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For someone dressed in the tattered and scavenged remains of the armor and clothes of complete strangers, the general was surprisingly fashion-conscious. You wouldn’t know this from looking at him. His hair was always a disheveled frizzy mass tied back in a bun or a ponytail or held up with a couple of pencils. He lived for clashing colors and patterns, blue flannels matched with neon pink polka dots paired with bright splashes of green paint from helping to maintain the wall in Diamond City. He claimed the round-framed sunglasses he wore had been the absolute height of fashion back before the war, but he said this with the same grin that went with all his fantastic pre-war history lessons that never sounded believable and no one else still alive from that time was willing to back his claims.
He looked like an absolute mess, but clothing had been his tool and trade back in the days before the bombs. He’d been a seamstress, he said. When Shaun was born he was working from home, taking the work his shop assigned to him back to the neat green lawns and hedges of Sanctuary Hills.
The centuries old experience showed. His hands worked quickly and skillfully with the rags and scraps he could find in the wastes. He patched and tucked and made alterations, muttering to himself about the texture and hang of the fabric, speculating what kind of material it had been made from. He gawked at clothing stores, wandering in just to look around and talk patterns with the merchants and designers. He would bounce in excitement at each new dress, squealing praises and asking to collaborate. There was a sense of comfort around him as he sat sewing pockets and padding into armor pieces, the usual fidgeting distraction replaced with single minded focus. His shoulders would hang relaxed as he crouched over his project in the warm summer sun or sat in the dim shine of an unshaded lightbulb.
“You can tell a lot about a person from the clothes they wear,” he would explain after pointing out a particularly interesting fashion choice. “Clothes are how we communicate who we are to the other people we meet in the world, and we’re sending those messages out even if we don’t realize it. It’s important to pay attention.”
Deacon was inclined to agree with him on that. It was the kind of subliminal messaging he often used to really sell each of his disguises and hell, it had worked for him so far. Professor understood that. He made critiques on disguises and offered help in making alterations. The expertise was appreciated, but the best thing about travelling with him was the delighted look in his eye and the barely hidden smile whenever Deacon popped up in a new outfit. He wouldn’t comment on it, after all, drawing attention to it would defeat the purpose of the disguise, but his lips pressed together in a barely contained smile and his eyes would sparkle as he snuck sidelong glances at his travelling companion. Deacon was more than a little bit proud of himself for that.
- -
“So where are we going?” Professor finally asked. She’d held out for almost half an hour as they trudged through the commonwealth. She knew better than to expect a straight answer from him, but for some reason felt the need to ask anyways.
Deacon grinned at her. “You’ll see. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
She snickered at him, “Trust you?”
“Have I ever steered you wrong before?” She smiled and rolled her eyes as he continued to lead the way.
They reached the pile of debris that hid the entrance to the abandoned storage facility and Deacon glanced around to make sure they were alone before ducking behind the rubble. He waved to her to follow him and she did without hesitation. That was the catch, really, no matter how much she joked about not trusting him she would always follow along with straightforward confidence. He wanted to call it naiveté but that word didn’t quite jive with the body count she’d managed to rack up.
Deacon walked through the dilapidated hallways with ease as Professor stumbled along behind him. The pale green pip boy light didn’t help him much, but Deacon knew the way by heart. Two more corners and a few doors down he stopped. Everything seemed exactly as he’d left it. Nothing was out of place or moved around. He ducked down to pry up the sliding door.
A wave of concrete dust shook loose as he finally managed to push the door up far enough for them to duck under. For a second he worried that part of the building may have collapsed, but the floodlight revealed the room to be pretty much exactly the way he’d left it.
“Nice place you got here,” Professor said, glancing around the small storage space. “Is that asbestos I smell? Very homey, I’m surprised you haven’t shacked up here more often.”
“Well it’s a time share, actually,” he shot back with a grin, “A family of economically successful radroaches owns it for the majority of the year. I only get three months, but I tell you those three months are absolute bliss.”
Professor snorted and shook her head. “Alright, so what’s the deal with this place, anyways? I’m assuming there’s something else at work here and you didn’t just drag me out here to get lung cancer and die.”
