❝ Do You Have A Geiger Counter?

Sideblog for all things Fallout. Main blog is @hebuiltfive.

[followingthefreedomtrail]

A little WIP Wednesday...

... for the last Deacon Week piece I'm working on. It's been a hectic couple of weeks so I'm working even slower than usual, but I thought I'd drop a little snippet (though it's partly as encouragement for myself!)

The hiss of the Stimpak had Deacon's attention return to the two other living bodies in the room; Charmer and the scavenger.

They stood at the far end, beside a set of rickety stairs that led to a collapsed second floor. Charmer had her back to him, positioned so it looked like she was the only thing keeping the scavenger from falling to the ground.

His heart had jumped at the sound, eyes darting across his partner to make sure she wasn't badly injured. Deacon hadn't seen her take any particularly bad hits from the ferals, but he could have missed something. He was only human, after all.

So was she.

Trying not to appear as panicked as he currently felt, Deacon paced over to the other two.

"You really didn't have to do that," the scavenger was muttering. "In fact, I really wish you hadn't."

"Don't be ridiculous," Charmer replied. She wore the smile she often donned when dealing with this exact sort of situation. It was a 'this hasn't been a real shitty experience and you probably feel like crap but you're going to be okay now' expression; her smile held all the warmth her eyes still failed to convey.

[fly-amanitaa]

[followingthefreedomtrail]

#MyDeacon submission

This looked far too fun to miss! Thanks to @noraleedoes for posting this!

Couple of disclaimers: I found some questions really hard to answer because (to me, anyway) Deacon is one of those characters that literally can fit into any headcanon, so there’s none I don’t not believe in, if that makes sense? So there are lots of caveats here. Sometimes these hcs will come out in my fics, sometimes they won’t. But if I’ve ticked or answered a question in a certain way it’s because, in one variation or another, that’s how I see Deeks. (I’ve added a little AR ‘alternate reality’ tag on the first section where I think the hc is fun but I’ve not yet incorporated into my fics).

Secondly, this post mentions references to self-harm, suicidal thoughts, violence, death, and general mature content.  Nothing is graphically described, but read at your discretion.

Okay, disclaimers out the way, let’s have some fun!

Pre-Fieldwork Checklist

0. Is he _______? Check all that apply. Supply additional notes as desired.

[  ] A synth?

[  ] A ghoul?

[  ] An alien or other cryptid?

[ X ] A time traveler? — AR I’m so down for a Doctor Who crossover where Deacon is actually a Time Lord. I won’t elaborate further here but let it be known that I think about this weekly.

[ X ] From before the war? — AR Not one that I often put into my writing but I do love the idea of him being pre-War, somehow. 

[ X ] From a vault? — AR But not one from the Commonwealth.

[  ] From the West Coast or New Vegas?

[  ] From the Capital Wasteland?

[ X ] Married? — I believe Deacon’s third affinity was truthful (for the most part) and thus I believe Barbara was truly his wife. I hc her as his second wife, however. The first one was a childhood sweetheart, supposedly taken by the Institute, thus spawning the hatred towards synths that led him to joining the UP Deathclaws.

[ X ] A widower?

[ X ] A father? — He makes a comment amount not being able to have “anymore children”, and that line always has me wondering whether he was ever a parent. I like to hc that yes, he was. It gives him yet another layer and I think it’s something he can bond over with the sole survivor. He can understand the pain of losing their child because he’s been there, albeit in different circumstances, but a lost child is a lost child. It’s also why he hates playgrounds; they’re a constant reminder of what he lost.

[ X ] A former raider/gang member? — UP Deathclaws. And it’s why he absolutely detests raiders.

[  ] A former teacher?

[ X ] Recovering/recovered from chem addiction? — Recovered, but it was a long road. If you accept the hc of him being a raider, I think it’s fair to assume he was also addicted to chems. Jet, maybe. Buffout. It took the pain away from losing that first love of his, it numbed his feelings. It made the job easier… until it didn’t.

[  ] Agamemnon?

[ X ] John D.? — I don’t know why but I adore the idea of him being John D. Maybe it’s because both he and John D are so mysterious, so if they were the same person it ties both mysteries up with a neat bow? But also the implication of what that means for both Deacon and the Railroad itself… I’ll explain more in the point below.

[ X ] The/a founder of the Railroad? — Deacon isn’t a founder in the true sense, but (if you hc him as John D), I believe he had a very firm, solid hand in building the Railroad up into what it is in-game. The contributions he makes, the dedication he gives to the cause, is why the Railroad is still running. Why the Institute hadn’t wiped them out years before. Without Deacon (/John D) they wouldn’t have survived beyond Wyatt’s years. He was instrumental in setting up the dead drop system, the railsigns, the routes in and out of the Commonwealth. So whilst not a founder in the original sense, he’s a founder of how the organisation works today.

[  ] The current and/or secret leader of the Railroad?

Casual Observation

1. How old is he? How old does he look?

I hc Deacon as being in his early-mid 40s. His age varies depending on what face he’s using. Sometimes it suits him to look 20. Sometimes it suits him to look 60. Sometimes he’s tempted to look 200+ and disguise himself as a ghoul. But it is getting to the point where Deacon is beginning to forget his true age (his true self, at times).

2. How tall is he? What's his default posture like?

5’10. Again, the posture depends on the character he’s playing. Deacon as Deacon, however? Attentive but slightly slouched. If he’s able to drop one layer of whoever he’s trying to be, it means he’s a little more relaxed. 

3. What's his body type/build like? Is he as strong/agile as he looks? Less so? More?

More. To survive in the wasteland, you have to be physically fit, if only to outrun some sort of irradiated monster. Especially because he likes to wander, too. He has muscles under those disguises of his. They’re nothing to shout about, but they keep him alive. 

4. Is he naturally bald, balding, or would he have a full head of hair if not for removing it? What is his natural hair color? Does he have body hair?

I love me a ginger Deacon! But whether or not the baldness is natural… I like to theorise that the ginger hair makes him stand-out, and so he chooses to shave. It also makes the wigs easier to wear. Body hair, yes, unless he needs to have a wax for a character disguise. 

5. How often does he wear that pompadour wig? Does he have other wigs?

The pompadour is his favourite but I think it’s fair to assume he has others. Many, many others. It’s like that scene in the Office where Dwight keeps a wig for every one of his colleagues. Deacon is Dwight. 

6. Does he have any scars? Freckles or other marks? Any tattoos or piercings?

Originally, yes to the freckles, but since his face swaps, he’s lost them. The same with mole on his shoulder and the birthmark on the back of his thigh. They’re too distinguishable.

Scars are trickier. Yes, he’s had some work done but Deacon hasn’t removed them entirely. They’re a reminder of all the fights he’s fought and lost, as a reminder of what’s at stake if he loses again. All the scars the remain are on parts of his body where they’re able to be hidden; his arms, his legs, his back, his stomach. They range from knife wounds to gunshot wounds, burns and bites. Some are more recent than others, and he doesn’t let anyone but his face-doctor know about them. 

Tattoos… A sore spot. He has one. It’s the symbol of the UP Deathclaws, again kept as a reminder, only this time it’s of what happens when he loses control, when he gives in and takes the ‘easy way’. It’s on the small of his back, out of sight and out of mind until he needs the reminder, and it’s surrounded with some of those knife wounds from when he’d tried to cut it off himself in the wake of Barbara’s murder. What can I say? Who doesn’t like to torture their blorbos with emotional guilt?

7. What kind of clothing does he wear when he's not working/when he's at rest?

Deacon has a whole stash of clothes he keeps for his disguises, and because I theorise him losing who he truly used to be because of all the characters he’s played, he just cycles through those. Deacon doesn’t have his own style because Deacon isn’t his own person anymore.

8. What are his hands like? Soft, calloused? Are his nails rough, neat, bitten?

Calloused and rough hands that are often dry. His nails, on the other hand, are as neat as can be in the wasteland. Usually filled with dirt, blood etc. if he’s out on the road.

