#deacon x reader

The Commonwealth has an eerie silence that looms over it now. Things aren’t exactly rainbows and sunshine, but it's definitely quieter now.

The time since the fall of the institute had begun to pass uncomfortably quickly. It had been three months since a decision was made that changed the trajectory of your life and many others within this small, tight corner of the wasteland. The Institute's destruction freed as many synths as possible, but the victory didn’t feel like a celebration to all. Just silence, echoes, a hidden regret behind achieving a goal that had taken years and the lives of innocents to accomplish.

The remaining members of the Railroad had scattered. Some went and worked on developing settlements for the synths, places they could learn to live in a post war world. Others kept the same line of work, finding and destroying hidden organizations regarding exploitation of beings. A few just disappeared like ghosts, never to be heard from or seen again.

After everything, Deacon followed you back to Sanctuary Hills. You didn’t ask why he followed and he didn't ask why you went back. It was an unspoken agreement of sorts. There was still work to do; a sanctuary to fix, people to protect.

In all reality you went back because you weren’t sure where to go, everything causing a deep discomfort of homesickness. You had sent Shaun, or at least the replica of your Shaun back to Sanctuary Hills after rescuing him from the Institute. You were hopeful that maybe that knowledge would offer some comfort of sorts.

You needed something to do, somewhere to be that kept your hands busy and mind distracted. Unbeknownst to you, Deacon followed for similar reasons.

The two of you had gotten…closer than the typical companion interactions you had previously. The two of you hadn’t fucked yet or anything like that, no no, but what a pre-war world would consider a friendship had stemmed between the two of you.

You'd adapted well to the other members of the Railroad as well, not just Deacon. A group of people who lacked a sense of self and found identity in activism and a sense of morality for the greater good. You hadn’t come to terms with the disconnection of what once made you who you were pre-war, to the remaining purpose of your existence now. Not at first. The truth was revealed and what little you had been fighting for since waking up from that ice box now just felt like a fucked up historical fiction documentary about your life every time you thought about it.

You went home. The house of few others that was still standing even after the nuclear detonation. The house that held the ghosts of your past. When you walked in the front door, Deacon had followed once again. He didn't say anything, just simply made his way through the dark to the long abandoned couch. You went to Shauns nursery and slept on the floor that night, falling asleep from sobbing into complete exhaustion while holding his still intact baby blanket that hadn’t gotten nearly enough use.

Despite the grief the world kept spinning. With the help of previous companions and residing settlers, It didn't take long for Sanctuary to become a place of normalcy, almost. Roofs were restored, power lines rigged, generators installed all around, walls to houses were rebuilt, and homes shined with new fresh coats of paint. Everyday became an act of rebuilding- not just Sanctuary, but yourselves.

One year Later, mid-Autumn in Sanctuary Hills.

The houses don’t creak like how they used to and gardens bloom with vegetation. Children run rampant through the rebuilt streets, laughter louder than the gunfire that used to echo the alleys of the Commonwealth emitting from a sense of safety, bliss to the world that really exists outside of Sanctuary.

It’s Autumn now. Golden leaves decorate the sidewalks and roads in a multicolored amber frame. The air smells fresh and crisp, and life has taken root in a radiated planet.

Deacon walks back from patrol, a slight limp to his step, his left knee which was injured during his earlier days, was now acting up from long hours of standing on one spot. The sun was beginning to dip low, the sky colored in splashes of orange and pinks, his jacket slung over his shoulder as he made his way home, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. A deep indent laid across the middle of the bridge of his nose, prominent from where the frames had rested on his face unrelenting for many hours.

The warmth of the setting sun hits his skin just right, and he pauses for a minute outside the front door of your shared home to soak up what remaining vitamin D he could for the night. It wasn’t until he reached for the doorknob to go inside that he heard the soft hum of a record player emitting from deep within the home.

Intrigued, Deacon steps inside. The low bluesy tune of “The Wanderer” by Dion crackled through the speakers of the turntable that Sturges had helped you rewire was now much clearer.

Deacon was amused, it wasn’t often you played music off anything other than your pip-boy. What amused him even more was the fact that you were singing along. Badly, off-key and loud. He followed the sound, slow and curious.