“Are you saying I make poor vacation home choices? Trust me, prof, it may not look like much now but the view is incredible,” he kept his eyes on the general’s face as he pulled the tattered cover cloth off of the set of full length mirrors leaned up against the wall. She let out a small shriek of excitement before clamping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them as she stepped forward to run a hand over the nearly pristine and uncracked glass of the mirrors.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, “How did you find this? It’s so perfect, there’s so many of them.”
“Department store a few doors down,” he admitted, “Must have been a new shipment right before the bombs dropped. They were still all packed up safe and sound when I found them. Oh, and that’s not even the most amazing part of this little time share paradise.” She lingered by the mirrors, examining herself in their reflection, poking at her nose, rearranging her hair, smoothing out her eyebrows.
“Honestly, I’m not sure how you could possibly outdo this. I’m vain as fuck, there’s not much I like more than looking longingly at myself for hours.”
Deacon chuckled and pulled out one of the storage containers. “Oh, I think you’ll like this.” He opened the box with a flourish, revealing the vacuum wrapped pre-war dresses inside, and watched Professor’s jaw drop to the floor again. “This place might have been my greatest find. It’s where I got most of my disguises and costumes, but there’s a lot of this stuff that’s just too fancy, you know? No wasteland settler is wandering around in pre-war high fashion. And the ones who are do it to make an impression. Not very stealthy.” She sank to her knees, unwrapping one of the packs of dresses tenderly, as if it might shatter into a thousand pieces. “There’s suits around here, too, somewhere. Want me to see if I can find them?” She nodded without looking up at him, still too entranced by the shiny fabric of the dress.
“This is… This is satin,” she whispered to herself, “oh gods, I think this might be silk fucking satin.” She laughed, “Can you even imagine wearing this shit into battle? I have to try this on.” Her armor clattered to the floor as she struggled to get out of her clothes as fast as possible. “No wait!” The fabric rustled in the storage container, vacuum plastic crinkling. She let out another small squeak, “Emerald green, cocktail dress. Three quarter length sleeves. Some kind of cotton polyfiber mix, I think…” More rustling. “Salmon pink… is this a romper? Cotton. 100% I think. Beautiful embroidery detailing. Definitely have to try this-“
Deacon slid the top off of another container and it clattered to the floor. Yep, there were the suits, crisply pressed and packaged up like so many finely crafted wool sardines. He barely had a moment before he was nearly tackled by an over eager Professor scrambling for the new find.
“Change of plans,” she said, grinning from ear to ear as she pulled out a soft grey three piece suit. She held it up against her body and cackled. “Ah yes, I think this will fit nicely.”
Deacon raised his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, I get it. I’ll back off the goods. Should have guessed this place would make you go rabid.”
Professor laughed sheepishly, “Sorry about that. Guess I haven’t really shown much appreciation for this and all.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“No, really. It means a lot to me, Deacon. Thank you.” Her voice was soft and earnest, full of gut churning honesty. Maybe it would have been more touching if she wasn’t mostly naked and crouched like a gremlin over a carton of suits in a dusty old ruin of a building. Deacon focused on the absurdity at work to keep his mind off the sincerity in her smile.
“So, you just gonna sit there in your underwear forever? Cause I’m no fashion expert, but I’m pretty sure that look hasn’t been in vogue since people were living in caves.”
She let out a huff and tossed her hair, “It’s called ‘retro-chic,’ jackass. Now help me find a nice vibrant button up to go with this suit, will you? Grey by itself is kinda drab.”
- -
The clothes were pristine, crisp, and mostly well preserved. The fabric was crunchy in some places, discolored in others, but for the most part the clothes had been entirely untouched by the chaotic mess of the world around them. Somehow Deacon had stumbled on this fashion time capsule and for some reason he’d decided to share it with him. Wow.
Professor turned and spun in front of the mirror, dressed in a small blue cocktail dress and black tuxedo jacket with tails. He peered down at his hairy legs and wondered for a moment if maybe there were any silk or nylon stockings tucked away in one of these storage containers. He twisted to get a better view of the tattoos that poked out from under the hem of the dress and decided he preferred his legs bare anyways. It felt nicer, less confined, less like he was trying to hide his fluffy fuzzy self. The petticoats swished around with a highly satisfying rustle and he spent a few minutes twitching them this way and that just for the noise.