9. What does he smell like? What are his hygiene habits like?

Compared to some people in the Commonwealth, Deacon’s hygiene habits are pretty decent. He bathes as often as he can. It’s difficult in a world where the water is deadly. If he’s undercover and not able to wash and clean himself, he does feel it. He doesn’t like to be dirty. He’s already got enough mental dirt staining him, he doesn’t need more wasteland filth. And because of that, when he scrubs down his body, he scrubs hard. He brushes his teeth and has regular check-ins with Carrington.

As for his scent, I’ve never really thought too much about this. Part of me wants to say almonds because of their link to cyanide and the espionage world, but realistically I don’t think he’d actually have a signature smell. Soap, when he can find some and is able to bathe lmao. 

I think it would change based on the clothes he wears because, without perfume and colognes, the clothes on his back would be stronger than any natural scent. Some reek of dirt and the earth, some of smoke and fire, some of mould and damp. Those are Deacon’s least favourites to wear. But sometime he’ll find clothes that have a more floral smell to them. Or they’ll have a sweet, fruity scent that makes his mouth water when the wind blows just right. 

10. When (if ever) does he take his sunglasses off? Why does he wear them?

He takes them off when he sleeps, but only when he’s sure he’s alone. He’d claim it’s because his eyes are one of the only things the doctor’s can’t change when he’s undergoing the face swap surgeries, and thus his eyes could blow his cover. In reality, it’s much more complicated. Those eyes belonged to another man in another lifetime. Those were the eyes that loved Barbara. But they were also the eyes that witnessed the person he helped the UP Deathclaws lynch.

And the saddest part is that, despite his lost identity, his eyes are the only things that remain. And Deacon doesn’t want to see them. He doesn’t want to see the world through them. He doesn’t want anyone else to see who he used to be. So he keeps them hidden from everyone, including himself. Maybe one day he’ll take off the glasses for good, but for now they’re like a safety net.

Further Investigation

11. Who is he, in his mind? How does he define himself? What name(s) feels right, if any?

In Deacon’s mind, Deacon is whoever Deacon needs to be to get the job done, to keep the Railroad running, and to keep himself and his colleagues safe. He doesn’t have a sense of self anymore. He’s the Railroad’s intelligence guy. He goes out into the wasteland, learns shit, and delivers. For a while, at the beginning, he still answered to anyone he called out his original name, John. Now, he doesn’t even flinch and actively avoids any undercover character names that begin with the letter J.

12. Who does he trust, if anyone? With some things or wholeheartedly? Why?

Deacon trusts himself. Kind of. He’s come to learn that he’s the only person he can trust, but that trust hasn’t come easily. If one hates themselves, can they truly trust themselves? Deacon’s trying to answer that question every day. He knows he has issues with commitment, that he wants to pop a stealth boy and run any time someone tries to get close to him. And if he could run away from himself, he would. Hell, he does whenever he puts on a new disguise.

I think Deacon trusts the idea of Deacon (as discussed in the question above). But if he had to sit silently in a dark room with just himself? He’d find that difficult.

Naturally, over time, he learns to trust the sole survivor. In all my headcanons, he trusts all the soles, even the ones who ultimately end up betraying him and the Railroad. He believes he’s found a kindred spirit in them, someone he can finally let his guards down around and just breathe. 

13. What made him choose Deacon as a codename - or is it not a codename at all?

I do really love the idea of his name originally being John Deacon. But I also really love the idea that Deacon is the name he chose as a codename after that first Pinky terminal entry because after Barbara was taken from him, Deacon found himself in a church, praying to a God he’d never believed in before, just because he thought it might bring him solace. And it did. It ended up leading him to the Railroad, which might not have been peace but it was what he needed. This isn’t to say Deacon is a believer. He’s far from that. But the name is an ode to what led him to his life’s purpose.

14. What is going on in his head? This could be just a notable train of thought or it could be a full exploration of what makes him tick, up to you!

This one made me chuckle out loud because what is going on inside Deacon’s head???? I like to headcanon that a LOT goes on inside that bald little cranium of his.

He’s an over-thinker (and not just because I want to burden him with my own shit). He’s constantly looking for an exit, for a get-out, for the best way to manipulate a situation in his favour. His mind is always ticking away. And even though he might not look it, Deacon is the kind of person who thinks everything through. He knows the cost of making a mistake. Nothing is down without purpose, no matter how spontaneous he might seem. The quick change of plan? That had been decided three blocks away when he saw the flash of a light in the distance that most people wouldn’t see until it was too late. 

15. When did he become involved with the Railroad? Why?

Again, I believe that he was telling the truth in that third affinity conversation, and so he joined because he felt like he owed it to Barbara and all the innocent people (and synths) he’d had a hand in destroying. It’s his atonement, but it’s also his calling. It’s the one thing he’s actually decent at in this world, and if it helps a handful of people, he’s more than content to continue.

I headcanon Deacon as joining sometime before 2266, but not too long before that first terminal entry. If we go with the John D headcanon, then he’s still a recent member (given he’s noted down as a runner in that entry).

16. When might he retire or step away from the Railroad, if ever? What might motivate or influence that decision?

I don’t think he’d ever step away because I don’t think he’d ever feel like his sins would ever be atoned. Deacon will die in the Railroad because that’s how he thinks it should be. The only thing—and I mean the only thing—that would have him stepping away would be the sole survivor, but even that would be a hard struggle for them to win.

And even if that did happen, I don’t think he’d ever truly leave that life, either. It’s a part of him now. Without the Railroad, he truly doesn’t exist. Deacon is Deacon, and Deacon is the Railroad. He’d come undone. 

17. Where is he from? What was his early home life like? How does he remember it?

This is another point I’ve never really considered. It depends on the version of the story. If he’s from a Vault, I headcanon him as someone who isn’t from the Commonwealth. Maybe Midwest?

But if we’re going down the route of my usual universe I write, Deacon is from what used to be Boston. I don’t think he’d remember much, if anything from his childhood. I think he’d joke, “Was I even ever a child?” to kind of bat away any questions from the sole survivor that cut too deep.

What I do think, however, is that, wherever he came from, he ran away. He joined the UP Deathclaws because he wanted to belong somewhere. By the end of his time with them, he went along with their crimes and their attacks because he couldn’t bare to be kicked out. Maybe Deacon has always had that sense of lost identity because he never truly had one to begin with, and maybe that stemmed from whatever home life he had… You’ve made me think about this now and I’m going to have to go away and think more about it. This is what will be eating away at me at 4am!

18. Where is the furthest from the Commonwealth that he's been? Why did he go there?

100% Deacon has made it to the West Coast. All of it was for the Railroad. He’d love to visit South America one day. No job has given him the excuse yet, though. He’d also like to cross the old border into what was once Canada. He loves to travel. Loves it. If, one day, he did leave the Railroad, I could see him becoming some sort of nomadic traveller. 

19. Why does he favor the tactics/weapons that he does? Is he proficient with others?

Ohh, ohhhhh! Okay. So. Deacon is totally a sniper. He can pick people off from great distance that way… The only thing he doesn’t like about it is heights. Deacon has an whole issue with heights. Namely, he hates them. Being up high makes him feel sick. SO. He usually prefers to be on the ground, all stealth like. Nothing but a shadow. He’s a stealthy guy because it keeps him safe.

20. Why/when did he first take interest in the Sole Survivor? What were his intentions?

I’m currently writing a fic (it’s becoming an absolute monster) where Deacon learns of Vault 111 and there’s a whole conspiracy with it. That’s where his obsession began. And as for his intentions… At first, purely professional. They were looking for their son, convinced he’d been taken by the Institute, and Deacon wanted in. He wanted to use them to get to the Institute in some way, shape, or form. That obviously changes as he gets to know them.

21. How did he get in the habit of lying? Does he remember? Could he stop?

No, he doesn’t remember. All he knows is that he can’t tell the truth (a line, btw, that is absolutely heartbreaking). I think, if he found someone he could trust entirely, Deacon could work on stopping. But it’s a habit that’s part of his survival system at this point. 

22. How well can he actually lie or maintain a facade? Does he have any particular tells or nervous fidgets? If so, is he aware of them?

