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Deacon smoked silently while Elder Arthur Maxson delivered his speech against the evils of technological abominations, wondering what the great leader would do if he knew his newest and brightest recruit was friends with two ghouls, three synths, and one super mutant. He took a another drag and risked a glance over at Anna. She stood at perfect military attention, her face devoid of reaction to the fanatical ranting. Her ability to keep a straight face was one of the many things he admired about her. He'd seen too many missions fucked up and gone to shit because someone couldn't control their emotions.
Finally Maxson dismissed the crew, leaving only the three of them. The Elder looked to Anna, obviously expecting her to say something about his little speech. She looked back at him with a perfectly neutral face. Deacon swore her eyes reflected back at people as blank as his sunglasses. After a long, completely silent pause, Maxson cleared his throat.
“The Brotherhood's goal is an ambitious one, but necessary for the greater good of humanity,” he said.
Anna's expression didn't waver in the slightest. “Understood.”
Deacon lifted the cigarette back up to his lips to cover up a grin threatening to break out. He could already tell not getting a real response from her was going to drive a man like Elder Arthur Maxson up the fucking wall. The crazy bastard probably had a personal scribe just to give him a round of applause every time he took a shit.
“The Institute is a formidable foe,” Maxson continued in a somewhat stilted tone. “Which is why, with Paladin Danse's recommendation, I'm promoting you to the title of Paladin as well.”
“Thank you,” Anna said flatly.
Maxson paused again, like he expected her to weep with gratitude or something. Deacon couldn't wait to fuck these bastards over. Just keep monologing your plans, asshole.
“Do you know how many soldiers I have under my command on this ship?” Maxson asked.
Poor guy was trying too hard to get something out of her. Deacon almost felt bad for him.
“Ten thousand,” Anna guessed in a totally deadpan voice.
Deacon had to clench his teeth around the cancer stick to keep from breaking his own straight face. Goddamn her. Maxson stared at the Sole Survivor, his brows furrowing in confused disbelief at such a ridiculously wrong answer.
“It's … much lower than that, soldier,” he finally said.
“Ninety-five hundred.”
Deacon stopped breathing. He was the Railroad's best agent, and he was about to fucking lose it. Maxson looked like he wasn't entirely sure if what was happening was actually happening.
“Lower,” the Elder snapped.
“Ninety-three thousand,” Anna said.
God-fucking-dammit. Deacon knew he was going to lose their little game and start laughing any moment now. No one back at HQ would ever believe this conversation happened in a million years, and that's exactly why Anna did it. She loved creating situations so fantastically outrageous he could never tell anyone about them because it all sounded like more of his shameless lies.
Maxson's face twisted up in anger, his scar blanching white. “That's even higher!”
“No, I was at ninety-five and I lowered to ninety-three,” Anna said, flawlessly serious.
Deacon lost the game, but he still valiantly tried to salvage it by turning his laughter in a bad coughing fit, holding his cigarette up as a flimsy explanation.
“Deacon!” Anna snapped.
He pulled his composure back as best he could in response, straightening back up at attention and clenching his jaw to keep a straight face behind his sunglasses.
“I'm so sorry, sir,” she said to Maxson. “I'll see to it that my boy is properly disciplined.”
Elder Maxson seemed too stunned by getting two full sentences out of her, complete with sincere emotion, to respond before she grabbed Deacon by his shirt and pulled him out of the room. Anna dragged him along the hall at a brisk power walk that increased to nearly a run as she dragged him around a corner and into a supply closet. He kicked the door shut behind him, and Anna clapped one hand over his mouth and the other over her own to stifle their hysterical laughter. When it was safe, she lowered her hands to clutch at her aching sides.
“Jesus … fucking … Christ,” Deacon gasped.
She let a giggle slip out in response, her eyes practically sparkling with amusement. He felt his mouth go dry. How the shit was he supposed to remain professional around someone so amazing?
Then the door was suddenly yanked open behind him so quickly Deacon almost fell backwards.
“What's going on h—”
Paladin Danse choked on his words when he recognized the two, and his entire face blushed red. Deacon idly realized what this must have sounded like to the other man, the muffled sounds and his own gasping adoration. What it must look like, the two of them flushed and breathing heavily.
“I didn't think I'd have to lecture you about fraternizing in public, Anna,” Danse said stiffly.
She shrugged without an ounce of concern. “You don't.”
By some goddamn miracle of nature, Deacon hadn't lost his cigarette in the rush out of the main command deck. He brought it back up to his lips and took a long drag with the smuggest shit-eating smirk he could possibly manage. Danse's ears turned pink.
“I—clean yourselves up,” the Paladin tried to order them, undercut by his stuttering. “Meet me on deck in two minutes. We do have actual missions to complete.”
He glared between them both, but Anna had her unblinking lizard eye look back on and Deacon simply blew a languid smoke ring. Danse also made the mistake of expecting a response from Anna, and Deacon resisted the urge to snort. What did the idiot think he'd get, a sheepish yes sir? The silence stretched on, awkwardness gathering in the air like condensation.
“Dismissed, soldier,” Anna finally told Danse.
His mouth dropped open at her audacity, and she closed the door in his stupid indignant face. Deacon inhaled as much smoke as he could, trying to convince himself that was the only reason for the burning ache in his chest. Loud clangs announced Danse stomping off. How the fuck had he missed the soldier walking up to the supply closet in the first place? He knew better than anyone the price of getting distracted and dropping your guard, but goddamn if he could help himself around his Sole. Anna gave him that special wry little grin of hers, and he knew he wouldn't change a single fucking second of his time with her.
“So,” she drawled. “How many orgasms did you have?”