Deacon's lips tug into a genuine tired smile and raises his brow as he sticks his head past the doorframe of your bedroom. Well, technically Shauns old nursery but you had taken it over temporarily and gave your old room to Deacon.

He notices the condition of the room, your mattress propped up against the wall, your trinkets and other belongings in boxes stacked by the door. Deacon's heart drops to his stomach for a moment, a heavy and unsettling nausea quickly forming from a bewildering fear that you might leave.

Deacon, being the avoidant he is, covers the feeling with a sense of humor.

“Now what the hell’s going on in here?” He teases, now fully leaning against your doorframe.

You spin around, voice immediately cut off mid attempt at poor harmonization in surprise, and cheeks flushed with energy.

”Okay, so this is really random, but can we switch rooms?” You gesture to the chaos behind you, “I’m gonna build a king size bed frame and this room isn’t gonna fit it.”

Deacon blinks once. Then again.

And then he just laughs.

It’s a full, warm and surprised laugh. One that comes from deep in the belly.

”You built a throne and now you want the royal suite. Don’t worry, I get it,” he says in falsetto disappointment.

“Hey Mr. Entitled, that room was mine long before you were even a concept. My name is still technically on the lease,” you laugh as you move past him to start switching furniture in the two rooms.

He laughs again and throws out one last comment while making his way to the couch, “Damn. Well you’ve got me there, schnookums.”

What you don’t realize while immersed by your little task is that Deacon is watching you. Really watching you. Animated, a little breathless, your energy bonding off the walls like you’ve been waiting for years to finally be yourself again.

There’s something in his chest that tugs from it all.

Not lust, not quite love yet, but an older feeling. Something he’s only felt once or twice in his life.

Later that night he’s sitting on the edge of the bed in his new designated room. Baby pictures of Shaun still hang on the walls, yet a few months ago you had silently taken down your pictures with Nate and stored them deep in the closet in the hall.

Deacon stares across the hall to your room, the door is shut only half way and the yellow glow of the lantern flickers with the dancing shadow of your moving figure as you organize the last few things in your sleeping space.

You’re finally coming to life again, and it’s a difficult realization that dawns upon Deacons wandering mind.

Because your liveliness, your newfound energy, now makes things so much harder.

It was easier for Deacon to be around you when you were quiet. Logical. Cold, even. But now? You laugh. You get excited over the little things. You find gratefulness in just being alive.

And he doesn't know how to handle it. The deep rooted jealousy that he can’t find it in him to feel the same contentment you do now. The trepidation behind finding comfort, hope and a home in someone like you. So he does what he does best. He avoids it. He jokes. Keeps things lighter than it really is for him.

He doesn't want to acknowledge the burning tension building within him over you. And he hopes and he prays you don’t feel it too. Because that would ruin the stability and self preservation he's fought so hard to keep in practice so he doesn't get hurt again.

But part of him worries. He notices how your fingers brush against his, lingering for a second longer than necessary when he hands you tools. Or the way you look at him when you tell him goodnight as you make your way into your individual rooms.

You keep a healthy distance now, and he doesn’t call you out on it- because hes doing the same thing too.

He catches himself off guard one day when a deep sense of shame wafts over him when he has to look away with a clenched jaw after catching you pulling your hair back before getting on your hands and knees to fix the wiring under a malfunctioning generator.

That’s what makes it even more complicated. You’ve both made a home here. Together, side by side. You may sleep in separate rooms but you function like planets orbiting in the same galaxy. Spinning around each other with different schedules but always feeling the pull of gravity towards one another.

Deacon knows he wont address these feelings vocally anytime soon. Too much could break. And that’s not a risk he's willing to take.

With that final thought he lays down in bed fully, curls himself under the frayed quilt and closes his eyes.

It’s been a week since Deacon left without a word to go stay with either Sturges or MacCready. It was sudden and unpredicted. You tried to find comfort in the silence. Doing things that would typically annoy Deacon if he were around. Currently, you got to bask in the smell of a fall scented you and Curie had crafted from an old candle and vintage perfume, and aged dust. You couldn’t light candles or spray perfumes of any kind when he was around, otherwise it would trigger his allergies pretty severely.