Deacon is aware of the tells in other people. It’s one of the first things he looks for in a stranger. As for himself? No. He’s trained it out of his system. Perhaps he lets slip a few things as he gets more and more comfortable around the sole survivor, but for the most part? He’s a tight ship with few mistakes. Any mistakes you see are ones he wants you to see.

Which leads me quickly onto the point of “he’s not a good liar because everyone knows he’s a liar” (which is a valid point tbh). I personally think that it’s why he’s actually a really fucking good liar. If Deacon says something, you’re aware he’s possibly lying, but do you know for sure? I believe he purposefully makes up extravagant, unbelievable lies (like the one he tells Dez after you finish Tradecraft) to keep everyone on their toes. The wild, very obvious lies are the cover for the real lies. 

Emergency Improv

23. Share a lie that he uses often, that he is particularly proud of, or that he's amused by. What sets it apart in his mind?

Depending on who he’s talking to, I think the synth card is one he plays often. It’s set apart from the other lies because, short of shooting him dead (which he’s really hoping no-one will do), there’s no way to know he’s lying. Hell, there’s the possibility that it could even be true and he wouldn’t have the faintest idea. Deacon likes that. He likes the unreliability of that lie. 

24. Share a truth that he usually keeps to himself. Has he/will he share it with any one/few person/people in particular? Why?

That he’s tired. He’s so goddamned tired of everything. Of the Railroad, of the Commonwealth, of living. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought of all the sins he still hasn’t atoned for. He doesn’t get the gift of stopping. Not yet. Fate has certainly told him so, given all the times he’s been saved from massacre after massacre.

Deacon might open up to the sole survivor about that one day, but he knows they’d try to help him. And he doesn’t deserve the help. He has to keep going. He has to keep pushing himself. It’s part of the self-inflicted punishment.

25. Free Space. Fun(?) fact or ramble of your choosing.

I have… a couple.

Deacon has met House. It was an op that took him to New Vegas. He didn’t win that code he uses in Covenant in a poker game; it was something he acquired when he was there.

Nightmares plague him. They’re not as bad as they used to be, but Deacon avoids sleeping for the longest amount of time purely because he’s scared to shut his eyes.

I’ve seen a few people mention this one but I hard agree with it: Deacon was part of the Railroad when Danse was put through the system. He doesn’t recognise Danse at first because Deacon only knew M7-97 up to the point of the memory wipe and the face swap, but as soon as Danse’s true identity is revealed, as soon as his synth designation is mentioned to him, he remembers.

Leading on from that, Deacon remembers every single synth he’s personally had a hand in saving. The designations are etched in his mind (and in his pocket notebook he keeps on his person at all times).

 

Okay. Finally done. This is way longer than I expected (it’s the length of some of my fics!), and I was trying to keep the rambling to a minimum. If you made it this far, thank you for not giving up half way! My DMs are always open if anyone wants to discuss/debate/have a conversation. I’m always up for talking about Deacle-Treacle.

[followingthefreedomtrail]

End of the Line

Deacon Week, Day Five - HQ / In Your Corner

There's a quote in the Vault Dweller's Survival Guide for the game about how the player shouldn't worry about massacring the Railroad because their HQ was once a crypt, and I think about it at least once a week. Anywho, this fic was born from that line of thinking. It's pretty bleak but it was a joy to write! This is probably my last contribution to Deacon Week (because this one is already like 2 weeks late). I was so close to the finish line!! Gaahh, maybe next time! It's been such a fun ride, and I'm so grateful I've been able to get out a few pieces for the fandom. It gave me a reason to actual press 'post'.

The threat should have been obvious. Deacon should have realised it the minute she’d returned from the Institute and told them that her missing son, the baby she’d been searching the wasteland to find, had been the Director of the Commonwealth’s sworn enemy. Suzanna Addams was the type of woman who would have burned the Commonwealth down in order to find her baby boy. Deacon had once admired that defiance, that strength. But he should have known that burning them down in order to protect Shaun was always a risk.

AO3 link here!

“You do realise these are catacombs?” Doctor Carrington had voiced his distaste in his usual way; unforgivingly honest. “This place was once a crypt.”

“No shit,” had been Glory’s equally brutal response, tinged with own usual hint of sarcasm. “I had no idea from the tombs and skeletons, doc. Thanks.”

Carrington had sighed at her sarcastic response, but it had been Tom who had replied, “Nah, I feel those vibes. Bad omens.”

“Oh, would you both relax! My point had purely been about the cleanliness of setting up shop in such a location, not to mention the ethical issues of using it as our base.”

“Not the superstitious type, Carrington?” Deacon had chipped in at this point, lips smirking away like it was part of his job description to push the doctor’s buttons. “Colour me surprised.”

The memory of that first trip beneath the Old North Church haunted Deacon now. He hadn’t realised how much he’d miss Carrington’s blunt remarks.

At the time, they’d been fresh out of the shit-storm that had been Switchboard. All of them had been working on little sleep, constantly paranoid and rightfully twitchy. On edge. The Institute had hit them hard and fast. It was a miracle there were any survivors at all, let alone any to set-up the new HQ.

The constant state of paranoia, of feeling vulnerable, fearing attack after attack, was an occupational hazard of working for the Railroad. Each agent, no matter their place in the complex web of operatives, had known, from the moment they signed up, that a target would be constantly on their back. The sanctity of the Old North Church didn’t do anything to lessen that panic.

But as the weeks had gone by, as the tide slowly began to turn in their favour again, hope had blossomed and the fear withered.

They’d let their guards down.

And they had paid terribly for it.

Deacon lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut, tears hot as they ran down his cheeks. His hands were curled into tight fists at his side, nails digging painfully into the skin of his palms.

He was fighting a battle against his rising rage, a pointless battle that he was sure to lose. No matter how hard he pushed his fury away, it refused to surrender. An all-too familiar, unwelcomed feeling that Deacon hadn’t had to deal with for decades. Not since that final confrontation with the UP Deathclaws as payment for what they’d done to his Barbara.

“Given our recent odds,” Desdemona had chipped in, “I think it’s wise to be cautious.”

“There’s being cautious, Dez, and then there’s being overkill.” Glory had lent her back against one of the brick columns that held up the vaulted ceiling.

Dez had given her a stern look.“Let us not tempt the fates.”

Had they inadvertently done such a thing anyway? Jinxed themselves with that initial conversation about the crypt? Signed their death warrants when they’d walked down here that day?

Blood splattered across the brick walls, the stone coffins, the bullet-hole ridden desks, the chalkboard, the steps, the terminals. The stench of death still hung heavy in the air and it would linger for weeks as the bodies of his friends decayed.

The Railroad was no more. All of them were gone now.

All of them except him.

It was never him. He was never given the grace of knowing peace. Even after everyone else had fallen, Deacon remained every single goddamn time. Was that his punishment for all he’d done in his messed-up life? To continue living despite all the losses?

The cruel irony of all of it had Deacon screaming. He stood at Dez’s round table. Her recent plans, still freshly drawn up, never to be realised, were thrown to the floor as that rage finally overtook his senses. The ashtrays, the bowls and cups, the candles, the bottles and cigars all fell to the ground alongside the paperwork in an almighty crash. It joined the debris of the remains of the shelving units that had been caught up in the crossfire, of the body parts of Railroad agents who had fought valiantly but had paid the ultimate price.

They had been so close.

So. Fucking. Close.

How, how, did it all go wrong so quickly?

Footsteps echoed through the open door at the crypt’s entrance. Deacon’s head whipped up. Nothing but pure hatred coursed through his system. He couldn't help it. He knew who those footsteps belonged to. In the months he’d spent at her side, travelling with her, trusting her, he’d come to learn everything about her.

Well, almost everything.

Charmer.

She had done this. The person he had gambled on, the person he’d welcomed into the group, the person he had believed in…

The threat should have been obvious. Deacon should have realised it the minute she’d returned from the Institute and told them that her missing son, the baby she’d been searching the wasteland to find, had been the Director of the Commonwealth’s sworn enemy. Suzanna Addams was the type of woman who would have burned the Commonwealth down in order to find her baby boy. Deacon had once admired that defiance, that strength. But he should have known that burning them down in order to protect Shaun was always a risk. He should have suspected it. He would have done had his foolish feelings not blurred his rational thoughts.

