Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been one hell of a day. Who knew trailing after a vaultie could be so difficult?

Well, not just any vaultie, but a particular one. Freckles, red hair, scary eyes. You know—your usual 2077er. Deacon had taken the time off to check on his perch out by the vault, and with the grinding of metal and the screeching of birds: boom. The world's newest wastelander was born. Like a brahmin calf on new, shaky legs, mooing and falling over. Okay, maybe minus the mooing and falling over part.

She was easy enough to follow—the trail of blood and dead things was a sort of neon sign right to her. One that flashed and dispensed a lot of 10mm shell casings.

It was just that whenever Deacon decided to take a break—maybe retie his shoelaces or nap, it was the exact moment something awesome happened. The final straw was when a peaceful morning breakfast of Sugar Bombs and squirrel bits got cut short by the deafening roar of a deathclaw that almost cracked his sunglasses. By the time he had scrambled to his feet and gotten there the lizard was swiss cheese and he had cereal all over his shirt.

So now he was Deacon: the Railroad's most certifiably cool undercover agent, liar extraordinaire, and full-time babysitter. Talk about a life. He crashed down into a chair, his obligatory "casual" distance with the survivor maintained.

It was a relief just to be sitting still again; typically his job allowed him a lot of quiet time, but trailing the vault-dweller was certainly getting Deacon his cardio. His legs may burn now, but he would have stellar calves later. Stretching out he leaned up against the counter, "T-bot, my man, hit me with the good stuff," he said.

"Na-ni shimasho-ka?"

Deacon cracked a small smile, looking up at the Protectron. "What, no habla ingles?"

"Na-ni shimasho-ka?"

"Aw hell yes, Taka. You know it." It was his own sort of game with the robot, and always got him some looks from the locals, but as long as he slipped in the magic word "yes", he got noodles. The rest was gibberish to Takahashi, and that was fine by Deacon.

Slurping down noodles always made him think of HQ, but with all the stress Des was under, he was glad to be out in the field. He could feel her eyes boring into him now, chills running down his arms. Wait, no, the eyes he felt on him didn't belong to Des. Pausing with a mouth full of noodles, he slowly brought his chipped bowl back down to the countertop and scoped out the scene.

That late only really Taka and Percy were out, but robots never gave him those sort of heebie-jeebies. That was reserved for humans and humanoids. And deathclaws. Certainly deathclaws. But instead of teeth grinding him into little Deacon Bits, it was just a woman leaning against the metal shack of a storefront. Relaxed and yet entirely alarming. Why? It's allll in the face. Smooth skin—not just human smooth, but "I haven't lived soaking up rads in a post-apocalyptic wasteland my whole life" smooth. Hawkish eyes undulled by chems, a proper stance held only by Brotherhood of Steel or corpses.

Just a good ol' drifter, nothing to see here...he thought, returning to his noodles with a fidget of his glasses. Deacon figured she had gone off to have another of her long talks with Valentine, but for some reason the wanderer was on the move again. He was starting to wonder if she had something against him having any time to read Proust. Still, if she turned out to be the Railroad's newest agent....well, that was enough to convince him it was worth it.

The stamping out of a cigarette and footsteps going past him told Deacon he was out of the hot seat, but he still avoided looking directly at her. She's a suspicious one, he thought, guess I should be more careful. Truthfully, though, Deacon knew he wasn't going to. Just thinking of the time he had convinced three Brotherhood of Steel Knights that he couldn't speak English made him smile into his soup. He had to have a little fun now and again.

Draining the last of the bowl in one go he hopped up, jogging after the direction the wanderer went. Turning the corner he was met with a 10mm against his gut. A quick way to turn a good day into a bad one, but at least he was in on the action for once. Still, this was not a hill he wanted to die on. He would definitely have to cross her off the prospect list after that.

"Woah, woah, woah," he said innocently, feigning surprise. Daggerish gray eyes cut into him, making him nervous even with his sunglasses on. She wore her scowl like a mask, trying to show no weakness or hesitation despite the deep bruise-like bags under her eyes and the subtle shaking of her hand as she threatened him. She didn't want to be a murderer.

"If you're going to try and kill me like one of these other psychopaths I'd prefer you not stalk me first," she said, gripping the front of his shirt.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I-"

"Was Diamond City Security, a drunk in the Third Rail, and a Goodneighbor drifter wearing a scarf in eighty degree weather."

"Hey, my neck gets cold, okay?" Judging by the increase of pressure against his gut he guessed the wanderer didn't find that as funny as he did. "So game over, huh?"  For once Deacon was relieved to finally get to the brass tacks.

He rolled his shoulders and pushed the gun away carefully. "You're pretty sharp, but let's not go getting all murder-crazy on me, tiger. I'm just a guy who has an offer to make here, no harm no foul. We all walk away."

A beat of silence passed. The pistol slowly lowered, but she was still wary. "...Ever heard of something called the Railroad?"

Chapter Text

Marlene was having a rough day.

She rubbed her temples, throwing a look at her new mentor and wondering if it was too late to get partnered with Glory. “Are you about ready to go?”

Yes, Deacon, the best of the best of the Railroad’s cloak and dagger exploits; a master of conning, lying, and intel...who had spent the last ten minutes acting like he had never seen a dog before.

Deacon looked up at her and casually shrugged his shoulders, pausing mid-scratch. “Okay, but who doesn't like dogs?” The German Shepherd rolled around in the dirt next to the mole rat corpses, bloody and cheerful.

“Me. I can smell you both from here.” The spy got to his feet, still hopelessly glancing between his companion and the mutt.

“But look at those ears, Marlene!”

She adjusted her rifle strap and looked at the dog dryly, “Yep. Those are ears, alright.”

Deacon clicked his tongue, looking like a child who was refused a toy. “Haven't you ever dreamt of frolicking through a field with man’s best friend? This is a one-time offer here.”

Marlene sighed. “You don't even know how to train a dog.” Growing up with three Doberman Pinschers had left her with a childhood of daily walks, picking up shit, and having to share a bed with something that's 85 pounds and kicks you in the middle of the night.

That wasn’t exactly what Deacon had in mind.

No, his imagination seemed to rear dangerously into Lassie or Rin-tin-tin territory—she wouldn't be talking him out of anything any time soon. She turned away from the scene, rubbing her eyes and squinting out at the remains of the road in front of them. “Whatever, you're the boss.”

“Sweeet. Come on, little compadre.” He joined her back on the road and called and called and called in that baby voice, but Fido sat and stared like he had all day. Well, compadre, I don't.

She let out a sharp whistle and and the dog ran to her, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Deacon’s new best friend stopped just short of improving his bowling average and skidded to a halt to sniff her, fur matted but undeniably happy. Stupid happy.

She got some licks to the hand before he skipped off ahead of her, looking back expectantly like he had been waiting on them. She had one last chance to get rid of it.

“We should find his owner, Deacon. Someone’s probably looking for him.”

Deacon would bend over backwards to keep his dog dream afloat, “Okay, I get what you mean, but hear me out: how about we keep him?” Marlene refused to dignify that with an answer.

She still didn't like the idea any more than when he had first made moon eyes at the dog, but no one had come out of the woodwork shooting yet so it was pretty likely the owner was somewhere in all those mole rat corpses and Marlene wasn’t about to go looking. She put on her best mom voice, looking him eye to sunglasses. “Fine, I'll cut you a deal here. He gets to come with us and we look for his owner for a while. If we don't run into him, we can keep him.”

“We should hit Sanctuary, then. That's the closest town,” Deacon conceded, patting the pooch on the head. He actually sounded like he was handling it maturely. Wow, I'm surprised. He's actually going to be okay—wait, Sanctuary? Marlene had to take a second so she didn't trip over herself and spill the beans. “Sanctuary Hills? That's where you want to go?”

The spy shifted his sunglasses and laughed, “Yeah, it is the closest. What, you have some kind of bounty I don't know about?”

She forced a shrug, making her way past him, “No, I'm fine. Just think that place is kinda small, isn't it?” So, great. Not only am I gonna be stuck with a dog, but we’re heading to Sanctuary Hills.

Truthfully, she hadn't seen it since she led Preston and the other settlers there ages ago, and she had plenty of reasons why. They were nice people, really, but she hated even looking at the place. The Minutemen were all well and good when you're a young person with free time and no baggage, but Marlene had no free time and all the baggage she was carrying was starting to make her back hurt. Or maybe that was just because she wasn't twenty any more—that answer was lost to time and a well-deserved chiropractor.

So the unusual trio trundled along, hitting Sanctuary in good time. Marlene, who had somehow taken point on this lost dog expedition—probably because Deacon was too busy hanging back and breathing in fur—knocked on the first door after the bridge. No one answered, but a head popped out of the window next door, “Why if it isn't little miss Marlene! Why come on in, Preston and I are just workin’ on some turrets for out front.”

Sturges looked silly hunkering down to fit through the small window, and Marlene felt a smile creep onto her lips. He towered over you and looked like a match for the devil right up until he opened his mouth—the man was a glorified teddy bear. She’d be lying if she said he didn't make her think of Nate.

“Ain't you a sight for sore eyes.” He hugged her as soon as they came in and he still smelled like oil and an overabundance of pomade. Nice to know not everything changes.

Going off that house, the Minutemen had come a long way since she left. The place actually looked...good. Wasteland good—it wasn't the Ritz—but they had some power and hell even a rug. A couch, table, and beds in one room put it a lot farther ahead than most.

“Nice to see you again, Marlene.” Preston greeted her, getting up from his planning to shake her hand.

As she took it, Marlene felt her lawyer kick in, “Likewise, Mr. Garvey.” She openly admired the place. “You two have certainly done a lot of great work here. It's guys like you that keep the Commonwealth running.”