You and Piper are in your bedroom in the back of the house. She’s sat cross legged on your bed, a fuzzy old throw blanket sat across her lap, a pillow held between her arms and a glass of some old scotch she got from Cait resting hazardously in her hand. You were sitting across from her on your bed, a pillow on your lap.

You’d asked Piper if she wanted to spend the night. She was like a sister to you and you hadn’t spent enough time with her lately. Not to mention that Deacon had been coldly distant the past couple weeks. He was staying over at Sturges place most nights and didn’t make an effort to talk to you unless necessary. You were feeling a bit lonely in all honesty.

When you told Piper this she laughed out a soft “Well he can go fuck himself, been needin’ a girls night anyways.”

The house feels safe. You feel safe.

So, you finally let it all out.

“I think I have a lot more deeper feelings for him than I want to admit or even acknowledge.”

It’s blurted out mid sentence, as if the words had forcefully pushed themselves through the grit of your teeth.

Piper just stares at you. Blinking. She doesnt look necessarily surprised, more so concerned. The good kind. Sisterly.

You run your fingers through your hair, nails grazing your scalp in a simmered frustration.

“I’ve been trying so fucking hard not too. The guilt over so many different things regarding my feelings for him has been eating me alive lately,” you take a sip from the glass in your hand, “and I hate it.”

Piper sits up straighter now, attention solely focused on you when she speaks up, “Why?”

“Because he’s being so contradictory, it's exhausting. One day we’re laughing and dancing in the kitchen to some shitty song playing off the turntable and before I know it, it’s been a week before he’s spoken to me genuinely. He’s not mean, just really distant. And like I get it but it still kinda hurts y’know?”

You continue with a cracking voice before Piper has the chance to speak again, “I hate that it hurts because I shouldn’t feel this way. Not over him. Not after everything.”

Piper doesn’t ask you to elaborate. She knows enough about you to know what you mean by that. She just leans forward and embraces you in a comforting hug.

What you didn’t know -what you couldn’t know- was that at that very moment, Deacon is standing at the entrance of the darkened hallway.

He got tired of sleeping on Sturges couch, the springs bringing too much discomfort to his back that he could no longer handle the same way he could 15 years ago, so he came home. That, and he wanted to see you.

During the distance he set between you two, he spent the majority of it in head head, thinking. Thinking about you and the creeping feelings he has developed for you. About the guilt of potentially loving someone after he had promised to himself after the death of his wife, he would never love another.

But, after some time he concluded that he had to say at least something to you about it all. He couldn’t let it fester for any longer.

Now, here he was, frozen in his tracks, and his heart is shattered. He hadn’t meant to hurt you, that was the last thing he wanted to do. But with the way your voice wavered and he could practically feel the lump in your throat in his own, he backed away.

He was determined to make tomorrow different.

You awake late the next morning to the smell of coffee. Piper has since left, she was an early riser now. With a crease between your brow and growing curiosity, you sat up and made your way out of your room and to the living area. On the kitchen island is a french press, hot steam twisting and turning its way out of the spout. An empty porcelain mug sat on the counter next to it.

You began to pour yourself some, presuming Piper had made coffee before she left; that was until Deacon walked through the front door.

“Stealing my coffee? I see how it is,” Deacon chides harmlessly with a gentle smirk, setting down larger pieces of his armor by the front door.

You look at him unimpressed, “Good morning to you too.”

You weren’t in the mood for his antics. After practically ignoring you completely for almost a week, to him now acting like nothing happened, it irked you.

You had been friends for long enough, talked about difficult things, you thought that he’d at least open up to you this time, not run away and avoid. You questioned your stability for him as a friend. Had you done or said something that made him feel like he couldn’t confide in you anymore?

You decided to let it go for the morning, too tired and too hungover from whatever aged scotch Cait had given you and Piper last night.

Sticking to your schedule, your structure throughout each day, you noticed Deacons antics had switched heavily.

He had made breakfast that morning for you, him and some of the other settlers. He casually made you a plate with your favorite items and handed it to you nonchalantly while he let everyone else make themselves a plate.

Compliments and encouragement from him were thrown at your random jokes, usually about something dumb.

That’s what you and Deacon had first bonded over, your shared senses of humor.