They’d all paid the heavy price because of his weak heart. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He crouched down and took the pipe pistol from the closest fallen agent. Ejected the spent casing. Locked in the new one. Prepped and ready to aim. To fire.

To kill.

“Dez…?” Her figure emerged down the steps, one foot at a time. Slow and steady. Cautious. “Are you— Oh my God…”

Charmer wore a clinical white lab coat that had a bright orange sash draped over the top. The dark auburn of her hair clashed terribly with the colour, but Deacon barely registered that. He barely noticed how much paler her skin had grown, how tired she appeared. All he saw was the Institute’s logo, a stark warning sitting just above her breast, shining out to him like a damn warning beacon.

He hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d seen her clad in Institute clothing. It hadn’t bothered him because Deacon hadn’t realised what it had symbolised. That it wasn’t just part of her cover, not when she was actively choosing to continue to wear it in the Commonwealth.

You were too late, he thought to himself. Always too late.

She took in the scene of devastation before her as she eventually reached the bottom step. A sob broke free, a hand rising to cover her mouth. Grieving, or at least pretending to. He wasn’t sure who she was performing for. Charmer hadn’t looked his way, hadn’t seen him yet. Perhaps she’d suspected someone would survive. Maybe the act was just in case she had to sell her story.

He wouldn’t buy it. He wasn’t going to believe another word from her. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Deacon raised the pipe pistol. He aimed it, straight for her heart. Maybe once he pulled the trigger he’d turn it on himself. It wasn’t like there was much for him left to live for.

Charmer heard the weapon click and her glassy emerald eyes levelled with him. Horror flashed across her features before she recognised him. Her lips trembled as something akin to relief replaced the fear. “… Deacon?” She whispered, taking a step toward him.

“Don’t,” he hissed, almost choking on his words. “Don’t say another word. You’re a traitor, you know that? You’re a fucking traitor!”

He should just shoot. Be done with it. Shatter his already broken heart. One squeeze and it would be over. Forever.

But his trigger finger betrayed him, hovering over the switch but refusing to cross the line.

Charmer flinched as he yelled at her, halting in her steps. The relief fell from her face. The fear returned.

Deacon didn’t care. He rounded the table slowly, almost relishing in her fright. Good. After what she’d done, she should be scared.

“What the fuck did you do, Suzanna?” He spat out her name—her real name—as though it were poisoned. Rarely did he use her true name. It was too risky to use in the field. No-one else at the Railroad had known it, but Deacon had kept it close to his chest. The first time it had slipped out, during a night of tangled bodies and other whispered secrets that had never been spoken again once the sun had risen, it had felt right. Her name had been an unanswered prayer back then.

Now, it was nothing but a weapon he wielded. He knew who she was, now more than ever. And he wasn’t afraid to let her know.

“I didn’t do anything.” She shook her head, more tears falling down her cheeks. “What happened here?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know! That you didn’t give your Institute friends the go-ahead.”

“What?” Charmer stared at the gun in his grasp, still aimed at her chest. “Deacon… What have you done?”

Behind his shades, his eyes flared. “You think I did this?” Deacon bellowed.

He should shoot.

Now.

Now!

He faltered again, but gripped the pistol tighter.

“Don’t you fucking turn this on me!” But he knew what it looked like. And with what he’d told her about the Deathclaws… Fuck. He’d inadvertently given her the perfect scapegoat. There was no-one left to corroborate his story about the Institute, and unless he found proof he could use that the Institute was behind the massacre, it would be her word against his.

Deacon knew who the people of the Commonwealth would believe. The trusted survivor of Vault 111 versus the Railroad agent known for his lies and deceptions? Yeah, it wasn’t going to be him.

“The Institute came,” he began to explain, though he couldn’t find the point given that Suzanna would already know. “They came and they slaughtered everyone.”

She stood a little taller. Like she knew she’d already won. “Everyone except you?”

Curiosity sparked and flooded her eyes, her voice, and Deacon was damned if he didn’t think it was sincere.

He shook his head slowly, the weight of the event finally beginning to pull him down. “No, I… I was too late. They were already gone.”

If she’d felt even a drop of sympathy, she hid it well. “Then you don’t know that it was the Institute who did this.”

“Who else would it be?”

“You’re the only one with a gun, Deacon. And you're the only one left alive. Add it together, and you can see why I’m concerned.”

“You’re alive too,” he pointed out with the same amount of pity.

“I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’m not the one with the gun!”

“Because you ordered the synths to do it for you! Scared of getting your hands dirty, Charm?”

“That isn’t—” Charmer snapped, biting her tongue before she fell into his bait trap. She sighed, considering her next words carefully. “They asked me to get involved. They knew of my links and thought I’d be the perfect in. Shaun told me… But I told them no. I refused, Deacon. I convinced them that the Railroad wasn’t that big of a threat. I didn’t order anyone to do anything!”

Deacon had to give her credit where it was due; her acting was marvellous. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her act so well, even when they’d paraded around the Commonwealth undercover together. It was impressive to see how far she’d come and he might have even praised her if she hadn’t ruined it all. If she hadn’t killed everyone.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me! Not after everything we’ve been through. Just tell me the truth, one last time, Charm.”

His refusal to back down, to take the blame despite his innocent, had her face crumpling. “Lying? You think that I’m the one who’s lying?” She scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t kill our friends, Suzanna!”

“Neither did I! And, again, I’m not the one holding the gun.”

He might have considered lowering the weapon had she left it at that, had she not followed it up with the final blow of: “And I’m not the one with the history of slaughter, am I?”

Deacon saw red. He raced forward, balling the lab coat into fistfuls of material, and shoved Charmer backwards, backwards, backwards. Her back hit the bricks with force. She coughed as the wind was taken out of her, struggling against his hold but Deacon didn’t let go.

He had told her that story in confidence. He had told her because he thought he owed her an explanation. He had told her because he thought she would understand, or at the very least that she wouldn’t judge him.

Fuck, how he’d miscalculated her.

“You think that I killed them?”

“Get the fuck off me!”

He didn’t listen to her. The pistol was still in his grip, wedged between his palm and the material of her coat. It was risky, given the reputation of the weapon. He didn’t care if it exploded, though. It was going to end the same way soon.

“Tell me the truth, Suzanna. Tell me the truth. Make it easier for me.” He almost pleaded with her.

She refused to yield. “I didn’t kill them, Deacon.”

He pushed her further into the wall. “You’re wearing their fucking uniform!”

Charmer hissed with pain but remained defiant. “I was undercover! I was following Dez’s orders! You know this! She told me to do whatever it took.”

“That didn’t include betraying us!”

“Stop. Trying. To. Pin. It. On. Me!” Every word was punctuated with a punch to his arms. “I didn’t betray you, Deacon, I swear! You know me! You know that I didn’t do this! If you just let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear anymore of your goddamned lies!”

The pipe pistol was perfectly aimed, the barrel sitting against her chest, right over her heart. All it would take would be one little squeeze and he’d get justice.

Charmer realised this too. The fists ceased their attacking, her face falling slack with panic. “I’m not lying! I’m not!” She pleaded with him. “I swear it.”

And despite his determination to not listen to her, his stupid heart disobeyed. “Say that is true… Where the fuck were you to warn us?”

He’d relaxed his grip of her enough for her to sag slightly. “I didn’t know…”

“Bullshit!” Deacon bit back. “You were on your way to make sure there were no stragglers, weren’t you?”

An irritated groan escaped. “No. I wasn’t. Why won’t you believe me? After everything we’ve been through,” she threw his line back to him, “why won’t you just hear me out?! I was working with the Institute because those were my orders—”

“—but you—”

“I haven’t fucking finished!” Charmer spat, fully pushing him off her with a shove that had Deacon stumbling backwards. “Dez ordered me to do everything they asked, so I did. I hunted down rogue synths for the SRB. I essentially kidnapped a man for them to help set up their reactor. I delivered reports from McDonough. I aided in helping keep their little project at the Warwick Homestead running smoothly. I hurt people for them. I killed people for them. And I hated every goddamn minute of it, but I did it all because Dez told me I had to keep my cover, no matter what.