A ruddy blush rose to Preston’s cheeks as she smiled, and it hurt her heart to think of how little help those guys had. Pre-war they were the type of tireless hard workers who would get medals or commendations, and now? Now they had two caps to rub together and a bloody wastelander complimenting them. Christ.

The last Minuteman laughed, fingers nervously grazing the back of his head, “Thank you, ma’am. We…” he glanced at Sturges, “we do our best. With all the trouble out there someone’s got to.”

Garvey was under a lot of pressure watching over those survivors. He laughed a lot and he meant it when he did, but he never managed to hide the unspoken words that hung over him like a storm cloud: I’m doing my best and it's still not good enough. Marlene hated that she knew how that felt.

“Who’s your friend here?” Sturges chimed in, as if he had just noticed her shadow.

Marlene threw a look over her shoulder, “Are you talking about the dog or the sunglasses?”

“Sunglasses.”

Deacon was nothing but static. Him not jumping to life like his usual jack in the box self was unnerving. No matter how many times her eyes grasped desperately for something to read Deacon was that special, practiced kind of blank only the best of liars could muster.

“That's Deacon, then. I decided I needed someone to sing showtunes with on the road, and he was the perfect candidate.” She flashed a toothy smile and as Sturges laughed some of her irritation went with it.

“What is it exactly you two are here for, then? Haven't rethought my offer on being General, have you?” Preston didn't dare look hopeful.

“Unfortunately, no. I hate to tell you but we’re trying to find out if Old Yeller here belongs to anyone.”

They both shook their heads. “Not that I've ever seen, little lady.”

“Nope. Sorry we can't be of help.” Preston fiddled with his hat a moment, and Marlene watched his eyes fall to the floor. “Would you two like to stay for dinner? We’ve got plenty of room at the table and Marcy just harvested the tatos yesterday,” he offered, brown eyes finally meeting hers.

Marlene was opening her mouth to say no when Deacon then decided it was time for him to pipe up, “Really? We’d love to. I'm starving. Last thing I ate was some bloatfly, and those are really just empty calories, ya know?” And off he went, talking at his usual mile-a-minute pace and carrying them all along on his proverbial ride. What the hell he was thinking was a mystery to Marlene.

She followed the others down the street quietly, the pain she tried to ignore wrapping it’s hands around her throat. The best she could do was keep her eyes anywhere but her front yard. It felt like it had only been a month since she was tossing kick balls and baseballs back over the fence while Nate barbecued. Her husband was the worst cook she had ever met in her life, but their barbecues were always a hit—everyone else just brought the food.

Before she could say no she was ushered into a rusty patio chair out behind the Rosa’s house with a chain of tables forming a banquet. Everyone in Sanctuary had their own seat, and Marlene and Deacon had special chairs and a small table added down on the end just for them. It was unbridled... hospitality.

String lights kept the place in a warm glow even as the sun was fading, and when every space but one was filled they started passing around the stew and sides. Marlene had met the Quincy survivors in what was the worst time in both their lives, and here they were now: talking, laughing, gossiping, healing. They didn't have the same desperation in their eyes.

If it was possible, it made her feel like more of a failure. In a few months they had a home again, they had rebuilt. Killing Kellogg had only given her more questions and she was nowhere near the stage in her life where she could enjoy a barbecue again. Her stomach lurched and she moved to stand up, dizzied and wanting to be anywhere but there. A rough wack to her chair sent her crashing back into her seat and she craned her neck to see Mama Murphy beside her in her wheelchair.

“Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to startle you there,” she drawled. “Though between you and me I think you was spooked already, huh? At least that's what the Sight says.” She wheeled in beside her and started aimlessly tearing apart a biscuit, looking at Marlene but seeing nothing.

Marlene snapped out of it, asking, “Spooked?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “I remember you—how could I forget? Only problem is you can't forget, neither. Understandable.”

Marlene was a prosecutor, a mother, and a damn good pancake flipper. She had a lot of life experience under her belt—almost thirty-five years, in fact. The one thing she had never been in all those years was a believer.

All that mystic, superstitious crap was what lowlifes used to try and plead insanity and what her mother had used as an excuse for not letting her go to the school dance. It wasn’t exactly something she ever put any stock into until Mama Murphy came around. Everything she wanted to know through “the Sight” alone? Amazing. And probably a scam.

Still, how else could she explain an old woman in the middle of nowhere knowing so much? Boston post-war had a lot of questions without answers, and Marlene had already learned enough to stick with the big mysteries.

“Nice to see ya found Dogmeat, though. I've been wondering who he's shacked up with nowadays; good to know the guy's with someone who’ll care for ‘im,” Mama Murphy idly chatted, looking down to the dog Marlene hadn’t even noticed was still following her. She furrowed her brow, glancing between Mama Murphy and…’Dogmeat’.

“Dogmeat? That's his name? Is he your dog?”

The question amused Mama Murphy. “Nah, Dogmeat ain’t anyone's dog. He goes where he wants and ya can't talk him out of it. He's been doin’ this a looong time.”

If I didn't know any better I’d say that's code for “tough shit you're stuck with the dog”, Marlene thought. She held in a sigh and threw a look over to Deacon, who was innocently chatting with settlers and supposedly not paying any mind to her conversation. What bullshit.

If there was one thing she had knew about him already it was that Deacon was always listening. Somehow she couldn't help but feel like he orchestrated the whole thing, though it was impossible to tell if that was just the paranoia talking.

The dead leaves rattled as a gust of wind blew through, and for a second the brisk air dragged Marlene back to those awful moments in time: beating on the glass of the cryopod and the horror of feeling herself freeze, sliding farther and farther beneath the surface of the pool and sinking like a stone. Chills ran up her arms. Every time Boston got cold those memories haunted her; she was tired of living with ghosts .

She excused herself and slunk through the charred fences to stare at flamingos. Well, not real ones. Hell, who was she kidding? They weren't even flamingos anymore. They were weird disembodied legs with some pink plastic on top, melted by the sheer heat of the nuclear blast. They probably wouldn't even know what a flamingo is nowadays, she thought bitterly.

Sitting on the Rosa’s porch, the happy chatter of the dinner out back helped her imagine her house as it was so long and such a short while ago. If she closed her eyes she could see Nate working across the street, tinkering with his newest hunk of junk Cryslus in one of those atrocious hawaiian shirts and oil-stained jeans. Riiiight in front of the pink flamingos.

A nice barbecue would be going in the backyard, kids playing tag and neighbors gossiping as per usual. What else was there to do in Suburbia, after all? At least that was what Nate had said. He always used to tease her not all the other housewifes wanted to discuss the latest murder trial, smirking ever so slightly as he planted a kiss on her temple. Their loss, as far as she was concerned.

Marlene opened her eyes, grabbing a bottle of Nuka Cola that sat next to her and feeling more alone than she had in months. She’d trade anything for that now.

Dogmeat, taking a cue from God or simply trying to endear himself to her, took his opportunity to plop his head in her lap. A cat would have been better, but Marlene decided to cut the pup a break and ran her hand along his face. Staring at her old house made her soft, she guessed.

She knew returning to Sanctuary Hills was a bad idea, and yet here she was. A glutton for fuckin’ punishment.

“Ah, I see what's going on here. Too cool to party with us, huh? Fine. But I get the dog in the divorce. And the deathclaw.” Deacon’s joking brought a small smile to Marlene’s lips and he invited himself down next to her with a contented sigh.

“Seriously though, nice view. Dark sky, dead grass, totally get why you’d pick that over the shindig out back.”

“I’m not a party person,” she explained simply.

Marlene hated lying, but her first day out of the vault had taught her nothing was more of a mark on your back than 111 emblazoned in yellow. Besides, it didn't matter what people thought of her anymore. All that mattered was finding Shaun, and if she needed to fight every step there then so be it. Fuck you, post-apocalypse.

“Okay, not a party person. Noted. Guess I'll have to call off your surprise party then, huh? Man, Tinker Tom was really looking forward to it, too…Wait, if one's alone, two’s company, then isn't three a party?”

Marlene followed his gaze down to Dogmeat. “Three’s actually a crowd, Deacon. But it looks like we don't have much of a choice—Mama Murphy said this guy does what he wants.”

For some crazy reason Deacon didn't seem too upset by the news. Shocker. “Sweet. You think we can teach him how to do tricks? Ooh, I wonder if we can teach him to do that thing where you shoot them and they fall over, you know? What do you want to call him? ‘Cause I've been thinking on it, and I have it all worked out: Dog McCool. Tells you everything you need to know.”

Marlene took a sip of warm Nuka-Cola, ‘how the hell did I get here?’ echoing in her head. She looked at the spy directly. “Deacon, I would shoot myself before I called a German Shepherd Dog McCool.”

He laughed, taking it rather well. “Fine, fine, that's fair.” As Deacon continued to babble about the pain in the neck that sat beside them licking itself, the gears in Marlene’s head were turning.

“...You know, don't you?” It was so easy to get overwhelmed by the emotions that came with Sanctuary and be distracted from actually thinking about it all, but taking the puzzle pieces known as Deacon and fitting them together led her to such a stupidly obvious conclusion she hadn't even considered it at first. It was a test.

Deacon paused, and for a fraction of a second his smile dropped. “Know what?” he asked, laughing.

“It's why you brought us here—you did it intentionally.” It was too neat, too convenient. With Deacon, nothing was coincidence. He had mentioned tailing her when they first met.

“What, you have the hots for Preston, too? Man, that's awkward. Well I'll let you know-”

Marlene wasn't even going to let him start, “Don't bullshit me.” She was too tired for that.

Deacon shifted around, looking at anything but her. “Would you belieeeeve...Sturges?”

She took another sip of 200 year old soda, shaking her head numbly. She was right.

“Marcy?”

“Nope.”

“Her husband?”