He was your second hand for the day. Finally helping you with the curtain rod in the living room, offering to carry your toolbox around to different houses on the block that needed maintenance, even going with you to a nearby settlement because you needed some extra supplies.

And it drives you insane.

The two of you are in the kitchen unloading canned goods you had picked up earlier in the day into their designated cupboards when he tries to joke about something again.

That was your last straw. How could he not talk about anything that’s happened, how can he act like him disappearing is such a casual thing still? Doesn't he understand how much he means to you? Have you not done enough to prove that? You’ve taken bullet wounds for this man.

You don’t even completely register what he said before you've turned around and are slamming the can of Cram that was currently in your hand onto the countertop.

“Stop it.”

Deacon pauses his movements, careful with his next words, “Stop what?”

You roll your eyes, exasperated, “Stop being so wish-washy.”

He only tilts his head in a naive response, and that fires you up more.

“You’ve been sugary sweet to me all damn day. No offense, but I don’t think you’ve ever been this nice to me. All this after a week of you refusing to even look in my direction?” You throw your hands up in frustration, “What the fuck, Deacon?”

Deacon shakes his head in offended disbelief, ”The fuck? Excuse me for showing I care about the people I consider family.”

“Cut the fucking bullshit,” you drawl, “This isn’t about all of them, this is about you and me. Sure, call it showing care, but then why the hell did you dip out on only me? ignore only me? What’s with all this petty tension?”

Deacon’s lips part to speak as he reaches for the can you set on the counter moments ago, but you let out a heavy sigh and he closes his mouth.

Is this really all because the two of you can’t handle the fact that you just might have ‘more than friends’ feelings for each other? That a desperate lack of communication has caused such a stifle between the two of you? You’re better than this. Both of you.

“Listen, i'm gonna go out on a limb here when I say this,” you sigh again, the venom that had started to grow now absent from your voice, “If this is because of what I think it is, then fuck it. Deacon, I have bigger feelings for you than I let on. It’s fine if you don’t reciprocate it, I can handle an honest rejection, but don’t dance around this kind of fire with me.”

Deacon shakes his head with a bitter laugh followed by a scoff, “You think that this is because of you? That any of what I do is because of you? Don’t get me wrong, you’re special ‘n’ all,” he gestures to you with his hand in a circular motion, “but everything isn't always about you, believe it or not.”

You’re baffled, Deacon had never shown this kind of hostility towards you. And you weren’t even entirely sure where it was stemming from. Fear? Insecurity? Regardless, this wasn’t your first show in the rodeo with someone who could say hurtful things so fluidly.

So you stooped low enough to a spot where it would sting Deacon just enough. You knew him well enough.

“Wow. Alright. Well, Deacon,” you start, standing up and facing to walk to your bedroom, “I think you should start being honest with yourself and everyone else. You can only keep up with the lies for so long before they crumble and everyone knows the truth.”

”Fuck you.” Was all he could muster. You definitely hit a sensitive spot. You’re not proud of yourself, but you’ve definitely taken the time and effort to face more about yourself than he has. He doesnt get to twist that.

With that you gave a tight lipped expression and walked down the hall without a single look back, you weren’t exactly gentle about shutting the door to your bedroom. The first time in almost a year that you had shut it fully to sleep.

Deacon was left in the kitchen, breathing shallow, neck uncomfortably hot from building adrenaline from the argument, and the can of Cram still held between his hands.

He had only felt this pissed off at himself once before in his life.

The next morning you awoke to your residence absent from Deacon once again.

You didn't have any major plans for the day, so around 10am when you finally decided to get dressed and ready for the day, you went to go find Cait and Piper.

It didn't take you long to find the two, thankfully they had been working on modifying a laser gun together when you found them.

“Hey blue!” Piper gives a quick glance upward and waves you over once she sees you.

Cait looks up with a smile that immediately falters once she sees your tired expression, “What the hell happened to ya?”

That draws Piper's attention away from the weapon in her hand and she looks up to fully see you, “Holy shit Blue, you look like crap. Everything okay?”

You give a dry laugh, leaning over the table they were working on, “Bring over a pack of cigarettes and some liquor and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Its much later in the day now, the sun has since long gone down and the girls are finally caught up on the majority of everything. Some detail saved for the privacy of both you and Deacon.