“But when Shaun told me they were going to hit you, to take you out… That was the line, Deacon. I refused. I told him you weren’t a threat. I downplayed our newfound strength—that I helped you all build, by the way—in the hope that he’d believe me. That he’d leave the Railroad alone. He gave me no indication to think otherwise.”

Deacon swallowed. “Well, he didn’t listen. They still attacked us. You thought wrong.”

“I was too preoccupied with helping Z1 prepare the synths for our plan, to make sure they were ready to secure their freedom… I didn’t know Shaun gave the go-ahead, I didn’t…” Realisation hit her and Charmer sank down, uncaring of the blood that flooded the floor. “I didn’t know. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Broken, heart-wrenching sobs cracked the silence that followed as Suzanna felt the added grief of her son’s betrayal to the mix.

The sight of her breaking down, hearing her cry…

That wasn’t an act. Charmer truly was innocent. And he’d nearly—

Fuck. He couldn’t let himself think about what he’d almost done.

Deacon threw the pistol to the side and pulled his shades off his face. Fingers pressed into his stinging eyes. Then, after another wail, he slid down to sit beside her. The cold blood that soaked the floor seeped into his jeans but he ignored it. He had no words to offer befitting a proper apology. That could come later. For now, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him.

Time blurred. Neither moved for a long while. Deacon wasn’t sure how long had passed when Charmer’s  rough and croaky voice pierced the silence.

“Was it always going to come down to this?”

At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. The question would have been fine as a rhetorical. But her chest heaved up and down with heavy breaths and Deacon felt compelled to reply. No matter how much it stung him.

“Yes,” he whispered. “The Railroad’s number was always going to be up someday. I’d have liked to have gone down with a better fight but…” He trailed off. His head was pounding. For the first time in a long time, Deacon didn’t have a plan. He’d need to come up with one quick.

“We don’t have to give up.” Suzanna sniffled. “We can rebuild.”

“With what? There’s no-one left.”

Charmer tilted her head upwards, the angle surely uncomfortable, and said, “There’s us.”

He almost scoffed. “Two against the entire Institute?” Deacon had always admired Suzanna’s inability to give up, but this felt far too ambitious. The arm that had been around her shoulders lowered, his palm splaying across her knee. “Even with your infiltration in the Institute, I doubt we’d stand a chance. Especially if they’ve already worked out where your true allegiance lies.”

With him, he realised. With the Railroad.

The silence returned again, the truth a heavy burden to bear.

Deacon would take the next few days to salvage what he could in the hope that someday the Railroad could be rebuilt, no matter how unlikely that would be, and then he would bury the rest. Bury them. He’d make sure they rested in peace. Maybe he could blow the escape tunnel and blockade the main entrance. Hell, maybe he’d go the whole way and just seal the church itself. The crypt was once the final resting place of many Bostonians, but who was counting these days? Who’d care if there were a few more corpses added to the mix?

As though she was reading his mind, Charmer asked, “Where do we go from here, Deacon?”

Beyond the burial plan, he was still at a loss. His free hand pulled at the back of his neck, a shrug rolling off his crumpled shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe your friends at the Brotherhood could help us—”

He broke off when he saw her shake her head.

“I, uh… We had a falling out.”

“How big of a falling out?”

Charmer blew out a breath. “Big. I had to go toe-to-toe with them for the Institute. They consider me an enemy now, and I don’t think they’d hear me out, especially if I tried to explain that I was undercover for the Railroad.” She paused, struggling for words, when she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t all of this my fault?”

His baby blues met the dulled emeralds of her own eyes and he saw her falling apart. “No,” Deacon reiterated. “Forget what I said earlier. I didn’t know, I was just… blinded by rage and I was hurting and I just thought that you—”

Cold fingers snaked through his, squeezing his hand tightly. Suzanna’s extremities were almost always cold, a byproduct of her being frozen in cryo for over two-hundred years, but Deacon hadn’t ever minded it. The action itself was full of warmth. Forgiveness. He squeezed back, hoping the silent message would be conveyed back to her.

“There’s always Garvey,” she suggested.

Deacon stared at her. “Garvey? The Minutemen? You think the Minutemen have a chance against the Institute?”

Her brows furrowed in offence. “Why not? I’ve been helping them rebuild. I think they have a fighting chance.” And despite Deacon’s laugh, Charmer added, “What other choice do we have?”

He rolled his eyes and stood. “Alright, fine. We’ll ask Garvey.”

But Charmer remained sitting. She glanced up at him with sorrowful eyes. “Not we. You. I have to go back.”

Deacon swore his heart stopped beating for a second. “No.”

“I have to go back and warn Z1, tell him that our plan failed.”

“If you go back, they’ll kill you.”

“They still think I’m on their side.”

“No, they won’t. Shaun locked you out of this decision.”

“I can convince him that it isn’t the truth.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I have to try—”

“Suzanna, please, listen to me.” Deacon reached down to take her hands in his, gently tugging her to her feet. “You cannot go back.”

“I owe it to Z1—”

“You don’t owe anyone anything!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not half an hour ago, he was ready to put a bullet in her heart for what he thought she’d done to the Railroad. Now, he was fighting another losing battle to save her from another. “The mission failed, alright? The synths will soon realise the that and demobilise.”

“And if they don’t? What if the SRB find out what they’d been planning?”

He squeezed her hands again, harder this time as though she was going to slip away at any moment. “Please, don’t. I can’t lose anyone else. Please, Suzie. Stay here.”

But he knew what her answer was going to be. He didn’t need to hear her explain why she couldn’t.

Deacon knew it was pointless trying to convince her to do the right thing. Perhaps her supposed betrayal had never been obvious purely because she never would have betrayed any of them. Even now.

Suzanna Addams was the type of woman who would have burned the Commonwealth down in order to find her baby boy, but it wasn’t just because he was her baby. It was because he was someone she had loved. But times had since changed. Suzanna herself had changed. Now she had new people she loved deeply, fiercely. And she’d burn down her son’s legacy to keep them safe.

Deacon felt a new wave of admiration for her in that. He just hoped she wouldn’t lose herself in order to succeed this time.

[twosides--samecoin]

I made these images + the pose guide .pdf & did QA testing for Photographer Pack - Models and Poses. It was a wonderful opportunity to work with a modding mentor of mine & I look forward to the next one <3

[hpysprkl]

Deacon Week Day 6: favorite Deacon quote

"Can you ever truly escape your past? God, I hope so..."

Alex Rousseau's journey from wide-eyed wanderer to jaded bigot to...well, I'm not sure Deacon can really be considered a person in his own right at all anymore. More of a weapon, a tool, a means to an end.

So fucking normal about it.

Still working on my day 5 piece too, but this one was finished first so I figured I'd post it since I have a busy weekend and idk when I'll get the other done.

[powered-rails]

Another little textpost roundup. No particular theme, just some Danse and some Deacon and some Danse/Deacon.

[please-do-not-perceive-me]

DEACON WEEK | Day 6:

Free Day

Deacon is very funny when you give him a melee weapon. Anyway today's lore drop: I'm a longsword fencer. So here's Deeks demonstrating the Fool's Guard (aka alber lmao) anyway this week was fun, thanks for joining me. Bye.

[nukacoola-quantum]

Free day! Past, present, and future. One day he will be happy <3

[omkdear]

DEACON WEEK | Day 6:

Free Day The Dead Woman’s Robe or Study in Pink: Deacon at Needlework This was an intense labor of love and battle using realistic painter and procreate. Just wanted to have something done for Deek week, to express my love for fellow Death-bunnies. There's a fic I was going to post with it (context), but I did not have the spoons to finish it in time.