“Nope.”

“...Mama Murphy?”

Deacon wasn't even trying. “You're supposed to be a good liar, aren't you?”

He sighed, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses and stretching, “In theory.” If she didn't know better Marlene would say he almost sounded relieved.

Her eyes traced over him as he retied his shoe, asking frankly, “Figured I'd let something slip?”

He shrugged. “You see, the most important parts of being an agent are being able to hold your composure and lie your ass off. The whole operation would sink without it, you know?

“I didn't tell for the same reason you don't go blabbing it to the birds. It's always better to have a card up your sleeve. Heck, a deck if you can fit it. Think of it as a little...stress test.”

Stress test? Marlene wanted to be upset—to have some sort of righteous indignance that he had never mentioned it—but something about the world turning into a post-nuclear hellhole took some element of shock value away from life. At some point the question: “is this worse than nuclear war?” had to factor in, and the answer was almost always a strong, “probably not”.

Deacon finished his bunny ears and looked up at her expectantly. “So, this still a game you're up for?”

Marlene was a little surprised. “Isn't it a liability to take on someone who knows so little about the Commonwealth?”

Deacon grinned as he responded, “With how you talk your way around being two-hundred years too late to the party? ‘Liability’ is out of the question. I’ll fill you in on anything you need to know—between the two of us? Look out, world. ” He mimed a little explosion with his hands, adding his own sound effect.

He paused. “Well, granted, I still don't know if you're a natural or just really, really suspicious.”

Marlene raised an eyebrow. “Aren't those one and the same?”

“Touché,” he replied, grinning. “I might make a good agent out of you yet.”

Marlene’s eyes moved to the remnants of her house as she nursed her drink and replayed the beginning of her trial run with the Railroad in her head. Desdemona, Glory, Tinker Tom, Drummer Boy, Carrington...none of them had ever breathed a word about her being pre-war. No slip-ups or strange looks, just enthusiastic handshakes and rambling plans and introductions. Hell, Deacon may not have even told them.

Regardless, there was a weight lifted off her shoulders. She didn't have to make up more bullshit about who she was or where she came from—she was a goddamn popsicle from west Boston with a Juris Doctor, a sniper rifle, and a son to find. And only Valentine, the Cats, Deacon, and Mama Murphy knew it. Not to mention the ever-faithful Codsworth. She dodged that poor bot more than MacCready dodged Whitechapel Charlie.

“You have to know I'm looking for my son Shaun, then?”

Deacon fidgeted with his sunglasses again and flashed an uncomfortable smile. “Yeaaaah, about that. I might've snuck into Valentine’s office after that whole ‘shooting a guy in the face’ thing.”

So he was following me when we found Kellogg, too. What a sneaky bastard. Marlene doubted Nick would appreciate someone pawing all over his case files, but that was a fact she could pocket for now.

“Is there anything you can't get into?” She snarked, downing the last of her soda.

“Uh yeah, you know those little special edition tubes of Fancy Lads? I can never get my hand all the way in there. I just have Glory open them for me.” Damn it—despite herself, a smile creeped onto her face—what a prick.

Yep, Deacon was a real card alright. She pulled her arm back and tossed her bottle, letting it sail over the dinky picket fence and into the ruins of her beloved front yard with indifference.

“Woah, woah! Don't just go tossing stuff in people's yards. Wasn't that like, illegal, in your day?”

“It's my house, 007.” She rolled her eyes, leaning against the porch’s column. “I was trying to hit a flamingo, anyway. I'm the only one who ever liked those plastic bastards.”

The silence was only momentary, broken by the one question she knew he’d ask. “...What's a flamingo?” Sometimes it hurt to be right.

“They were bird lawn decorations that smelled like burnt plastic at anything over ninety degrees. Tacky, bright pink, and relentlessly cheerful. Every kid thought he was the most unique and hilarious teenager on the planet for uprooting them from my yard and making them 69 each other.”

Ahhh, she could still see it: a flamingo in all it's feathered glory, outrageously pink and ridiculous. The un-stealthiest of birds and America’s favorite useless fowl. She loved those things—they always reminded her of Nate and his god awful Hawaiian shirts.

Deacon laughed, no doubt recreating the midnight delinquency in his mind. “I always wondered what it was like before the war... didn't know it was quite like that. ”

“People don't change much,” she half-smiled, “I don't know if that's the best part or the worst part.”

The white picket fence, the daily Boston Bugle, the flamingos, the happy nuclear family all loomed over her. In one day she was the only thing left.

Digging in her pocket, Marlene pulled out her crumpled packet of cigarettes and lit one. She had earned it. “‘Nuclear’ family...at least I can't say the world doesn't have a sick sense of humor.” Marlene sighed, some Lovecraft quote from college coming back to taunt her: ‘From even the greatest horrors, irony is seldom absent.’

Understatement of the last three centuries, asshole.

Chapter Text

Deacon crouched across from Marlene, his legs long past aching. His protégé had abandoned that pose as soon as she realized they’d be sitting through water cooler conversation for the next hour, and she looked decidedly more bloodthirsty than normal. Raider small talk could do that to you.

The two culprits chatted at the end of the hall, armed to the teeth and reeking of alcohol. There had been a party the night before—apparently one of their vicious raiders who lived in a derelict building and injected Jet into their eyelids had killed one of those vicious raiders that lived in another derelict building and injected Jet into their eyelids.

What did that mean for inter-raider politics? Hell if Deacon knew.

They had been stuck listening to raider fishing stories for long enough; it was starting to mess with his head. God, is that what I sound like? He tried not to cringe at every word that came out of Nemo’s mouth. I mean, killing two deathclaws barehanded is one thing, but three? Way to give liars a bad name, dude.

Apparently he wasn't the only one paying attention, as Marlene leaned out from behind her file cabinet to whisper in a complete deadpan, “Funny; I always figured they settled their disputes over afternoon tea and the heads on pikes came afterwards.”

It was proving worthwhile to have someone else tucked beside him in the shadows—usually he had to make the smartass comments himself.

“Are you telling me afternoon tea doesn't involve headspikes? Oh, man, I've been doin’ it all wrong,” he replied, grinning. It earned him a clandestine laugh from Marlene.

It was nice to see her start to relax once Sanctuary was in the rearview, but she was still glaring at him every time Dogmeat bounded up to a Gunner like they could be his new best friend if only they’d stop tossing grenades long enough. Yeaaaah, there was a reason his new best friend was being babysat by Drummer Boy at HQ.

Still, taste in pets aside, they were slowly building some form of trust. Not “do these jeans make me look fat” or “I'll leave you alone with the last Fancy Lad” trust, but “I’m fairly confident you won't knife me in my sleep” trust. That was...a lot better than it sounded.

Deacon was good at spotting when people were about to crack under pressure, and Marlene was oddly composed. None of the classic signs—y’know, rocking back and forth, crazed ranting, way too intense eye contact, stabbing the resident physician with a spork. Yeahhhh, he had seen his fair share of agent freakouts over the years...and physicians.

Comparatively? Marlene looked great. Hell, dark circles were practically agent dress code.

There was always the possibility that he just couldn't recognize it in her, though—some people were like that. Sometimes you don't catch something’s screwy until plastic tines are meeting windpipe. Like he said, he was in the “fairly confident” and not the “positive” range for knife-related deaths.

Everyone at HQ had their way of coping with the suffocating stress: Des smoked, Carrington yelled, Tom theorized, Drummer Boy self-medicated, and Deacon? Deacon lied. They were a reaal fun bunch at parties.

But Marlene? Well, he wasn't quite sure what Marlene did—not yet, anyway. He’d get there. So far it was a lot of sitting with her nose in a book, making morbid jokes, and cursing like a sailor. She’d fit in just fine.

Finally, Chatty Cathy packed it up and turned towards them, ready to hit his assigned patch of floor down the hall. Deacon straightened up behind his filing cabinet, ready to finally demonstrate a choke hold. It wasn't Nemo, but he’d take what he could get.

According to Des, he was supposed to be showing the rookie how to follow railsigns, but Des hadn't ever said he couldn't spice things up with a little sleeper hold here and there. I mean, it was implied, but what Desdemona didn't know couldn't hurt.

The heavy trot of drunk footsteps died as he sprung out from his spot, dragging the raider from the hallway into the privacy of one of the offices and dropping him in seconds. Marlene stared down at the body with vague amusement, eyebrows raised. “I’m starting to regret ending my karate career at nine.”

Deacon’s mind instantly conjured up holotapes of a miniature Marlene knocking raiders upside the head and it was awesome.

He stifled his grin and pointedly looked down at the raider, sniffling. “They always look so cute when they're sleeping.” Marlene rolled her eyes when he wiped away an imaginary tear, stepping over the unconscious chatterbox to flip him over and rummage through his pockets.

On raiders Deacon always hoped to find something to remind him they were people with families, interests, and passions other than injecting jet directly into their eyeballs. A postcard? Poem? Flute? He’d take anything, honestly. So far there had been no pet bunny rabbits or secret diaries.

All Marlene came up with was some ammo and caps but she seemed satisfied enough, handing over half of each without question.

It must have been a pre-war thing, back when people sat out in lawn chairs and waved to neighbors and drank lemonade with the little teeny umbrellas, just giving people things like that. There were some nice folks in the ‘Wealth, sure—people just trying to help out and be decent—but as a rule Deacon was suspicious of anyone who gave without asking for anything in return.

He raised an eyebrow, rolling the bullets and caps around in his palm. Sure, she seemed to have all the good intentions in the world, but what if she had an end here? Hell, what if she just didn't know?

“Hey, I appreciate the spirit of giving here, but...you know you don't have to split everything in the field, right? Early bird catches the bullet-shaped worm, and all that.”