Piper suggests you two spend a few days away from each other, let things cool down a bit before the two of you try to talk things out again. Maybe go on an easy mission beforehand so any remaining anger or tension is fully worn off.

“You two need to stop dancing around each other and just bang already. Either that or arm wrestle it out or something,” Cait suggests, earning her a light punch on her bicep from you.

Everything is going well until the door handle to the front door rattles. It wiggles a few times, slightly turning from left then to the right before turning back to the left fully this time.

An inebriated Deacon stumbles past the doorway, the doorframe catching the toe of his boot causing him to stumble a bit as he made his way inside.

He sees you, Piper and Cait all on the couch, laughing gently each with a drink in your hands. For one fragile moment, it almost feels like home.

That is until you look at him, and Cait directs her attention to him, and everything collapses.

“Woo there, looks like someone had a good night?” Cait calls out, her accent somehow even thicker now with alcohol in her system.

Deacon scoffs, loud and defensive, “I apologize for interrupting, I didn’t realize the Council of Witches was currently in session.”

You freeze for just a beat before you snap.

“Didn’t realize we were getting a show from the master of disguise tonight ladies,” you laughed and looked at the two tense women next to you, “this outta be entertaining.”

The words are flung like shrapnel and they hit harder than they did the night before.

Deacon kicks off his boots, avoiding eye contact with you as he stumbles slightly, his sunglasses almost falling off from where they hung on the collar of his white shirt.

“Oh look who’s got the confidence to fight back today?” He mocks in a tone you’ve never heard from him before, “Y’know, if you had more of it, maybe you’d be able to sleep better at night, not thinking about all the lives lost because you weren’t brave enough to step up.”

Piper gasps, Cait stands up. Deacon’s glaring at you now, a cocky smirk across his lips.

Your blood runs ice cold. Any intoxication you felt from the alcohol now drained from you.

You slam your cup onto the counter and stand as well, walking around the couch closer to where he was, still balancing himself against a wall near the doorframe.

“You wanna know what your real problem is, Deacon?” You sneer, voice unwavering, “You’re a fucking coward. You want to talk about how I lack bravery? How about how for the past decade you’ve hidden behind a mask of jokes and petty insults because you’re too scared to be real for once.“ your voice got low, quiet but not soft, “I wouldn’t blame you though, look at where that got you last time.”

That hits. His eyes falter and fall to the ground for just a moment.

He sways on his feet like he took the metaphorical bullet physically to the shoulder.

Piper steps forward now and puts a hand on your shoulder gently, “C’mon, maybe-“

But the fire has only just started blazing.

Deacon straightens, unblinking eyes now boring into yours.

”Real original, sweetheart,” His voice is cruel now, raw from something deeper, “You think that being anonymous is cowardice? Honey, that's called survival in this world. Try spending one week in my shoes, oh wait, you’d have to step out of your own first.”

You don’t move, neither does Cait. But her eyes flick from his to yours, like a fuse is burning low.

And then he says it.

“Newsflash, princess. You wanna know why I don’t spill my guts like you do? Because I’ve watched people beg to forget what they have lived through while you walk around holding onto yours like it’s a goddamn heirloom . Call me a coward again and ill show you just how brave I can be when I stop giving a fuck.”

With that, Deacon walks to his room and slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame of the house.

Things went too far tonight. Way too far. Regret and guilt immediately hooked itself within your chest.

You hadn’t meant to say all of what you had. Yes, you made the conscious decision to say those things but they all stemmed from anger and defensiveness. You didnt mean to hit so hard with your words.

Before Piper or Cait could even process what was really going on, you had already slipped your pip-boy over your wrist and were silently packing a small to-go-bag.

You made your way to the front door, which was still left ajar.

“Where are you going? Just crash at my place, wait-!“ Piper was the first to follow after you.

Cait follows behind you too, voice urgent and low, “Don’t go out there pissed like this. He’s not worth getting hurt over.”

You don’t answer. The night is brisk in temperature, colder than its been the last few nights.

It does nothing to cool the heat in your veins. Why had you let that go so far? By the end of the argument you weren’t even really sure if you two were actually arguing…or just loudly projecting your own individual faults onto one another.

It just sucks that those faults happen to share a lot of similarity between you two.