[followingthefreedomtrail]

How Not To Stalk

Deacon Week, Day Four - Disguise / Stalking

Better late than never, right? I’m not sure if I’ll be able to complete this week, as much as I really wanted to. Life got in the way over the weekend, ugggh. But I finally managed to finish this one which was so much fun (if headache inducing) to write! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did typing this up! It’s both prompts again because I get indecisive and they work so well together I didn’t want to choose. I have a whole-ass story planned regarding the year Deacon spends builidng up Operation Tea Party. I have no idea when it’ll be ready for public eyes, but it’s my baby and I’m proud of the work I’ve already begun on it. But that’s what he’s referring to in this story. I looooooove stalker!Deacon sm. He’s so dark and mysterious and dangerous.

She must have seen hundreds of faces before tonight. He’d assumed that, despite constantly being approached by her, she would never be able to remember him, never be able to piece the breadcrumbs together, never approach him and ask that question. Until tonight.

AO3 link here!

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Suzanna Addams had taken a seat on the barstool beside his, leather armour creaking and groaning over the the tight fit of her Vault suit. She held an open Gwinnett Stout, the neck of the glass bottle held firmly in her uncalloused hand.

Even after weeks of traversing the Commonwealth, Suzanna still managed to look like an average, stereotypical Vault dweller. If he hadn’t been watching her every move, her every fight, her every kill, Deacon would have been surprised to see someone like her get as far as Goodneighbor.

Looks could be deceiving, Deacon knew as well as anyone in the wasteland, but Suzanna seemed to take that phrase to a whole new level of meaning. The epitome of naive on the outside, merely a disguise for the darker parts that dwelled within.

Deacon had seen the Vault from which she’d originated and had pieced together enough of the puzzle to know that the woman sitting beside him at the Third Rail bar was something of a pre-War relic. 

And yet, despite hailing from a time before the bombs, she handled herself expertly out in the irradiated wasteland. So impressive was she, in fact, that even the Brotherhood of fucking Steel had offered her a place in their ranks.

“… What?” He had almost choked on his drink, golden liquid spilling over the lip of his glass as he placed it back onto the bar with shaky hands. Deacon glanced over his shoulder, around the general vicinity, to make sure she had been asking him the question.

But, when he faced her again, Suzanna was simply watching him with bright emerald eyes—the light of which hadn’t yet been snuffed out by the horrors of the wasteland—waiting for his response patiently, as though she had all night to spend hanging around for his answer.

“No,” Deacon shook his wig-less head. “No, I don’t think you have.”

He had been trailing Suzanna ever since he’d heard the news from Drummer Boy.

You’re up Deac, the runner had said. Word is there’s been some hot activity up north.

Deacon hadn’t informed Drummer of what it had been that he’d been watching, not even when he’d asked for more infomation. It was too precious, too important to share with anyone.

Of course the news had to have arrived on a day he wasn’t camped out up there, but Deacon had rushed towards the old Vault just in time to catch the tail end of Suzanna’s fight with a Deathclaw in Concord.

He hadn’t let her out of his sight since.

At first it had all been part of the mission. Operation Tea Party had been devised a year or two before, and Deacon had kept most of the intel he’d gathered close to his chest. Not even Dez had all the details. When he’d heard about the activity, and then subsequently seen the Vault dweller out in the wild with “111” plastered over her back, Deacon had thought it was his best shot at learning more about the Institute.

Because the Institute had to have links to that Vault. He was certain of it. The last year of his life had been dedicated to learning the connection. If this woman had some sort of insight…

As time went on, however, he realised the futility of his plan. Little Miss Ice Box hadn’t even heard of the Institute. Deacon might have thought her a liar if it wasn’t for the fact that she didn’t seem to know much about anything. Ghouls, synths, Deathclaws, the Minutemen, Diamond City… Each and every mention of anything of the sort was met with a confused expression, dark auburn brows arching with incredulously, and followed with a witty remark that was nothing short of disbelief.

After that realisation, he had grown less concerned over her possible ties to the Institute and more curious about her in general. The Woman Out Of Time, Piper Wright had written in her article. That alone made Suzanna interesting. Her ability to handle herself in the wasteland proved she was a valuable asset, and her compassion had made Deacon sure she’d fit with the Railroad. Her ruthlessness had him worrying about what would happen if he couldn’t convince her.

So his shadowing had become more frequent and far more reckless. He wanted to learn more about her, needed to know as much as he could, so that when the time came, he’d be ready.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she thought she’d recognised him.

At every single stop Suzanna had made, Deacon had fished out a new disguise, and at every single stop she’d made, Suzanna had spoke to him. 

It was never anything particularly interesting or unique; a greeting, a how are you, a question about the location. Suzanna spoke to almost everyone, though. She was a friendly face in a not-so-friendly world, a shining beacon of hope and perseverance which was something that most Commonwealth citizens tended to look up to. She must have seen hundreds of faces before tonight. He’d assumed that, despite constantly being approached by her, she would never be able to remember him, never be able to piece the breadcrumbs together, never approach him and ask that question.

Until tonight.

“Are you sure?” Suzanna pressed gently. “You look familiar.” She took a sip of her beer, pondering a thought before asking, “Weren’t you with a caravan at Bunker Hill?”

Shit. So much for her not remembering people.

Deacon offered her his best smile, chuckling nervously. “No. I’m afraid I don’t work with caravans. You must have me mistaken for someone else, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Suzanna narrowed her eyes at him, her pink lips pursing into a thin line and a soft hum reverberating from her throat. Sceptical.

But she said nothing more on the matter. “The music here is wonderful, isn’t it?”

If there was one thing the Third Rail was known for, other than it’s watered-down booze and short-tempered Mr. Handy bartender, it was the music. Magnolia’s voice danced with the melodic jazz in a way that pleased most ears. She was more than just background noise to a busy bar; when Magnolia took to the stage, everyone stopped to watch and listen. She was magnetic.

“I prefer a polka myself,” Deacon joked. He reached again for his glass and lifted the rim to his lips. “You from a local Vault, or something?”

As though she’d forgotten what she’d been wearing, Suzanna looked down at her attire. A quick frown flashed across her features. That frown had only half gone when she lifted her head back up. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Something like that.”

“What made you come up to the surface?”

Suzanna swallowed thickly, and Deacon realised too late that playing his character was such carefree ignorance was a dick move given he knew.

But he didn’t backtrack. His character was an asshole. He had to stick to the script, even as Suzanna answered sadly. “My son.”

“He dragged you up here?”

“No. Not exactly.” Suzanna’s voice was thick with grief. “He, uh… He was kidnapped.”

Magnolia finished up her song and light applause filled the Third Rail.

“Shit. Sorry,” Deacon offered, soft enough for only her ears under the sound of the claps.

She gave him a fleeting smile, weak and fake. “Yeah.”

It was a story he’d already heard via the other people Suzanna had spoken to over the course of the last few weeks. Details were hazy but Deacon gathered her son had been a baby. He knew she’d sought out the synth detective of Diamond City and Deacon had followed them both to the outskirts of Fort Hagen. He’d lost them when they’d entered the old military building and had returned to Diamond City not long afterwards, assuming they’d return soon enough themselves.

His assumption was proved right. They’d entered Publick Occurrences and didn’t leave for over an hour. When they finally did reemerge, Deacon had overheard something about Doctor Amari and had virtually sprinted over to Goodneighbor as soon as he could to get into position.

Everything else was still a mystery to him, and though his character was an asshole, he liked to think of himself as someone more sympathetic. Even though he was hungry for information, Deacon wasn’t cruel, and he certainly wasn’t too keen on pushing Suzanna too far, too soon. 

The applause quietened, the mumbling of the patrons filling the space once again.

“I hope you find him.”

Suzanna offered a rough laugh. “Sorry, it’s just… every time I think I’m getting somewhere, I get pulled back twenty steps.”

Her fingers toyed with the base of the beer bottle, nail dragging over the bumps and grooves of the glass. Her auburn waves fell across her face as she tilted her head to the side, a long sigh exhaling loudly.

“I saw you with that detective early,” Deacon began slowly. “He’s supposed to be good at his job, right?”

“He is. Nick has been great, but even he doesn’t have all the answers.”

“I doubt anyone would.”

Suzanna shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’d be willing to bet big on the Institute knowing a fair fucking amount.”

He tensed.