“You're as bad as Robert with that crap.” She sighed, letting her head drop in frustration. When she met his eyes again, her tone was softer, “Listen, have you ever heard of a lawyer taking a case pro bono?”

Deacon feigned racking his brain, making a mental note to burn the law textbook he had stashed at HQ. “Caaan’t say I've heard of it,” he said, tapping his chin. “Isn’t that a type of cheese or something?”

It took Marlene a moment to follow his mental gymnastics. “No, that's provolone. Pro bono is when you take a client's case for free because you believe in the cause—to me, we’re both working pro bono here. Sharing ammo and food and whatever they want to pass off as money these days is only fair for getting paid jack for…” she gestured to the raider sleepover at their feet, “this.”

Deacon pocketed the caps and ammo, casual as ever. “Pro bono, gotcha.” She actually believes in it. With his sunglasses on he was free to read every smile, every twitch, every glimmer of hope like a book, and Marlene’s was one word: truth. It was almost a little scary how honest she was, and a whoooole lot of depressing. It was a sundae of good character with an extra scoop of irony—anyone but Deacon would’ve valued that trait.

“What do we do about Nemo over there?” Marlene asked disparagingly, peeking back out at the other raider through a hole in the wall.

Easy peasy. “Lesson numero tres,” he responded proudly, holding up three fingers. It was one of his favorite tactics. “Distraction.”

Talk about variety: bottles, grenades, fights, flashing lights, animals, the dramatic screams of the gravely wounded—and hey, if given enough time Deacon could make a scarecrow, too. That was always fun. Something about Marlene didn't strike him as the arts and crafts type.

Still, the tactic seemed to appeal to her and he watched the gears tunring in her mind. Was that...a twinkle in her eye? Oh boy. Before she even asked the answer was yes.

What could a suburban housewife have under her sleeve to distract a inebriated raider in this bombed out wasteland they both called a home? With Marlene's gall? Anything.

“If I try something, are you ready to grab him?”

“Sure thing, new kid on the block.” Deacon grinned cheekily, making finger guns and earning the eyeroll he always wanted. Nerves always made him pep up, but the ever cautious Marlene checked on Nemo through the office glass before positioning herself behind the open door.

“Do you know what a party trick is, Deacon?” The crafty gleam in her eyes made him wish he did.

All she did was clear her throat and Marlene was able to call out in a ragged voice Deacon never imagined could come out of such a poised woman. It was exactly like the raider he had already knocked out—strident and croaky, like he had just smoked 30 cigarettes in one go and was already half deaf. Nemo heard his name being called and started waltzing their way, believing it just like Deacon would have. It was amazing.

Marlene went for it, springing out from behind the door with precision and easily mimicking his grip from earlier on a raider too dumb and drunk to struggle much.

He didn't exactly enjoy being up close and personal with them, but raiders proved to be excellent test dummies for, well, most of the ‘Wealth’s factions. He explained the mechanics—the boring, textbook stuff. Hand placement, pressure, the package deal. The difference between sending them to sleepy town or the river styx was really only a few moments, but it was easy enough to tell when they went slack and hit the floor in their best impression of a sack of bricks. That's when you stopped.

They definitely looked dead—whoever woke up first was in for a hell of a surprise, but surprise and murder are two very different things. Unless it's a surprise-murder, of course, but those rarely involve party hats unless someone has a really sick sense of humor.

With some correction of her hand placement and grip, Marlene had Nemo sleeping like a baby and Deacon felt a little stab of pride—he had gotten a few disapproving looks at HQ when he had insisted he be the one to take on the rookie and there she was, knocking out her first raider without any fuss. It was one for the books.

That didn't mean the looks weren't justified, though. Marlene was the type of woman you had to look at when she walked in, holding her head high and making small talk like any good pre-war woman did when buying high caliber rifle rounds. She was well versed in just about everything but subtlety.

Not to mention Des had given up assigning newbies to him after one too many was left guarding “valuable” caches of Silver Shroud comic books and preserved pies. Deacon had argued it was a valuable lesson in patience. Desdemona had argued it was him ditching them to go and read somewhere...She was right, but they didn't have to know that. Besides, Marlene was different.

“You look genuinely surprised for once,” she said, raising an eyebrow. She flashed a cocky grin, and for a moment Deacon got the same soft Marlene Sanctuary did; the one who wasn't afraid to laugh with that silly handyman or lend a sympathetic ear to Garvey. The Marlene she hadn't meant for him to see.

It was gone as fast as it came, but it was good news. She was showing signs of trusting him, easing up on the mask little by little.

“Nice to know I can turn the tables every once and awhile.”

Deacon smiled wryly. From the word ‘go' he had expected a real apple pie, golly goshing housewife and the first word out of her mouth had been “Fuck!” annnnd now she was giving a near perfect jet junkie impression on the fly, so there was that, too.

He had seen the way that paladin had pulled every recruitment trick in the book to try and win her over, and even the poor bastards in Sanctuary were gunning for a chance to enlist the vaultie’s help. If anything about her wasn't a surprise it was that she had gotten herself tangled up in trouble from the start.

You didn't have to be a detective to figure out why—Marlene instilled some strange confidence in you with the way she held herself, like she was the ghost of everything sane and articulate in the world. Hell, if you asked about politics she sounded like a pre-war pamphlet; spewing a lot of stuff about strength and integrity and enlist and help your country today, etc etc.

No one even knew who she was yet and the Brotherhood was already pulling the “for the good of humanity!” shtick. Talk about intense. If they learned she was the one who cracked the code on how the Institute was moving around—scratch that, if they learned she was a pre-war woman who cracked the code on how the Institute was moving around? Those nutjobs would probably have her tied up and interrogated about toasters.

His reasoning was as selfish as any other’s, but if he played his cards right and she stuck around, maybe by the time she had to buy into some bullshit it wouldn’t be because she had to pick a lesser evil. And he didn't organise all those Railroad spirit weeks for nothing.

A small rumble sent a chill up his spine. It was so slight he could almost believe it was his own shudder, but that wasn't what wastelanders who lived long believed. No, it was all too familiar...He opened his mouth to say something but shut it immediately. Marlene hadn't noticed. Didn't trust her instincts enough yet. It was time to make an escape plan.

He squinted through his glasses and just barely caught the sun struggling to shine through the office window. It was already touching the horizon. He was sleep deprived and paranoid and it felt off for some reason, if only he was sharp enough to catch on why.

It wasn't going to be all mimicry and rainbows and his game of twenty questions would have to wait. Marlene frowned, eyes scanning his face. “What's wrong?” Another shift in the ground, larger now. His mind wasn't playing tricks on him. Any longer and we’ll be overstaying our welcome.

“What was that?”

“We should go,” he said, pulling his pistol and glancing down the hallway. They made their way back to the first floor with Deacon taking point and Marlene trailing behind. He could feel her burning questions as he hurried past railsign after railsign, but he couldn't be sure yet. It’s no time to freak her out, we just need to get out of here and- a massive crash radiated through the building, knocking out at least one wall for sure. It was close. Wayyy too close.

A barrage of gunfire started up only a room over. His time for plan-formulating was up. All the puzzle pieces were knocked into place in one convenient click, coming together to form an ugly picture. His instincts were right. “Shit. Deathclaw.”

The words were out of his mouth before he considered them, and Marlene looked at him with an expression that begged him to be kidding. “Not funny. That last one almost ripped my arm off.” He scratched his neck, scanning for their best exit route. Going off how heavy the footfalls were, they didn't have long.

“Yeaaaah, about that—really wish I was kidding here, but,” he backed into the open industrial locker behind him as the floor shook with the first roar. “Get in.”

He was hoping to avoid something like this—sure, in the end Marlene had filled that first ‘claw with so many holes you could slap him between two pieces of bread and call him swiss cheese, but the fear in her eyes told a different story than that of a painless victory.

Who could blame her? Nothing was more terrifying than a snarling, lumbering, ten foot tall lizard. Except maybe a bloodbug with a knife taped to it—he had many a nightmare along those lines. No time to explain that one.

With just a few stims in Marlene’s bag if a deathclaw got a hold of one of them they were lucky if they would be re-enacting humpty dumpty. Luckily the rookie wasn't in the mood to argue and only took a moment to drop her bag and squeeze in after him. The smallest sigh of relief escaped him as the door rattled shut after her, though her elbow accidentally meeting his kidney probably helped.

Gunfire and yelling was the deathclaw dinner bell, starting off the menu with raider hors d'oeuvres. A classic. It spilled into their room with an explosion knocking out a good chunk of drywall, rattling the metal locker so hard it made his teeth chatter.

“There goes our raider problem,” he joked, doing his best to peek out the too-short slits of the locker. Red wisps of Marlene’s hair kept tickling his face but she was unmoving, staring out at the fight that sounded like it was in front of them now—cursing, wailing, the whole morbid shebang. He stopped fidgeting, hunching down to look out beside her.

What a mess. It looked like a horror movie out there. A raider’s innards went flying as the ‘claw ripped him in half, landing with a sound reminiscent of slapping a wet ham. "Oooooh-kay, not funny any more.” Deacon felt like a parent who had turned on Psycho for the kiddos thinking it was a Sunday morning cartoon.

Marlene couldn't look away, but her shallow breathing told him she wasn't about to start cheering for the home team. Ahhh shit. Somehow he had almost forgotten that in her Boston giant lizards didn't eat people. Probably because they didn't have giant lizards. Funny how that worked.

Was he a nanny? No. Did he make it a habit to get involved in other people’s personal lives? No. Did he feel responsible here? Well, yeah. Subjecting this pre-war mom to voyeuristic, nature documentary, first-row-at-a-Shamu-show level gore was too far. Cursing himself, he slipped his hand over her eyes. “You don't wanna see this, trust me.”