Cait and Piper finally fall back before you cross the bridge.

The shadows of sanctuary stretch out far behind you as you head farther into the night.

The cold air nips a little harder now that you're away from the warmth of Sanctuary. The warmth of your family. Of your best friend. It hurts to leave, you don’t want to and you aren’t entirely sure why, other than you need to get away from all of that for your own sake and everyone else’s.

You don’t have plans for when you want to go back home, for now you’re just focused on getting to a place where you can clear your head a bit.

You keep walking and you don’t look back.

The bright blue lights from the relay and the heavy tears that sat on your water lines blurred your vision too much for your liking. The devastation of what you had just discovered laboriously weighed on your chest. It was all too much.

You hadn't stayed around for a moment longer than necessary after the discussion with Father, a now elderly scientist who was once just your baby boy, Shaun. In the blink of an eye the entire trajectory of your life's sudden goal came crashing down in an unbeknownst catastrophe to anyone but you.

You were always left with a face of shock and amusement anytime you used the relay to teleport, this time though, you were left stoic and with a protective hunch to your shoulders, as though your body was trying to hug itself to comfort the acute emotional distress you were currently battling.

“Ma’am,” was all Sturges said with a nod of his head in acknowledgement of your current condition.

Sturges was smart, not just with technology but within the fact that he understood the obscenity of human emotion in the cruel instances of the Commonwealth. In short, he knew how to give space to those who needed it.

You kept your eyes glued to the ground despite knowing you weren't going to be seen by anyone.

It was late, your pip-boy read 11:36pm. Half an hour from midnight, which means everyone was asleep in their newfound designated homes; even Mama Murphy was asleep, head nodded to the side in her chair, a pillow between her shoulder and neck that was placed caringly for comfort by Preston.

Sanctuary Hill had once again become a place you could call home; your old house becoming a deep comfort that you had avowed to take back months ago when you were finally thawed from the icebox. A place that the remainder of your family, you and Shaun, could call home.

It became a home for many others too, a place in which you referenced to anyone who needed a place to stay and a community to be a part of.

But right now, it felt like an ugly rotting time capsule. A despoiled wimmelbilderbuch of everything that once was, and everything that will never get to be.

You dreaded walking into the place you called home, despite the only emotional security you felt you had was residing in its confines currently.

There was nothing between you and Deacon despite companionship. A healthy one, nonetheless, but nothing more than a friendly hug and a few decaying mattresses for desperately needed sleep was shared physically between you two.

Emotionally, though, there was a little more.

He knew about the loss of your husband long before you learned about the demise of his wife.

It left you with a deep seated guilt for multiple reasons when you found out.

You had developed the ever so slightest attraction to the man you traveled with, and it left a sour churn inside. You knew your husband would never come back and had yet to really grieve your loss, alongside at the time you had yet to find your son, so you were glad he more than blatantly ignored the way you looked at him some of those nights.

You were just lonely and missed your family. You missed the comfort of human connection that was so incredibly scarce in the modern world you had woken up to.

You stood at the side door of your home, your hand ever so hesitant to turn the doorknob. You could see a dim yellow light coming from the back of the house, coming from the bedroom you once shared the deepest of memories with the father of your son. Memories that suddenly felt as though they were all a part of some bigger plan that you were unbeknownst to you back then.

With muscle memory that your body had yet to forget, you entered your home and took off your boots with methodical ease. Forgotten nights of coming home after work to your family before the bombs dropped followed by the same motion.

You trekked your way to your old bedroom where the light emitted from, finding Deacon asleep on his side atop the covers, shoes still on with his back to you. He snored ever so lightly, a quiet airy sound emitting through his nose produced from the back of his throat.

His iconic sunglasses sat haphazardly on the newly-built headboard of the bed.

He was in his cuffed blue jeans and white tee, only this time not suiting the greaser wig he religiously wore with the outfit. He looked comfortable. At peace.

The opposite of everything you felt at the moment.

You sat down on your side of the bed, your legs still over the edge as you turned your torso to face the sleeping man next to you.

With a gentle touch and a heavy sigh you placed your hand delicately on his shoulder, “‘M home now, Dee.”

With a jerk of his shoulder he let out a groan of tiredness and rolled to his back.