And it was visible.

Her eyes shot straight back to him, suspicion still dancing in those emerald orbs. The softness had left them, pure inquisitiveness now an overwhelming force.

Deacon willed his shoulders to drop. Willed his spiked heart rate to calm back down.

So the lead to her child had led her to the Institute? Maybe his original thoughts about them somehow being connected with that Vault weren’t so far fetched after all.

“The Institute?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know they’re supposed to be boogeymen, or whatever, but I’m starting to think they might be real.”

“Oh, they’re real, alright! People get snatched from their beds, replaced by those synth things, all the time.”

Her brows furrowed. “Synths aren’t things.”

Deacon suppressed a smile. Though he might have been happy to hear her state such a confident claim in a place such as this, but his character did not. His eyes trailed over her body, taking in every curve and every dip, the texture of her leather straps, the boldness of the blue suit. A mocking chuckle escaped his lips. “Why don’t you just stick to Vault-related items of business in the future. Maybe when you’ve seen more of the world upstairs you’ll see how wrong you are.”

“I’m not wrong,” Suzanna reprimanded. “And maybe when you’ve started to open up your eyes more, maybe if you took of those sunnies, you’ll see how much of an ignorant bigot you are.”

She had guts, and lacked any fear of consequences for having them.

Deacon knew they’d get on like a house on fire one day. 

For now, however, he just laughed again. “You sound like those Railroad fanatics.”

Her spine stiffened, green eyes hardening to ice. “And? You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is. They’re the worst.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“And you’d know that how?”

“Because they’re trying to help people?”

“Synths aren’t people, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” Suzanna’s voice was clipped, pointed. Those icy emeralds glared daggers at him, and Deacon felt a chill roll down his spine. 

This wasn’t a woman he ever wanted to tangle with.

His need to have her join their ranks, especially with this philosophy of hers, grew stronger the longer he stayed with her, the more he got to know her.

Deacon held that stare from behind his shades, the rest of his face unreadable for a moment as he pretended to size her up again. Then, a concessive tilt of his head. The glass was drained and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying, “I’m guessing you’ve tried to walk that Freedom Trail, huh?”

One last chance to try and scare her away, to see how much she was truly in line with their beliefs. How far she’d be willing to go.

“Why do you care?”

In other words, yes, but it was something Deacon already knew.

“I don’t,” he lied with ease. “Look, all I’m saying is the world is a dangerous place—”

“I know that, thank you.”

Deacon frowned. “Be careful for what you seek out. Make sure you understand exactly what it is you’re signing up for before you print your name on the dotted lines, alright?”

She said nothing, sliding herself off the stool and swiping her bottle back into her hands again. Then, she walked away, back towards the VIP room.

Deacon immediately followed her. He was surprisingly good at that.

He caught up to her right before she entered, reaching out to take hold of her arm, holding her back gently. “I’m just trying to help.”

Smoothly, Suzanna slid her arm from his grip. “I don’t recall asking for any of your help.”

“The Railroad… They’re fucking insane. Are you really sure you want to get involved with that shit? You know the life-span of an average agent becomes that much shorter once they join, sweetheart?” He just hoped she wouldn’t get curious and ask how he knew that detail.

Thankfully, Suzanna didn’t.

She bit back a retort on his continued use of that nickname, and sighed with exasperation, no doubt wishing she’d never approached him in the first place. A wavy strand of hair was tucked behind her ear as she offered him a polite smile. Deacon could sense her irritation, however.

“In my opinion, asshole, I don’t think it’s your fucking business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, all this judgement of yours has given me a headache, so if you don’t mind, kindly fuck off.”

And with that, she was gone.

Deacon didn’t follow her further. He’d take the night off of shadowing her every move, if not out of respect for her then to give his mind some time to catch up and re-plan the next few days. 

He passed back by the bar, gave Charlie his caps, and then sauntered back to the Hotel Rexford for a good night’s rest. Suzanna was closing in on the Trail and Deacon wanted to make sure he was on top form when Little Miss Ice Box finally made it to HQ. Plenty of questions would inevitably be asked.

But for now, a content smile played on Deacon’s lips.

The plan was coming together.

[followingthefreedomtrail]

Posted yesterday's prompt last night but Tumblr decided it wasn't going to play ball and refused to show it in any of the tags.

So I'm just testing to see if this post is visible. If it is, here is the link to yesterday's post. If not, I'll probably delete this.

[followingthefreedomtrail]

Posted yesterday's prompt last night but Tumblr decided it wasn't going to play ball and refused to show it in any of the tags.

So I'm just testing to see if this post is visible. If it is, here is the link to yesterday's post. If not, I'll probably delete this.

[twosides--samecoin]

your mistakes won't be the only things that define you for the rest of your days

[followingthefreedomtrail]

4am Comfort

Deacon Week, Day Three - Safehouse / Fighting Again

Deacon breaking down in the middle of the night in a safehouse and Charmer being there to comfort him has been something I've been wanting to write for the longest time. As usual, I struggle to wrap up the fic. One day, I'll learn how to finish a story tidily. [Reposting because Tumblr ate my post and won't show it in the tags. I'll add the AO3 link again soon, I'm just testing to see if that was what was breaking the post. Update: it wasn't the link and this is still not showing in the tags. I'm so annoyed because I'm actually pretty proud of this one.]

His head span. His mind raced. He felt sick. He was going under. This was it. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to—

AO3 link here!

Only in the quiet hours of the very early morning did Deacon allow the worry to set in. With nothing but his own thoughts to keep him occupied as he failed to sleep the fear weighed him down like lead; mind, body and soul.

He pulled the blanket up to his nose, his chin hidden beneath the scratchy fabric. It was comfort enough, he supposed. High Rise had only two rooms spare when they’d arrived. He had offered them a choice of both, but given that the other room only had one bed, they had opted for the one they currently rested in.

It was smaller than the single-bed room, merely because it had two cots instead of one, but it worked perfectly fine for them. Deacon, being the gentleman that he was, had insisted that Charmer took the more comfortable of the cots, and he had assumed she’d fallen asleep fairly quickly, given how quiet she’d become.

Sleep evaded Deacon, as it so often did. Never mind the fact that he was usually a night-owl, preferring the cover of darkness to the bright, shiny day to do his work, but the memories of what they’d seen kept circling his mind, like a TV show he couldn’t switch off. It was harrowing, and for Deacon to say that was something.

Augusta hadn’t been the first safehouse he’d seen decimated. It wasn’t the worst either, not by a long shot. But it had been Charmer’s first time. He’d seen the carnage through her eyes, and it had been horrific.

They were gone. All of them. Butchered by the Institute, and then burned or used as food by the raiders for their pet Deathclaw in the basement. His stomach churned at the memory.

He supposed there was a sick sort of mercy in the agents having already been murdered by the Institute before that terrible fate had been dealt to them, but it didn’t make the images that flashed across his mind any easier to deal with at four in the morning.

Fuck! How had the Institute even learned about Augusta? And so soon after the other safehouses had fallen. Did they possess a checklist of some sort? Deacon had to swallow sour bile, unsure whether he wanted to know the answer to that particular question. He’d have to raise it with Dez when they returned to HQ later. She wasn’t going to be happy, and fuck, Deacon wasn’t expecting her to be.

Losing Augusta would prove to be a very hefty blow against their operations. And after the Switchboard… They were losing this war. It was ridiculous to believe there was any light at the end of this very dark tunnel.

The leaden weight that had already been crushing him grew heavier.

He hadn’t been able to save Switchboard, he hadn’t been able to save Augusta. Who was next? Griswold? Drayton? HQ again? What good was he to the Railroad if he couldn’t do his simple fucking job of gathering intelligence? To prevent this sort of disaster? What was the point of him even trying anymore if the Institute were always going to be ten steps ahead of them all anyway?

If the Railroad were smart they’d hang up the towel and walk away from this fight they’d inevitably lose.

But they weren’t smart. They were stupidly brave.

Some people might commend them for that. They might see it as some sort of strength. But right here in this bed, with his mind in such a turbulent state at four in the morning, Deacon didn’t see the bravery as a strength. He saw it as something idiotic, something that was going to get them all killed.