Marlene shifted around to face him and for the first time since he had officially introduced himself she only managed a nod. His heart settled in the pit of his stomach.

The Commonwealth took a lot of things from you you couldn't get back. But for once—for one, single, fleeting moment—that was a truth Deacon didn't want to face. One he allowed himself to ignore in favor of letting a 30-something lawyer bury her head in his shoulder to try to drown out the screaming.

There was no witty one-liner like Deacon had imagined in his head when he watched her walk away from the Cambridge ‘claw dusting crumbs off of himself and yet there was honesty in this Marlene.

This wasn't what Marlene wanted to show to the world—hell, maybe she was right and she couldn't afford to show this side of herself to the world. The only thing Deacon knew was that was the Marlene he wanted to see. She was a mother from 2077 who didn't know what a deathclaw was but would try her damndest not to vomit while she watched it paint the roses red. What could he say? He always liked a good underdog.

Deacon wasn't one for emotional displays…or hugs...or handshakes...orrr well really anything that involved him and someone else touching, but he scolded himself into doing something. Just something small. He brought his hand down onto her shoulder and gave it a pat like a dime novel robot who just learned what friendship was. Nice one, Deeks.

Marlene started away like he had shocked her and the deathclaw mauling cut through the awkward silence like elevator music. Yeahhhh...never trying that again.

The light from old bullet holes punched through the locker was just enough for Deacon to wish he couldn't see anything. Marlene had the type of eyes that made agents bug out just by staring into them for too long—the kind that knew you before you ever introduced yourself.

It was hard not to see your own reflection in them, and that appealed to some people. The Preston Garveys of the world saw a friend, someone that related to them and worked hard and cared like they did. But Deacon? He saw danger. He saw the eyes of a woman that bit off more than she could chew and knew more than she should.

They made his skin crawl, no matter how normal she seemed. There was nothing he hated more than a mirror.

Her tense laugh broke him away from his elaborate bug out plans. “You're awful at that.” A laugh was a win. Maybe he wouldn't be packing a bag and heading for the Mojave after all.

Deacon let go of the breath he was holding, grinning freely in the dark. Fair point. “Thanks, Ms. Congeniality,” he quipped back, finding his voice. Just a normal woman, he reminded himself, letting his eyes coast over hers once more. Almost.

When the clatter died down, Marlene worked up the courage to look out at the mutant. Her squared shoulders refused to flinch, but Deacon could only imagine what she was seeing. I spy something….red?

He hunched down to see for himself and caught the tail end of things. Literally. All the big iguana did was lumber out, bored with it's rampage. Damn thing was probably half asleep. It couldn't have been ten minutes and absolutely everything was gone—desks crushed, walls scorched and shredded, viscera everywhere.

It wasn't long until the earth shaking monstrosity was trundling off into the gore-filled sunset, having paid the locker no mind.

The pair tumbled out onto bloodied concrete, sucking in deep breaths and adjusting to the bright light. Deacon was happy to get back to his usual arm’s length and Marlene wasn't about to complain. “I love what they've done with the place,” she said, resting her hands on her knees and trying to breathe in as little raider dust as possible. The mask is back.

Deacon let out a nervous laugh so he didn't vomit, “Where have you been the last two hundred years? Entrails are so passé.”

He did his best to look without looking, setting on the first exit he saw. Marlene followed without question and they climbed the stairs up to the roof in silence, taking in their first gloriously fresh breaths when they made it outside.

Marlene flopped to the floor, rubbing a shaky hand across her face. “Fuck.”

Deacon laughed. Touché. Not to name names, but a certain dashing, illustrious spy didn't exactly have the stomach to watch something like that and then stop for a burrito break.

“I wanna stay somewhere that thing can't reach tonight,” Marlene added, meeting Deacon’s eyes with a new sense of earnesty. A far cry from the look of the wounded animal who had shoved a gun in all of his squishy organs like her life depended on it. Nothing like a good near death experience to get them on the same team.

He took the purified water she offered from her bag, clearing the taste of blood from his mouth while he considered it. “Here's as good a place as any, isn’t it? Four stories is... good,” he said, thinking “good” was not at all the word to describe that kind of drop.

Marlene rolled the tension out of her shoulders, managing a real smile. “Sounds great to me.”

She shoved the water bottle back in her overstuffed bag, looking considerably relieved as Deacon eased himself down next to her. “Anything else gonna fit in there, Mary Poppins?” he joked, raising an eyebrow. The worn military backpack always slung over her shoulder barely zipped closed anymore.

Marlene shot him one of her best flat looks. “You wanna save us with some of your pocket lint one day?”

“You have an encyclopedia in there.” Her cheeks tinted. Soft spot, huh?

“That's a compendium of great Greek authors.”

Deacon pushed his sunglasses up with the back of his hand, a good teasing just what he needed to wipe the blood out of the back of his mind. “What's the difference?”

“Okay smartass, am I supposed to act like I haven't noticed the Proust paperbacks you tout around like they're the gospel?”

Deacon felt his eyebrow twitch. She knew how to bite back. He put on his easiest shrug. “With this job, you have to pass the time somehow. One man canasta doesn't go too well.”

Marlene blew a raspberry, rolling her eyes at him. “You're full of shit.” Deacon grinned to himself.

As she untied her sleeping bag from the bottom of her backpack, he could almost make her comment for her. ‘Oh, Marlene, how ever did you manage to have such a handy and versatile item with you all the way out here?’ Marlene answered his imaginary question with sarcasm of her own, rolling out the sleeping bag with a good shake.

“This pre-war magic is called taking things with you—I think it'll catch on with the kids some day.”

Deacon took a second before playing along. He wasn't used to being razzed this much. “Hot new craze?” He asked, chewing on his tongue. He could do a little playing along.

“Oh definitely.” She nodded firmly.

Maybe the lawyer had a point. The pocket lint joke was a little close to home for his taste. Besides his pistol and caps Deacon didn't have a dust bunny on him. Never did, actually.

In truth, the bag wasn’t the worst choice—small, sturdy, inconspicuous, but all Deacon could see was a treasure trove of information for anyone that got ahold of it. The most innocuous things could be what give you and everyone you love away, and information was the worst thing to lose. Nope, he’d stick to his caches around the ‘Wealth and live with some nights slept on the ground. There wouldn't be another Switchboard as long as he had any say in it. There couldn't be.

Still, maybe this “partner” stuff wasn't as bad as he remembered it—he was offered half the sleeping bag, after all. That wasn’t an offer he ever turned down, awkward accidental cuddling simply the cherry on top of life in the business.

It wasn't glamorous, but with the sun already sunk behind the downtown skyscrapers, it was a nice luxury to be able to make yourself into a human burrito. Living in the Commonwealth made you wish for a nuclear summer if there was such a thing. Using his jacket as a pillow, Deacon was pretty damn comfortable for being four stories off the ground in blustery winds.

He let his eyes flutter closed, Marlene's minor shifting odd only because it was so unusual to feel someone laying next to him again. At least it's not Tinker Tom, he thought, trying not to cringe at the memory alone.

Sometimes during a big operation HQ would get overbooked and agents would find themselves cozying up to one another in one big, grumpy sleepover. That particular exercise was what clued Deacon in to the fact Tom suffered from vivid nightmares. Like, hit whatever's closest to you nightmares. For a while there Deacon looked like he had taken up boxing...and he sucked at it... really badly.

Marlene wished him goodnight and Deacon tried to shut off his brain, counting tiny mutated sheep. It worked for a good thirty seconds. “What’s so special about dusty old Greek dudes, anyway?”

That roused a breathy laugh from Marlene and he felt her shift again. Deacon cracked an eye open and sure enough she was facing him, one eyebrow raised. “You mean you read Proust in your free time and don't know about the Greeks?” He nodded. Marlene thunked onto her back again, one arm supporting her head. “Oh God, where to begin?”

She talked about Greek philosophy, the invention of democracy, the old notion that angry gods were what killed sailors at sea and scarred the earth with lightning. “If a bunch of angry Gods are what made storms, what the hell did you guys do to wipe out the world in one go?”

He gave her a teasing grin, but it faded when he noticed Marlene’s smile didn't meet her eyes.

She turned to look back at the night sky. “What the hell didn't we do?” The sentiment stung—obviously a sore spot for the 2077er—but Deacon wasn't about to let the first real informative conversation they’d had die that easily. It was his job to learn as much as he could, to vet her and pry every last scrap of information from her hands. It was his job with everyone.

“Wow, harsh,” he replied, relying on his go-to to lighten the mood: humor. Marlene laughed, but not for the reason he intended. “Really?”

She seemed reflective, digging a cigarette out from her coat and resting it between her bowed lips. Just before she lit it, she paused in consideration, the flame dancing in the dark. She spoke quietly over the Grey Tortoise. “Sorry.”

Sorry?

She sighed, flicking the lighter closed and shoving it and the crunched cigarette in a pocket unknown to him, shrugging. “I forget sometimes not everyone’s world exploded.”

Deacon’s mind lingered on the cigarette she had almost lit, leaving him only nodding at her words. “Do you know what a constellation is?” Deacon squinted behind his sunglasses. Intentional topic change or innocent question?

He shrugged. “They’re those weird designs of like, huge crabs and stuff in the sky, right? I've found some maps on them, but nottt sure I could tell you what a ‘Capricorn’ is.”

The way Marlene talked about stars made him feel like they weren't just pinpricks of light in the sky for once. In the countless hours he’d spent reading in the ‘Wealth he’d skipped through poem after poem about the night sky, glancing up and finding the real thing severely lacking.

Pretty enough, sure, but they all twinkled the same and Deacon would have to be forgiven for not being dazzled.