“Hey lucky charms, how'd it go?” His voice was perky as though he'd been awake the whole time. ‘Morning voice’ didn't exist for Deacon. The roughness you would often expect only present in times of sickness or injury.

Your mind raced and your stomach turned with anxiety at his more than expected question. You didn't know how to respond. Part of you just wanted to scream and sob at him about how confused you were and how you felt utterly betrayed by someone who didn't even have the intention to do so.

The other half wanted to give a dejected sarcastic remark.

“Fantastic.”

The latter won.

Deacon's brows creased in concern at the impassiveness in your voice and sat upright. You had yet to even make eye contact with him.

“What's goin’ on?” His hand was splayed against your upper back rubbing small circles in hopes of offering some comfort.

“I-,” you began but were cut off by a sudden thick lump in your throat. The heavy tears were back once again and were even closer this time to cascading their way haphazardly down your face.

You buried your face in your hands, your fingers raking aggressively against your scalp down to the top of your forehead in frustration on how to explain it all.

“He’s…he’s older than me now, by a lot,” you began while pulling your hands away from your face, resting them atop your thighs.

Your eyes were wide and deep lines creased in your forehead as though you were reliving the shock all over again.

Deacon's hand stopped in it's tracks; the only thing he could manage to convey was a pitiful, “I'm…so sorry.”

He couldn't imagine what you were feeling. He had tried so hard to conceive with his wife that if it had actually happened, he couldn't envisage not getting to see his child grow up. The brutality of that concept itself left his heart torn in ways he hadn't felt in a long time.

“Oh don't worry, that's only the start of it all,” you let out a dry, angry laugh.

You looked at him, his blue eyes still glossy with sleep, “He's the fucking leading scientist of the institute!”

Deacon's face dropped, devoid of emotion yet calculative.

“Yeah, I know right?” You gestured your hand in agreement to him.

You were hysterically amused at this point in your storytelling, “y’know all those synths you helped the Railroad save? They're nothing more than little trinkets to Shaun.”

You got up from the bed and began pacing.

“The synths developing free will?” you questioned rhetorically to Deacon.

“An accident they'd rather not admit happened, a ‘mistake’ they're trying to correct, so much so that they developed a recall code for an automatic reset.”

Deacon was rubbing his hand back and forth atop his bald head, a long sigh expelled from his lips.

He was angry. Angry for you and angry with you.

And maybe even a bit scared. Scared of what choice you were gonna make at the end of it all. Above all, that fear led to his next remark.

“What're you gonna do, Charms?”

His question left you dumbfounded. As if you had the emotional integrity to make any decision right now.

“The fuck do you mean, Deacon?” Your anger was now very apparent and he had suddenly become the target of it.

“Hey I'm not trying to fight you on this…. it's just that, oh I don't know,” he rolled his eyes, his palms slapping aggressively down on his lap, “taking your son's side would kind of fuck up everything you've fought for, shit, everything I've been fighting for.”

You let out a singular laugh, “wow Deacon, way to make this about yourself.”

“Not trying to-”

“You don't think that I already know that?” You seethed. Your neck felt hot from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

“That my son is suddenly the enemy I've been fighting against this whole fucking time? You think that I want to fight against my own fucking kid for a choice they barely had the option to make on their own? That he himself barely had any free will in the beginning of it all and from what I can see is doing this out of obligation?”

Deacon was now out of bed himself, the newfound argument leaving him feeling uneasy with sitting still.

He was stumped. It was hypocritical of him to not think about your son's lack of freedom in it all, considering freedom was an aspect of what he was fighting for. That despite who Shaun may be now, he was heavily influenced by one thing and one thing only during his primary development. Who was he to judge? He'd fallen under influence in his youth with multiple things.

“I didn't mean it that way, Charms,” Deacon let out a defeated sigh, his hands finding a place to rest in his pockets. He shouldn't have asked you that, it was wrong but he was worried.

You sat back on the bed again, staring at the damaged wall in front of you. The tears you had fought to keep up suddenly fell.

You felt the bed sink as Deacon sat himself next to you, his arm around your shoulder.

“I miss my family, man, I just want my old fucking life back,” you heaved through sobs.