“Hey, Professor, what do you think?” He turned to see Deacon posing in a kelly green evening gown and grinned.
“Oh, that’s definitely your color,” he observed, “Or at least, it’s close. Maybe something a little bit darker? It would work with your natural hair, too, if you ever fancied growing it out.”
Deacon gasped in offense, reaching up to protectively shield his pomp wig, “Are you implying this isn’t my actual hair?! Well, I never!”
Professor snorted and ran his eyes over his friend’s ensemble again. The garment was not made for his body type. He was mostly pulling it off, but still… He crossed his arms, fingers tapping against his chin. Deacon began holding poses under his intense gaze. Was he nervous?
“Here,” Professor stepped forward, maneuvering Deacon until he was standing in front of the mirrors with the vault dweller behind him. “This dress has a very hourglass kind of silhouette to it and it was made for someone with that body type. Sad to say it, but that’s not exactly you, Dee.”
Deacon shrugged, “I just threw on what I thought would fit.”
Professor tugged at the fabric of the dress, pulling it tighter in some places, letting it hang loose in others. “There, see? That’s more flattering to your body type. Although if you were really going for that hourglass look there are ways to make that a thing as well.” He dropped the fabric he had gathered and pulled at different points. The changes were pretty clear, even to Deacon’s less trained eye. “See? That’s how you pick up that illusion. Va-va-voom.”
“Va-va-voom,” Deacon repeated. “Damn, Professor, you’ve given me hips for days. Can’t say that of even the most skilled reconstructive surgeons.”
He smiled, “Well that’s no trouble, darling. Still, I’ve always been more of a fan of flaunting what you’ve got. Speaking of which, how much of those gorgeous legs are you wanting to show off, cause I’m thinking this dress could use a slit up the side, at least.” He winked and Deacon burst out in a fit of laughter. Professor sauntered back to the piles of clothing, digging once again for a new outfit to try on. The fabric was cool and dry against his skin and he sighed happily to himself.
“You know, I spent a couple of months as a woman a while back,” Deacon offered, “Confused the hell out of a lot of people at headquarters.” Professor waited. There was no use prying into the agent’s personal life, and trying to would just make him clam up or start telling jokes. Patience was needed. He’d say what he wanted to say eventually. “Never got to wear anything this fancy, though. Maybe I should go back to it…”
“You don’t have to be a woman to wear dresses,” he observed.
Deacon nodded, “Yeah, I know. I mean, I travel with you, Prof, I know what you mean. I just, well, people notice, and I’m not exactly in the business of being noticed.”
Professor looked up at him, hundreds of questions burning at the back of his tongue. How long had Deacon thought about gender? Was he unhappy being perceived as male? He had somehow known Professor’s pronoun preferences the first time they’d met, was he happy with he/him/his? Was the binary suffocating him just as it had been suffocating Professor all those hundreds of years ago, back before the war and even before Nathan and Marni? Hadn’t he noticed how many of the settlers in Micatropolis were trans? How they seemed to seek the general out on that reputation alone? Or was that why he was bringing it up here and now when it was just the two of them?
He swallowed the questions back and buried his curiosity behind his concern. His friend was hurting, or at least conflicted. As much as he loved to pry, this was not the time.
“You wouldn’t be quite so out of place in a dress in Mischatropolis,” he said as nonchalant as he could while still sounding supportive, “If you’re really just worried about being noticed, I mean. Besides,” He grinned, “I’m still your big beautiful distraction, right? I promise I’ll be ten times more eye catching and ostentatious than usual. Just for you, sweet Dee.”
Deacon laughed and the general felt the surge in his heartrate that spelled trouble. Damn if he didn’t crave approval too much for his own good. All these gorgeous, heroic wastelanders were going to be the death of him and he knew it.
“More ostentatious and eye catching than usual? I’ll hold you to that, Professor, but I honestly don’t know how you’re going to manage.”
“For you, sweetheart? Oh, I’d find a way.”