But to Marlene they all had dramatic old-timey names, ages, histories. You grouped enough of them together and they were a hunter, or a crow, or a...sea monster? Okay, she lost him there, but he got the point. What he wanted to know was why did a lawyer have all this information about fairytales, anyway? They try many sea gods in court?

“Wait, let me guess: Justice 101, Jury Selection, AP Greek Mythology?” Presumptive statements were always a good way to get someone to answer a question you never actually asked. He had learned that trick from some tattered book he had picked up in the Fens.

Marlene scowled at him, starry-eyes forgotten. “You can't hot read me and then expect me to not notice when you pull the huckster crap.” Deacon chewed on his tongue, unsure of how to backtrack from that one.

She was onto the trick. Again. And that meant they weren't friends. “If you wanna try and out-bullshit a lawyer we’re going to have a rough time of this whole “partners” business.” Ahhh, yeah. I remember why I wasn't good at that “partners” thing. 'Cause I'm not good at the "friends" thing.

Again her eyes critically appraised him. Deacon hated the pinpricks that iced down his spine; he hated being caught.

“If you want to know something, just ask. I don't care if you write down my favorite kind of cereal in some creepy Railroad file to use against me later. I just want to find my son.”

Deacon’s mouth was dry and he knew he was in a corner. “Sounds great.” he said, grinning. Good thing his specialty was bad ideas. “Why do you know so much about stars, then? They teach that in pre-war school?”

Marlene’s lips quirked up like there was some inside joke he was about 200 years too late on. “Sorta,” she shrugged. “But I knew more about constellations than my times tables by the time I hit elementary school. My mother’s doing.”

“Was your mom one of those zodiac people? Or like Mama Murphy?” The sting of embarrassment was fading.

“You could say that. Not...whatever Mama Murphy is, but she was a real new age hippie type, all about horoscopes and tarot and luck. Probably the only mother in Boston who was disappointed her kid wanted to be a lawyer.” Thinking back on it got a grin on her face. “God, that woman...naming me after a bear.”

Whatever words Deacon had expected to come out of her mouth, it had not been those words in that order. He could save his sulking for later.

“She did it for luck and my father loved her too much to argue, but after I started fourth grade they agreed it would be best for me to just be Marlene. Mom still called me Callisto whenever she could get away with it—always too stubborn for her own good. Guess that's where I get it from.”

“Callisto?” The name was foreign; nothing like the pre-war ghouls that he had seen, all Sues and Sals and Johns. He’d...remember it.

Marlene nodded, shrugging in manner that said ‘hell if I know’. “If you don’t know what you're looking for they can be hard to see but it starts with that bright star there,” she pointed up and Deacon was a strong 85 percent sure they were looking at the same flickering light. “Follow that one up to Dubhe.” Okay, 80 percent sure.

She sketched out a shape he...sort of followed, and explained what it was. “Ursa Major, the greater bear. My constellation. And before you ask, no, I don't know why it has a tail. But there's an old myth that says a nymph of Artemis caught Zeus' eye and he—as the king of the gods was wont to do—had his way with her. Hera, his wife, found out and—as the queen of the gods was wont to do—turned the beautiful Callisto into a bear.”

So, not only was she named after a bear but it was really a nymph that was turned into a bear? This was starting to sound like one of the stories he told.

“Why a bear?”

She shrugged. “Presumably so her hound dog husband wouldn't find her attractive anymore. Maybe she just found being a bear suitable enough punishment.”

A beat passed. “Sounds pretty unbearable to me.” Marlene laughed, taken by the sheer punny genius. He couldn't blame her.

In the peaceful lull that followed, Deacon attempted to find the bear in the stars again. It would help if he knew what a bear looked like. But all the best stories had a good ending, and it was nagging at him already. “Then what happened?”

Marlene’s eyes flicked away from his and she sighed. It sounded like she had been holding it since she was shoved into that icebox. “Nothing nice, I'll tell you that.”

Deacon raised an eyebrow, mulling it over. Pushing her on it wasn't likely to get him anywhere yet. It sounded like he’d have to hit the books—find out what the fabled Callisto meant to the real one. He was betting she took the whole thing more to heart than she liked to admit. And maybe he could even figure out what the hell a bear was in the process.

“You know, my first night out of the vault I was amazed at how bright the stars were. You haven't ever thought about it, have you?”

Deacon glanced up again. “That's a luxury we wastelanders take for granted, huh?”

Marlene was quiet. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. He knew she was looking at them, too. A million glittering lights he never bothered to roll over to see.

“In all my years in Boston they were drowned out by the glare of the city. When I stepped out of the vault and saw them...I knew.”

A memory flashed in Deacon’s mind—the shudder of the rusting platform roaring to life, startling him out of a doze and scattering all the birds. Revealing the woman he’d been hoping to find. The moon illuminated the 111 on her back, making her as alien to this world as it was to her. She stared up at the sky like she wasn't ready to see what had become of peaceful little Sanctuary Hills. And Deacon understood.

"You knew the world was over.”

Chapter Text

“Enthused” was hardly the word Marlene would use to describe how she felt seeing Dogmeat again. In the crumbling walls of the Railroad’s headquarters his bark was so loud Tinker Tom almost hit the ceiling and the bitter glares of agents trying to sleep managed to stab from twenty feet away.

“Enthused”, however, was exactly the word she would use to describe Deacon. She didn't even have a second to brace herself before Dogmeat left his makeshift bed beside Drummer Boy’s desk and came bounding at them like a toothy missile. Deacon caught him before he reached her, but she could feel the slobber from where she stood. “Ohhhhh, puppy kisses! That's a good boy!”

For being so shrewd her new partner was embarrassingly oblivious to his new pet's many, many, many shortcomings. Marlene wasn't sure if Dogmeat could breathe on command, much less fetch. Instead he took another opportunity to smoosh Dogmeat’s sleek face into a silly smile like Nate used to do to Shaun to make him giggle and petting so vigorously that a small... dog bunny manifested out of Dogmeat’s hair. Marlene shuddered.

It floated along like a wild west tumbleweed, riiight into the trash can Drummer Boy wordlessly kicked over with perfect timing. He had been stuck with the dog for too long. “Deacon, Rookie, it's good to see you. Des wants to talk.” Drummer gestured a gloved hand behind him. “And this guy’s missed you,” he grinned, looking from Dogmeat to Marlene cheekily.

She shook her head, hearing the chewing out Deacon was going to get this time over putting ridiculous ‘secret admirer’ notes on desks again—signed as someone else, of course. Usually Carrington.

“If you ever give me good news I’ll roll over in my grave."

Drummer Boy shrugged, carefree. “Don't be so sure it's bad, Rookie!” Out of all the agents in HQ, the lanky Communications Officer had quickly established himself as the friendliest and the most behind on work, but any correlation between those two seemingly went over his head. Not that Marlene was complaining; it was a welcome change of pace to talk to someone...normal for once. Spending ninety percent of her time staring at her own reflection in sunglasses was starting to do something to her head. Not that Switchboard had helped that any, either.

Deliverer was leaden in her holster and it had taken three days of Deacon’s tomfoolery to get the images out of her head. It was a slaughter, plain and simple. No mercy, no emotion, just those fucking walking skeletons tearing agents to shreds. They stepped over them carefully, covering their faces to try and hide the eye-watering stench of decay, every distinguishable face staring back in warning. The Switchboard was a graveyard.

Deacon had caught her glancing sidelong at him more times than she was going to admit, but besides the grim lines on his face when he looked down at Tommy Whispers, he didn't make any of his feelings known about the agents scattered like flies at their feet. Even from him, Marlene expected something. Some story or lie or anything. His silence was deafening. But now, a week later? Marlene could picture his reply: one eyebrow cocked and that practiced, knowing, nothing on his face. “Tommy who?”

In contrast to her agent sauntering in with a fleabag in tow, the stress lines wore deep on Desdemona’s face. The rookie let Deacon take point, biting her tongue. Marlene remembered that look. That “I've been up for longer than you want to know and every second of it has been spent looking at paperwork” look.

Every attorney—every good attorney—hit that sweet slice of hell right before trial, but the Railroad’s leader semed stuck that way. It probably accounted for the fact she smoked so many Grey Tortoises she could’ve single-handedly kept them in business just a few hundred years ago. The cloud of smoke that surrounded her implied nothing had changed since she and Deacon had set off for the Switchboard a week ago. Surprise, surprise.

“Heyyy, Des. Heard through the grapevine you’ve got something for us?” Deacon drawled, stretching an arm behind his head.

Desdemona’s eyes only met Deacon's long enough to assess he was still in one piece before her hawkish eyes were on the only agent wet behind the ears. “For Rookie, yes.” she said pointedly, unabashedly flicking ash into her tray and blowing another cloud of smoke. That was surprising. Marlene instinctively looked to Deacon’s dark frames, though he could've had his damn eyes closed for all she knew. Still, it was nice to imagine she could make some good ol’ fashioned eye contact with him now and then.

“Sweet. Got it. Don't mind me, I'll just be over here using this amazing free time to work on my cross stitch.” He took a few steps back with innocently raised hands, plopping into a rolling chair nearby and acting like there was a chance in hell he wasn't going to listen to every word they said.

Yeah, and I'll practice my knitting, smartass.

“Your mission was successful?” Marlene nodded, stepping forward and carefully unholstering Deliverer.

The older woman took it carefully, scrutinizing every mark on it like she’d be taking it to the grave with her. The suppressed pistol wore it's scars, still coated in layers of blood and filth from it's last deployment. From Tommy’s last deployment.

Desdemona offered it back, shaking her head and taking a mournful drag of her cigarette. “Out of all our agents, I never expected it to be Whispers.”

It was uncomfortable seeing a woman so put together—the person who held the whole railroad on her shoulders—shaken like that.

