71. “You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me and 76. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.” for Deacon please?
Prompt #71: “You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me.”
Prompt #76: “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”
Unforgiving, the synth-saving business. Doing what he considered ‘good’ in an avaricious and ashen world scarcely had its perks. Still, nights like this, it all seemed especially taxing. He could barely see the lantern light in the shop window through the pelting rain. He wasn’t going to complain- not with Sole and the Synth, Martin (M5-29, as it were), in his company. He looked back, to make sure they were still close. Sole had their jacket over Martin’s head, left to be washed by the torrent downpour themself.
He pulled at the door to the shop, and held it open for them. Inside, the steady pummeling of the storm was muted, though persistent. Sole worked to dry themself off, and Deacon did the same. The chill would set in soon, he knew, but they had shelter now, and he had a job to do. At this moment, it was entertaining his party so they wouldn’t think about it.
“Rough night, huh?” He prompted, flashing a grin at Martin. The synth offered a sheepish smile, too tired and cold to laugh.
“We’re almost home, Martin.” Sole said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder, in hopes encouragement might seep through the soaked leather of his jacket. Martin blinked gratefully, instructed silence from his previous agent, but conveying his emotions nonetheless.
Moments like that, they made the whole thing worth it. After Switchboard, it didn’t seem like they’d ever be back to business- not without the crippling paranoia, anyway. But here, no matter what he’d done before, this helping of someone lost, someone scared; he was good here. This was merciful atonement. Helping someone who needed it, obsequious to innocent compassion.
The rain eased, reduced to fingers drumming lightly on the roof. They were waiting for an Agent to meet them, and after passing off Martin into safe hands, were likely to return to old North for a modest rest before returning to the field. Deacon sat back, keeping an eye out to ensure that the lantern was still burning softly.
“Sensors indicating concealed organic life form.”
The low, processed voice came from just outside their shelter. He straightened, head snapping back toward the door. None of them moved. The sound of fiber-plastic scuffing concrete was closer now, and Sole reached for their weapon. Deacon didn’t have a slealthboy on him. He untucked the Deliverer from his coat and moved fluidly to a shadowed corner of the room- knowing hiding from Gen 2’s was ardently useless. Sole ushered Martin away from the door, but before they got behind cover, the door, though barricaded, snapped open. Sole shouted something, before pushing Martin from the line of laser shots that illuminated the darkness in azure flashes; finding old wood instead of flesh. Deacon fired from the other side of the room, hitting one bot in the head, and grazing another- which Sole took care of.
From the sound of it, there were more. Deacon took Martin by the arm and pulled him up a flight of stairs, to the second level of the building, Sole covering the rear.
“Don’t worry. This kinda stuff happens all the time.” He said to the frightened synth with a smile. That was a lie. In fact, Deacon’s heart was racing thinking about Sole on the floor below taking on god-knows-how-many Gen 2’s by themself.
He brought Martin to a window with a fire escape. “Get down there, and go around the Southside of the city until you make it to the brewery. Wait for us there. And don’t worry- you’ll be totally fine.” Something like glass breaking sounded loudly from downstairs. “We’re experts.” He smiled. Deacon patted his back, and ensured he made it safely down the escape, before dropping his confident countenance and rushing back down the stairs.
The lantern had tipped over, and the oil had lit- he was greeted by dancing flames, and a vibrant orange. Numerous synth bodies littered the floor, but Sole was taking cover behind an old shelf. Blood smeared their face, and they had a hand gripping their shoulder, their weapon in the other. Deacon went to them, still hearing synthetic murmurs from outside.
“It’s… It just grazed my shoulder.” They said, with effort.
“Well since you’re fine, would you mind getting the rest?” He said, without thinking, already pulling them up the stairs. They laughed weakly.
He helped them out the upstairs window, and back out into the drizzling rain. They struggled down the stairs, but did well enough supporting themself on ground level. Taking off toward the brewery, he didn’t stop to look back at the flames.
When nearly there, Sole slowed down, leaning on him increasingly as the night grew light with dawn’s arrival. It was more than just a graze, he knew. What wasn’t drenched with water and sweat, was soaked in hot blood. At the door of their destination, they collapsed into him. He didn’t mind carrying them in- he was impressed they’d made it as far as they did. But the weight of wondering if they would get back up again was nauseating.
He spent over an hour cleaning, stitching, and bandaging their wound. By that time, early morning, the Agent they’d been awaiting had found them at their back-up safehouse and picked up Martin, who was hesitant to leave- thanking Deacon profusely. He didn’t think he deserved any thanks. It was Sole who had held off countless Gen 2’s and almost died in the process.
Nevertheless, they were alone now. And Deacon didn’t know what to do with himself; worse, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if they didn’t wake up.
Walking over to where they lay on a worn couch, he took a seat in a chair nearby. Reaching over, he took their cold hand in his.
“Sole,” He said softly. Softly, for his fear that it might be the last time he had the privilege of saying it.
“You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me. And you need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.” It wasn’t a lie. When he met them, loneliness lost it’s appeal. Mystery lost its seduction. Lies lost their magic. He’d only wanted them; the subtle nuances in the way they spoke and held themself. He found himself wanting to tell them the truth- wanting to give them that part of himself he’d only ever given to people who were now dead. He didn’t want to be alone anymore; the kind of alone where you’re surrounded by people but not a single one of them has any idea who or what you are.
Pulling himself together, slowly, he sank down, laying his head beside them. Though he couldn’t bring himself to sleep, he closed his eyes. Doc Carrington would critique his suturing skills, but if Sole lived, it was enough.
He had no inkling of how much time passed while he grappled with his fear and existentialism. There was a small movement in the hand he held. He sat up quickly, studying them. Their chest rose subtly, and they swallowed. Finally, their eyes opened so slightly, he almost couldn’t tell they were open. They turned their head to him.
“Hey, buddy. How ya feelin’?” Despite his diction, he couldn’t hide his fear or exhaustion by the wavering of his voice.
“Is Martin safe?” They asked, in nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
He nodded. “Safe and sound. You did a hell of a job, heavy. As usual.”
“You’re holding my hand.”
He pretended to be confused, holding up their arm, and theatrically inspecting it. “Oh, this? I could have sworn this was mine! Thought I lost it back there…”
Sole laughed, which quickly turned into a cough. They squeezed his hand softly. “We made it, partner.” He moved to lace their fingers with his.
I’m emo cause I’ve been listening to Wasteland, Baby! nonstop, so this ended up longer than I originally intended. Only the best for the Deacon stans out there
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