her chin wobbled when she talked to her robot.
He watched her for years before she even woke, and for months before she met up with the Railroad; he's heard the way she tries to help people and he's seen the soft, squishy heart inside her. And maybe that's how all this started: if only she could harden, she would be safe. If she was hard and unyielding, she could make the final call.
He's known it forever; he's known it since he heard that rumor as a teenager, the one that said Father had a mother still living, frozen in a tomb of a vault up north. He knew then - as he knows now - that she would be the one to bring all this full-circle.
Now looking at her, at the weight of it all on her shoulders, he can't stop himself from leaning forward and brushing a kiss on her lips. She sits still, neither leaning in nor retreating, and lets him kiss her. She smells of whiskey and clean sweat and salt air, and then she opens her lips to admit his tongue. He tastes her, he nibbles at her bottom lip, and in that moment he gives himself to her, at last. He knows the moment it happens, because her arms come up around his neck, holding him to her so he can feel her heartbeat beneath his own.
They break apart at the sound of quiet cursing at the door. Calavera stands there, shock and annoyance nakedly displayed on her face.
Deacon can't stop the blush that spreads up over his face and ears before creeping along the back of his head. "Uh, hi," he says to the dark-haired woman, who rolls her eyes.
"You're such a cabron," she says, finally. Behind him, Charmer lets out a snicker.
"Could we, uh, maybe not share this around?"
"Not yet, anyway?" Charmer's hand on his own sends a thrill through him, down into his stomach.
"It'll cost you." Calavera leans against the doorway with a smirk, crossing her arms.
Deacon sighs. Well, of course.
Calavera thinks about it for a moment. Finally, a gruesome grin breaks out on her face, not reaching her eyes. "A case of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes," she says at last.
Relief floods him. "I can do that -"
"Not a box, pendejo," Calavera cuts in. "A case. That's thirty-six."
A little bit harder, he thinks, but still manageable. Deacon nods, trying to ignore the stifled giggle coming from Charmer. Her body is so close to his, and she's so warm - all he can think about is burying his face in her neck.
"And a six-pack of Gwinnett stout. All Derby wants is that maldito pale ale bullshit."
"You got a deal," he says and she smiles again. Deacon suppresses a shudder.
"In that caseā¦" Calavera turns, swinging the door shut behind her and raising her voice. "No, Derby, I don't know where they went. Did you check outside?"
He turns back to Charmer, her smile fading.
"I love you," he says, finally. It hurts to say it out loud, but something about it feels sweet just the same. "We'll get through it together."
"He's my son," is all she says.
Barbara flashes in his mind - not the way she looked after, but before, one afternoon when they sat outside by the water, skipping stones and laughing, and she was so beautiful and strong and lovely it broke his heart. He thinks of her in that polka-dotted dress she loved, her shoes off and long toes buried in the sand. Her hair blowing in the breeze.
He knows something of sacrifice, of rolling the boulder up just to watch it come back down on you.
And so he kisses Charmer, and he curls his fingers around hers. He wraps his body around her and they lie on the bed, listening to the rain fall. He savors the heat of her body against his and the innocent safeness of holding another person who knows the pain of betrayal, and he whispers to her until she falls asleep.