The itch at the back of her throat sent Marlene into another coughing fit she muffled into the crook of her elbow. Desdemona didn't bat an eye, evidently used to agents hacking up a lung. One could only wonder why. “Take it as a lesson for your newly assigned status, then, agent. Something can always go wrong. It always does. Have your partner’s back when it happens.”

Wait, what?

That was the most subtle promotion she had ever received. There was no committee review, no secret test, no talk of goals or whether or not she saw herself hacking on cigarette smoke underneath one of Boston’s most historical landmarks in 15 years. Was she serious?

Deacon took his opportunity to catapult himself backwards and squealed to a stop between them in his rickety office chair. There was a suspicious lack of cross-stitching going on.

He squeaked back and forth excitedly, “I get to keep her, mom, really?”

“Long as she doesn't ask for a transfer.”

________________________

“What’re we calling you, Rookie?” Drummer Boy looked up from his stack of illegible notes intently—scraps and letters, messages, presumably—and added on a smile as an afterthought.

“Mockingbird,” she replied, watching his face for any signs of recognition. His eyebrows furrowed and he thought for a moment, examining her own face just as intently. Then, as quick as it was there, he leaned back and let out a satisfied ‘hmph'.

“Hmph”?

“Good. Ya look like a Mockingbird. I’m the one who juggles all the reports around here, and I hate it when the face doesn't match the name, but I can see it.” His eyes traced over her one more time like he was committing it to memory, and his easygoing grin betrayed the mountain of paperwork on the table beside him.

“Mockingbird. Now that's a name I can remember. Well, now that it's official, here's the spiel. Again, the name’s Drummer Boy, in case Deeks said somethin’ otherwise,” he grinned, sticking his hand out to shake.

“Don't give him the idea,” Marlene replied, sharing the smile.

“And I’m always down here in the tombs, somewhere or other. Couldn't tell you exactly how long I've been here—pretty sure I haven't seen daylight since January, but someone’s gotta make sure everyone gets where they need to be, right?”

Using the table for support, Drummer Boy got to his feet and walked over to a large chalkboard on the back wall. He favored his right leg, a blatant slant to his cadence betraying an old injury. Marlene averted her eyes, seeing Nate's frustrated tears after he’d fallen at the charity dinner. Instead, Drummer Boy whistled as he used a chair to support himself and carve her new name onto the board in big, swooping letters, and nothing about him spoke of insecurity.

She smiled back when Drummer Boy tipped his hat as a toast, a small little phrase nagging at the back of her mind. What Nate always said when asked about his time in the army—or his great-great-grandfather’s, or his great-great-great-great-grandfather’s—war never changes.

Some men laughed when they heard it, clapped him on the shoulder for such pithiness. It was always the ones who hadn’t ever spent a day out of their civvies or spent far too long in the cogs of the machine.

The ones who didn't have to watch him wake up in the middle of the night with death in his eyes or see the neighborhood children gawk at him like he wasn't the same man who left; the same man who played games with them and never let a cat get too far up a tree without him being the neighborhood hero.

It was his great great grandfather's inability to smile, the month Nate spent in the hospital when he should have been back at home, the forever tilt in Drummer’s step. It always scarred.

Marlene tried to ignore the list as long as her arm on the blackboard, most of the names crossed off. And now? ‘MOCKINGBIRD', sitting chipperly at the bottom. She had just enlisted.

__________________________

It was Deacon who had suggested the codename Mockingbird and by the time it was on the board in Drummer Boy’s steady hand, he had one foot out the door. He left her with a chinese finger trap and a boy scout salute.

Typical, she grumbled in her head.

It wasn't until she had helped all she could around HQ and was sent to her damp corner of sleeping space that she realized it wasn't typical at all. Deacon’s sunnies had hardly left her at all during her ‘internship', as they (“they” being their “super-secret cool two-man team”, which Deacon kept trying to make a handshake for) called it.

There was no rustling beside her, no page turning or occasional comment cutting through the silence. Just the heavy breathing of the mutt that inched closer every time he thought she wasn't looking and her usual bouts of coughing. Even the clacking of typewriters and muffled chatter of code felt quiet.

What could he be doing?

Marlene almost laughed at the image that came to her mind. What a stupid question to ask—the question is what isn't he doing? Reading under a tree somewhere, tailing the local elementary schoolers to monitor for Institute activity in the lunch line, throwing rocks at the windows of informants like he was in a cheesy romance flick and quoting Romeo and Juliet, knowing they would take him for crazy. Just for kicks.

“I'm getting my yearly palm reading from Mama Murphy—don't wait up.” He had ‘gifted’ her with the finger trap and went on his way, giving her that shit-eating smile he always did when she rolled her eyes. “Have some fun for me while I'm gone, ‘kay?”

It wasn't long before his distinctly indistinct silhouette was gone. Back to being invisible, surely, out in some crowd somewhere. What Deacon did best. Marlene pulled the mothball blanket up higher, shifting and resigning herself into some form of sleep.

Whatever he was doing out there, her new ‘partner' knew what he was doing...even if no one else did. Hopefully.

When Marlene found herself tugged back into consciousness her world was brown and black and smelled awfully like grave dust. Dogmeat was sorrowful, puffing more hot dog breath onto her face with another sigh.

Gagging, Marlene sat up. That was no puppy breath. Dogmeat was in rough shape when they found him at that gas station, but he had since become three shades darker. He was disgusting, quite frankly.

With the most pitiful eyes in the world he scooted closer—one step away from batting his eyelashes like a college girl trying to get out of a P.I. charge—and sneezed. God damn it. Taking a deep breath, Marlene reached out. If anything was unifying in H.Q. it was sneezing. They all did it. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

Dogmeat’s tail started it's slow drag across the floor, hesitant but excited already. Running a hand along his face provided exactly what she expected: a hand full of cobwebs and grime for her trouble. Wasteland dog or not, he couldn't run around like that. It couldn't be good for his health.

Nate would never leave her mind if she kept the Shepherd around, but ignoring him just let Nate's voice creep back stronger, “Now I know what we said about dogs, but!”

That stupid silly grin he had on when he came back an hour late in a downpour with a filthy dog in his arms was something she’d never forget. Dogmeat settled himself in beside her, happily sniffling through his cobwebs. Marlene didn't stop him. Couldn't.

She was back in the house, listening to rain washing the world away outside and watching Nate fall in love from the kitchen table. A German Shepherd curled in his lap still half wrapped in a towel and her wonderful, brave, heart-on-his-damn-sleeve husband falling asleep in his ruined tie with a hand lazily rubbing behind the dog’s ears.

The memory made her short of breath, but when she felt for her heart the cold metal of her ring caught her by surprise. Fuck. Once she had it she couldn't let go, and the diamond biting into her hand only felt fitting.

It was too quiet, too still when she had nothing to do. She crumpled. Twisted in on herself like she felt real physical pain.

“Fucking softie.”  Whether she was talking to Nate or herself, she didn't know anymore.

That phone call to the owners played in her mind, that awful smile she could hear on the other end when they learned some kind, idiot stranger had run across the Mass Turnpike to help their Rin Tin Tin. He had rescued a very expensive and very missed show dog, and that was the night Marlene had decided he would finally be getting his wish. A beautiful pure German Shepherd puppy, courtesy of his ‘stray' under the tree for Christmas.

Christmas never came.

The tears were quiet like they always had been, racking her shoulders and burning her throat but muffled into fur. Only for Dogmeat and her to hear. Deacon always spoke before they went to sleep, ranging from books to morals to HQ gossip. Finally she understood why.

Because Marlene had forgotten what silence felt like. How silence hurt. Deacon never had.

Chapter Text

Deacon pushed up his sunglasses and yawned. It was late. Like, almost early it was so late.

His informant waited below, sitting on a crumbling brick porch. The cabin sat halfway between nowhere and the Atlantic, and no breeze rustled the trees. It was a warm night for the ‘Wealth.

Still. No reprieve from the silence

It was so quiet he could hear his heart beat in his ears and listen to the thoughts inside his head. Yeah, he’d pass on that particular lecture.

He double checked his magazine, tucking his pistol in the back of his jeans. The man below flipped through the same issue of Grognak he had already ‘read' three times, scanning the treeline. Jittery, sure, but alone. Deacon had made sure of that. There wasn't a suspicious looking leaf within a mile he hadn't flipped over just to be safe.

Circling around the back, Deacon ensured his contact—codenamed Chattanooga—nearly jumped out of his skin when he sidled up. Chattanooga was a farmer from down south who always smelled of tatoes, but despite his name he was not the chattiest. Had a daughter snatched by the Institute, last Deacon could remember.

In his roughest wastelander camo, the two looked like farmers taking a break from their hard work. Deacon even had dirt under his nails.

He cracked his shoulder, putting out his hand. No reason to be nervous, right? Except for there was always a reason to be nervous. Even in one of his easiest personas—John Doe, farmer extraordinaire, who knew everything there was to know about soil quality and sunburns—Chattanooga unsettled Deacon just as much as Deacon unsettled him. At least Deacon’s was intentional.

Chattanooga looked remarkably like a yao guai: massive in stature, with long, dark hair and a beard, scary...well, everything. Probably had sharp teeth, too.

He was also one breath away from telling this ‘stranger’ to pound sand. “D’you have a geiger counter?” he growled, arms crossed.

Deacon threw up his hands like he had just missed it, “Aw, sorry, mine’s in the shop.”

Chattanooga let out a long breath, losing some of the tension in his shoulders. It was a risky move, but resisting the urge to push boundaries wasn't what Deacon was hired for. “Deacon? That you?”

Chattanooga leaned closer like he couldn't believe it and you couldn't blame him. Last time he saw said illustrious spy he was in full Triggerman getup: pinstripe suit, slick black wig and all. Now he looked like he was on his way to a scarecrow imitation contest. He would so win it, too.

