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"You take me to the nicest places." The quip was automatic, and Deacon pretended he wasn't perfectly aware of the tremor in his voice as he watched Fixer crouch what was in his opinion entirely too close to the edge of the blasted-out office they were in. Not quite a roof, since the building had lost its top, but still way too high up for his comfort. But not hers, apparently. He’d come to realize she was just like that ; little to no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. He was simultaneously in awe of her fearlessness and terrified of her insanity. (And, somewhere in the back of his mind, just grateful that she allowed him along for the ride.)
"Well until Codsworth figures out how to grow bullets …" She grunted as she heaved the body she'd just finished looting out of the way so she could move on to the next. "We can't afford to just leave perfectly good ammo on dead bodies."
"Just don't come crying to me when a rad eagle snatches you up."
She twisted around to squint at him suspiciously. "That's not a thing."
He couldn't help smirking. He found her reaction to his more ridiculous fibs endearing despite himself. "It could be a thing."
"Yeah, but it's not -" She didn't finish her sentence. The raider she was crouched over spasmed, some last firing of a dying nervous system, and knocked Fixer's leg out from under her. Her pose was just awkward enough and she was just close enough to the edge that Deacon watched her eyes widen in terror as momentum took her into open air.
He surged forward, dropping his gun and diving for her, racing gravity. He'd hung back too far, fuck his fucking acrophobia, she was already too far over, there was no way he'd make it in time, no no no -
By some desperate miracle his fingers hooked into the arm-hole of her combat vest, halting her descent. The sudden stop jostled her glasses loose from her face - the frames were just slightly too big to begin with - and they plummeted to the pavement below. The two of them stared at each other, neither fully believing or processing what was happening until she reached up and grabbed his arm. Her fingertips scrabbled at his sleeve and he caught her wrist with his other hand, trying not to overbalance and send them both tumbling over the edge. Throwing his weight backwards and trying not to slip on the laminate tile, he managed to haul her back over the precipice with him.
She landed more or less in his lap, clinging to him and shaking like a leaf. Deacon wrapped his arms around her tightly, scooting them both back away from the edge.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into his chest. "I'm - oh god -"
"It's alright," he murmured into her hair, more of a shaky exhalation than actual speech. "You're alright. I've got you." One hand in her hair and one around the small of her back, keeping her close as she trembled in his arms. "I've got you."
They stayed that way until Fixer's tremors eased and his heart finally stopped racing…and then for a bit longer. His fingers traced long, soft lines against her scalp, and she curled her legs under herself to settle more fully against his chest. Resting in the warmth and nearness of each other in a way that he usually didn't allow himself to even contemplate. Indulging in the fantasy just made the reality hurt more - the fact that this would never happen again, that once they both realized what was happening the moment would break and the cold would seep back in.
As if she’d read his thoughts Fixer sat up, his arms falling from around her as she shifted, but didn’t move away. She stared at him from across scant inches, eyes slightly unfocused and myopic without the glasses, and even through the sunglasses he could feel the weight of her gaze meeting his. His hand was still resting heavy against the nape of her neck, the other more or less on her thigh, and all sorts of other things he usually didn't allow himself to contemplate were suddenly springing traitorously to mind.
He looked away first, an uncomfortable cough escaping his throat. “Maybe we stay a little closer to the ground from now on,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye. Her gaze dropped as she nodded wordlessly. “Or we bring Strong and he can throw the bodies down,” he added, trying to break the tension between them, lighten the atmosphere.
She did at least crack a smile before turning away, muttering about needing to retrieve her gun as she scooted across the tile rather than stand upright again.
He tried to rationalize it as the sunglasses distorting color, but in the moment it sure looked like she had been blushing . Filed away as something else to never think about again, right next to the way her hair felt sliding between his fingers, or her heart beating hummingbird-fast against his sternum.
They made their way down the stairs with perhaps a little more caution than usual, finding Fixer's glasses shattered just outside the door. She picked them up, frowning at the glass that still clung to the inside of the frame.
"We'll get you some new ones," Deacon said. He started to pat her shoulder, some kind of sarcastic comfort, but when he got close enough to feel the warmth coming off of her he simply let his hand drop. Gun-shy, skittish. Stupid. "Maybe even a pair that fits this time."
"I miss optometrists," she muttered, tucking the frames away and squinting into the distance. "I can't see shit," she announced. "You'll have to be my eyes for a while."
"That's what you pay me for," he said as they started down the ruined street. He was in fact already checking for snipers, a habit that had picked up in intensity when he started traveling with Little Miss Please Shoot Me, My Head Is Right Here And I Don't Understand The Concept Of Cover. "Though if you're going to keep expecting these dashing heroics out of me I'm gonna need a raise."
"Fine," she said, and even from behind her he could hear the smile in her voice. "You're allowed two puns a day."
"Come on, that was at least a three-pun rescue."
"Two and a half, final offer."
The banter was easy and familiar, and eventually the tension eased out of his shoulders. But his chest was still inexplicably warm from her touch, the smell of her hair lingering in his senses. And once or twice when they stopped to rest he caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, though she looked away when he tried to make eye contact and the question died on his lips. Just as well. Acknowledging it would just prolong the delusion.
Just before the bridge leading into Sanctuary, she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Hey, Deac?"
"What's up?" Her fingertips were burning a hole through his shirt sleeve, straight down to his skin, like each individual whorl of her fingerprints was being etched into him.
"I never thanked you." Her voice was quiet.
"You don't gotta thank me, Fixer." Code names, impersonal, anything to separate himself from this moment, panic-inducingly close without the excuse of a near-death experience. He'd dropped his voice to match hers, instinctive but unintentionally intimate. "Unless, like I said, that raise -"
She stood on tip-toe, using his arm to balance, and pressed her lips against his cheek. "Thank you," she murmured. He could feel the faintest brush of her lips as they moved, only millimeters from his skin.
She moved away before he could respond, which was just as well because for the first time in years - maybe his whole life - he didn't have a response. Just the phantom heat of her touch, the electric tingle of her lips against his cheek, and a growing warmth in his chest. All mingled together with the realization that the clear, sharp lines he’d drawn between fantasy and reality might be a little muddy in the middle after all.