It left Deacon's chest sore with a sorrowful empathy to see you like this, just as he had been after his wife died.

He pushed back his own integral morality when he spoke to you again, placing his hand gently on the side of your head to get you to turn to look at him, “I know whatever decision you make will be the right one, Charms, and I'm so sorry about your family.”

There was so much you still wanted to tell him but the grief of it all didn't allow that to produce itself. Your back heaved with each sob at his words and you threw the upper half of your body into his arms.

You needed something, anything that wasn't yourself to hold you.

To your surprise, after everything, he held you tightly, with security and assurance, the same way Nate would hug you.

The physical remembrance of your slain husband pushed you over the edge. It sent your mind into a spiral of fear that you will never receive this kind of comfort ever again.

Without coherent thought, in a sporadic attempt to chase what you had lost, you quickly lifted your head and leaned to kiss the man in front of you.

You were stopped short with your movements physically, your eyes now wide open again as his hands placed themselves firmly on your shoulders, the warm embrace you were once in was now a cold, empty space.

His brows had creased once again in such a deep sadness, it kept your tears going.

“Not me Charms, I know you miss him and when you finally grieve…if you decide to move on…I'm not that person, you know that,” his eyes scanned your face quicker than you could keep track of. He wasn't trying to hurt you.

You knew the affection he still held so deeply for his departed wife, you became nauseous with regret as you had so easily discarded that thought.

“I'm so sorry,” a muffled response from your hands over your face once again snuck its way out into the uncomfortable silence.

He let his arms fall from where they held you, letting out what felt like the hundredth deep sigh of the night.

“Don't be,” is his way of saying I understand.

The argument that had shifted into a much deeper understanding had settled long ago and Deacon was back asleep in bed. You had yet to find rest when you closed your eyes.

Your boots were back on and you quietly walked to the bridge of Sanctuary, where you now stared into the radiated stream below.

You knew that you were never going to achieve what you once had. And you knew it was wrong to try and force Deacon to become a part of that disoriented mindset you had.

Despite being accepted by many through the long months of finding your son, you never felt as though you had been included as family to any of them.

You were their soldier, their protector, the person almost anyone could go to in times of desperation. That's all you would be to them.

Maybe being just an experiment wasn't so bad. After all, Shaun accepted it with a gracefulness that you had yet to really practice. Was he really the enemy? Maybe the bitter taste of his truth was just a dumbfounded, uneducated harshness. Maybe you weren't meant to be a part of a family or meant to be loved, but rather a leader of something so much greater, that you could change the methods of the institute itself.

Maybe it was all wrong, but were you to blame for wanting to be with what little you had left in this fucked up world?

“What?”

“What?”

“Desdemona was right about what?” Deacon can pick up your serious tone and his face automatically falls flat, neutral.

“About you being a fun time. Though I have only seen a part of that fun time. We should do the second part someday.” He’s lying right to your face. Not that he doesn’t normally do that, but this was different. Most of his lies are just for your entertainment on the road, only reserving his good lies for when he needs to use it on someone. And that someone is you.

“Deacon. I know you’re lying. What did Desdemona say about me?” You can feel your blood boiling in your veins, the needle in your arm threatening to pop out had it not been for your fingers holding it in place. 

Knowing it’s pointless to lie to you, Deacon lets out a groan. His mouth is about to get him in trouble, again. “After meeting you, they were all hesitant about you. It’s not every day that a person just manages to take out a tunnel of ghouls only to find us with our pants down. After you had left, Desdemona told me to be careful around you, that you seem like more trouble than you're worth.” His words sting you deep in your core. You had really thought that you could trust her, trust Deacon - despite his lies - but this? It causes you to rethink your entire involvement with the Railroad.

“What do you think?”

“That you’re trouble, but a fun kind of trouble, not a dangerous kind like she thinks.” Oh. You forbid your tear ducts to start working. Standing to your feet, you remove the needle out of your arm and place it into your bag before taking out a bottle of rad-x and popping a pill, causing an eyebrow to raise in question. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t want to cause you any more trouble, so I’m leaving.” You don’t wait around for him to respond, instead, you storm out of the door and into the storm, leaving him alone.

“Ah fuck.” Deacon grabs his stuff and races out of the door after you. Curse him and his mouth.

-fin-