The panic set in fast. Deacon wasn’t sure when it had begun. Probably just before he felt like he was being crushed by some invisible exterior force.

Dying for the cause had never bothered him before. Deacon had made his peace with it a long, long time ago. He’d come to believe that dying for the cause was the only way he’d ever end up finding peace after he’d finally atoned for every one of his past sins. A full circle, if you like.

And it wasn’t dying for the cause that bothered him now. Neither was it the idea of Desdemona, Carrington, Tinker or Glory succumbing to that same fate. Everyone who signed up for the Railroad understood and had accepted the risks.

The thing that was eating away at Deacon currently was the idea of everyone of his friends—his family—dying in vain.

There had to be a point to all of this work. Saving synths was noble, and Deacon would never have changed his path for the world, but it only made sense to keep going if they were actually making a difference, that they weren’t just prolonging the inevitable. Witnessing the fate of Augusta earlier had him questioning, for the first time since he’d joined the group, whether their work was… worth it.

The realisation stung. The fact that he even had to question it… Did that make him a bad agent? Was it just another bullet point on the very long list of why he was a total fuck-up?

He lowered his blanket, suddenly unable to breathe.

Deacon wasn’t accustomed to panic attack. Not anymore. He hadn’t dealt with one for many years, not since Barbara—

No.

No, those thoughts weren’t going to help him. They only pressed the walls further in.

Shit, he was drowning.

He couldn’t save Barbara. He couldn’t save Augusta. He couldn’t save any of them. Would Charmer be next? It was all his fault.

His fault.

His fault.

Barbara’s bright blue eyes flashed in front of his own. He couldn’t fight it. She was clearer than she’d been in years. The perfect smile, all dimples and teeth. The brown curls that fell over her face. The soft skin of her cheeks as he rubbed his knuckles over them. The sweet lilt of her voice whenever she spoke his name.

His name, which was now buried with her in that grave he’d dug for her, lost to time.

Who even was he?

She had died because of him.

Who even was he?

The agents of Augusta had died because of him.

Who even was he?

The Switchboard had fallen because of him.

WHO WAS HE?!

Deacon squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would shut out the questions, the accusations, the noise. It did not.

It only got louder.

Drowning. Deeper and deeper. No way back. No way out.

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs gasped for air, his clothes clung to the sticky, cold sweat of his body. Deacon didn’t dare open his eyes back up, fearful he’d see more demons. His shades had always protected him, why did he have to take them off?

His head span. His mind raced. He felt sick. He was going under. This was it. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to—

A gentle palm rested on his shoulder, thumb rubbing softly over his shirt.

Soothing.

Grounding.

His mind slowed and, after a minute or so, his breathing began to even out. Though his heart was still hammering away beneath his sternum, Deacon cautiously reopened his eyes.

The room was still covered in a blanket of pre-dawn darkness. At least he hadn’t spiralled for too long. He was still curled up in a foetus position, facing the wall of the room, but his blanket had long since been discarded. Whether it was at the bottom of the bed, or had fallen to the floor, he did not know. He did not care.

Deacon focussed on a chip in the paint. It was shadowed and hard to see, but if he just focussed on that one point he’d be able to regain full control of his body. Or so he told himself.

He knew the wall was painted a soft beige colour as all of the rooms at Ticon had been coloured with that off-white hue. Any other details he tried to make out were just easy distraction for his brain. The jagged lines, the dip that was the size of a thumb, the crack that was a few centimetres about the chip.

The thumb on his shoulder slowed to a stop.

Tears had made his cheeks tacky. Deacon hoped he had been silently sobbing, though given the intervention, he doubted it. But shame did not take root. Nor did embarrassment. Those would be emotions he’d have to hide away and bury tomorrow.

His mattress dipped and there was a warm body pressing against him from behind.

Charmer.

She tried her best to cocoon him despite he being smaller than him. It had been a fact he’d constantly teased her about in the weeks they’d been travelling together purely because he longed to hear her defiance. She was a woman who was learning how to rebuild herself after tragedy had struck her. And Deacon had admired that, her ability to keep her head held high despite all the shit thrown in her direction. She was strong and fuck, he was a pathetic excuse for a—

His thoughts practically faded into nothing when she draped her arm over his waist. Her hand found his and her thumb resumed its gentle soothing stroking against the back of his hand.

Skin to skin.

Far too close.

Normally Deacon might have tried to push her away, but he didn’t tonight. He accepted her embrace silently, fearful of completely collapsing in on himself if she left. Her comfort helped him regain control over those dark thoughts.

Helped him finally fall into an almost-peaceful sleep.

By the time Deacon woke up, morning had finally broken. Bright light streamed in through the grubby windows of a floor that was far too high up for his liking. Dust particles floated around in the sunbeam, dancing and twirling, catching the morning light.

He rolled onto his back, realising that his blanket had been returned to his person at some point and that Charmer was no longer behind him. His hand reached out to the bedside cabinet where he’d placed his sunglasses the night before. Like a mask, he slipped them onto his face, stretching his arms out wide and yawning. Something clicked in his jaw.

“Did you know you grumble in your sleep?” Charmer’s voice drifted over to him from her side of the room.

She was already dressed in the copper-coloured jumper and faded blue jeans she’d been wearing the previous day. Raider blood still stained her outfit, mixed with her own and with his. 

Deacon pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, blocking out the disturbing memories and focussing instead on her question.

He pouted, his voice rough and gravelly from sleep as he answered, “I do not grumble!”

Charmer’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Hate to break it to you, but you do. It’s all unintelligible nonsense though, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

“At least I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Deacon failed to notice the pillow she’d picked up and thrown in his direction until it was hitting him in the side of his face. He jumped, stunned, and when he turned to shoot her a very unimpressed stare, Charmer was grinning wide.

“Come on,” she said with a tilt of her head towards the window. “As much as I like it here—“

He cut her off. “You like it here?”

Confused, Charmer arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t I? High Rise is a doll and Ticon has everything an agent in hiding needs.”

“But we’re so high up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop changing the subject. We should get moving. Desdemona will be waiting.”

Internally he winced. Back to reality.

Rolling out of his cot, Deacon changed quickly. His own jeans were pulled on, his jacket thrown over his shoulders. Habit had him making the bed as neatly as he could.

“You sure you have to leave so soon?” High Rise asked them as they descended the stairs and made their way towards the elevators. “Don’t leave it so long, hey, man?”

Deacon met High Rise’s arm and pulled him into a tight hug. “You got it. Keep up the good work.”

“And go easy on the rookie.”

Charmer answered. “Don’t you worry. If anything, he’ll be the one having to keep up.” 

Deacon would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to have his feet firmly back on solid ground after being up in the towering building all night.

He’d kept a few paces behind Charmer since they’d left, unsure how to approach the topic of last night. He gripped the strap of his rifle, nails biting into the leather as he pulled it tighter against him.

A thousand different ice-breakers but he still didn’t know the best way. He wasn’t even sure if it should have been addressed. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about it either.

It was ridiculous. She was just a friend who had helped him overcome a minor blip he’d had after a rough day. There was nothing to be embarrassed by, and Charmer deserved some gratitude for her help at the very least.

Deacon cleared his throat and quickened his pace, falling in step with her. “Hey, so, about last night… You know, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I don’t tend to make it a habit.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Deacon. This world is shit. I’d be more worried if you didn’t feel all the crappy bits that come with that.”

“It’s just that—” How could he even begin to describe how much of a failure he felt? She might have not expected an explanation but Deacon found himself wanting to open up.

Dangerous. That was far too dangerous.

“Yeah,” he smiled, biting back any words that threatened to spill. “Thanks.”

[hpysprkl]

Deacon Week Day 3: Fighting Again

Didn't think I would get anything done today, but here we are. Managed a little sketch and I'm happy with that.

[please-do-not-perceive-me]

DEACON WEEK | Day 3:

Safehouse

The year is 2269. Jane Doe is escorting M7-97 to the Capital Wasteland. Even safehouses do not feel safe. At this point, Grey Tortoises are a crutch.