“Deacon? Ooh, I've heard of him. Handsome, funny, brave, smart-” Chattanooga slapped his hand into Deacon's, accepting the handshake.

“It's you, alright. Couldn’t forget that mouth if I tried. Thanks for comin’ down.”

“Ask and ye shall receive. Everything okay with your crops?” Deacon scanned Chattanooga for anything amiss. Anything that would explain the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

The same overalls, the same earthy smell, the same gruff voice that came from the bottom of his throat. His crops, though? That was his family—what was left of it, at least—and his eyes widened at the mention. The farmer was still himself, at least.

“No, no, nothin’ like that.” He ran a hand roughly across his forehead, looking cautiously from side to side. “See, I don't hear much but we had this girl run into town a while ago an’-” he licked his lips, “Well it's just that she mentioned some kinda sy-synth place—like, where they take ‘em in up north. Figured you spy types ‘ould like to know. Babbled somethin’ about seeing the stars from there but the guys ran her out before people got freaked. Said she was a jet junkie.”

Now that was interesting. Deacon quirked an eyebrow, rolling the idea around in his head. “You know she's not?”

Chattanooga was sympathetic to the cause, but still blanched at the mere memory of the encounter. “Never seen a broad more sober in my life.” He was also incredibly easy to read—fortunately and unfortunately—and was not the “spy type”, as he put it. Deacon could read him like a grocery list.

He may have wished he was lying, but he wasn't.

It scared him, this idea of some synth enclave out there somewhere. If nothing else, he called the railroad all the way out to say they had never heard of such a thing. Just so he could sleep at night.

Deacon could remember hearing those rumors since he first joined up, he had just never had a lead to follow. It was the railroad’s own personal holy grail, but Des was always too swamped to follow up on rumors. He channelled the most blasé secretary character, shrugging like Chattanooga was sending him after geese. Whatever those actually looked like.

“Never heard of it...Say, what’d you say her name was?”

“Maria.”

Deacon fought the instinct to crack out into a smile. That could count as his first lead, right? Right.

________________

Deacon’s steps felt lighter the closer he got to HQ.

He could picture it already; the cluttered desks, the musty mattresses, the occasional skull rolling around. Couldn't get any home-ier than that.

He didn't get two steps inside before Drummer Boy, playing with a chinese finger trap—hey, Marlene’s chinese finger trap—announced, “You just missed her.”

Deacon blinked, hoping he heard wrong. “Mockingbird left yesterday. Said she wasn't ever good at sitting around doing nothing and figured out your little trick.”

Drummer Boy tossed him a folded piece of paper, and Deacon knew it was his note. He could still train his charge while he was gone, couldn't he? So mayybe the finger trap had a little prize inside. A test, if you will.

Just to keep the antsy agent busy and test her newly-found code breaking skills.

He had taken the Railroad’s primary code and run it backwards, just to be a pain in the ass. Part of him knew she could do it, and that part just so happened to want to be impressed.

Deacon unfolded the paper, revealing his own scrawl and the sleek writing that sat beside it. She had run variable after variable, moving from the logical to the illogical. Where she knew his code would break. That was another key part of deciphering anything—knowing who you were dealing with could take hours of work and crunch them down to minutes.

She had gotten it in under ten tries:
CARRINGTON SUX.

And replied to it: 'Should’ve known it was a test. Thanks for the enlightenment, Cracker Jack. The real mystery I want to know is where you found the finger trap.’

Deacon smiled to himself, slipping the paper into his bag. Her response was exactly as charming as he expected. It wasn't a paper he’d be happy to burn.

Their banter was one of his favorite things about running with the 2077er. I mean, who else ever shot back Thoreau jokes?

Now, the finger trap he had found in the pocket of a skeleton in a really expensive looking suit, she’d be happy to know. She wouldn't believe him, but she’d be happy to know. “Any idea where she went?”

“Said she had to prepare for the trip and she’d be in Diamond City with some Robert?”

Aw, hell. Leave her for a week and she gets impatient and trapses off with the merc again. Of course.

Part of the reason he always missed the good stuff when he tailed Marlene was because he wasn't crazy on the idea of being target practice for MacCready and his lessons. The lanky soldier of fortune stuck around even after Marlene upgraded from knocking off cans to raiders, and Deacon could think of about a hundred other ‘Wealth residents he would have preferred. And at least three Mr. Handys.

__________

Piper Wright was arguably one of Diamond City’s most polarizing figures, and arguing was something she did a lot of.

Anyone who visited the den of wolves that was Diamond City on the regular knew her voice, in written and physical form. If she knew half of the truths she fought tooth and nail to get out of McDonough Deacon liked to imagine she’d be a good ally. He wasn't stupid enough to try.

Today, synths weren't on the menu. Instead, with his luck, it was MacCready. “Buzz off, Piper. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I know she's with you! I can smell a story from a mile away, and there's something huge here. Why else would she be dodging me, huh?”

MacCready took the bait, rounding on Piper. He looked like an angry, far-too-tall sewer rat standing on its back legs. But maybe that was a little unfair. Maybe sewer rats were always tall.

“She just doesn't like being hassled by some kook who wants to use her for some stupid story.”

Piper was undaunted, scoffing. “Not everyone's out for themselves, you know. I want the truth.”

MacCready rolled his eyes, pulling out a cigarette and taking a puff like it would give him back the three years of his life Piper had just taken off. “Yeah, ‘cause the truth ever helped anyone. I don't know what the hell you think Marlene has to do with any of your quack theories, but you’re way off base.”

MacCready stalked off into the ever-present crowds of Diamond City, determined their conversation was over.

“Not like you’d care, but I do! There's something off with her and you know it!” Piper yelled after him, jumping onto her sister’s newspaper crate just to watch him turn the corner out of sight. She had to have the last word.

Interesting. Marlene hadn't ever mentioned Piper Wright was trying to get an interview with her, but watching the reporter fume and scribble something in her scrunched up notepad Deacon couldn't help but sympathize. A noble goal, definitely, but Piper was chasing one of the few people in the Commonwealth who was as serious as she was about the truth.

The thing that kept Piper from getting her scoop was as simple a motivation as there was. Maternal love. The only thing Marlene cared about more than the truth was Shaun.

She didn't say that, of course, but she didn't have to. If anyone ever operated in black and white, it was her. Some pre-war idealism probably, or maybe her own aptitude. Deacon still hadn't been able to decide. But if she was avoiding Piper, it had to be for her kid. Unfortunately, that meant he and Piper were in the same boat. Neither of them had a clue where she was.

It took a while, but even in the hustle of Diamond City Deacon didn't have to wander long before he caught sight of his partner. Probably not the best trait in an agent, being so striking, but he’d be lying if he said he never stopped to admire her in a crowd. Good thing that was a talent of his.

He stopped short, milling around like a usual drifter. Marlene—no,Mockingbird—was talking with MacCready, holding a box of ammunition at her waist and lifting an eyebrow. Teasing him about something. MacCready crossed his arms, rolling his eyes in response.

It was odd how the mercenary never noticed it, really. Marlene practically glowed in comparison to the grime everything in the wasteland had. Piper could feel it, but was too wrapped up in conspiracies to figure out what it was. There wasn't a scar on Marlene, she was highly literate, brushed her teeth, and moved with the ease of someone who wasn't at all afraid of having every cap stolen out from under them. Her companion didn't meet any of those requirements.

It was a mystery what she saw in him.

She and MacCready talked a bit more, seemingly in agreement, and turned to head back towards him. Something brushed against his side. Dogmeat.

His tail wagged as soon as Deacon made eye contact and talk about a surprise. He had upgraded to a light tan color, eyes bright and looking overall healthier. It was instinct, really, but Deacon glanced up at Marlene in amazement. It just so happened that she looked at him at the same time and then he was kissing his dreams of stalking them around the city goodbye. And he had been really looking forward to pelting MacCready with mystery spitballs, too. Damn.

“Hey,” he drawled, shooting finger guns like he meant to reveal himself so early. “What gives with my invite, huh?”

Marlene smiled, giving him a quick once over. Trying to figure out where he’d been. “I’ve been busy myself.” She gestured to her full pack. “Robert and I came to find a hazmat suit but haven't had any luck. Any ideas, Mr. Commonwealth?”

Hazmat suit, huh? “Well, the mall in Back Bay may not be the shopping destination it once was, but they have some pretty sweet stuff if you can get a hold of it.”

MacCready snorted, crossing his arms and throwing a look at Marlene. “I knew Fallon was full of it. Wants an arm and a leg for everything. Five hundred caps! What a joke.”

“Back Bay may cost an arm and a leg, too. Only the ghouls won't be as nice about it.” Deacon kept his eyes on Marlene, who was obviously considering it. She cracked open the ammunition container, eyeing it's contents and sighing.

It was a tall order to get a hazmat suit in the 'Wealth, but before she said anything Deacon knew Marlene was saying yes. Something about sucking up rads made her antsy. “All right. Guess we’re headed to the Copley.”

Deacon blinked. The Copley? MacCready squinted, scowling down his nose at Marlene. “You know what the hell he's talking about?”

“Yes, Robert, I know what the heck he's talking about. He's right, too. There's a survivalist store on the third floor.”

No amount of scowling could hide the blush that colored MacCready's face. “Is all you do stare at soggy old maps?”

“Someone has to know where we’re going.” She tossed the ammunition to him, grinning cheekily and tactfully saying nothing of it. "You two up for it?"

Deacon exchanged an awkward glance with just about the last person he wanted to do anything with. Spending some quality time with a ex-Gunner mercenary out for himself and only himself and one of the few people who Deacon had actual faith in helping the Commonwealth? Where do I sign?

He could smell the potential tragedy. But, hey, fine, it wasn't his job to tell Mockingbird who she could and couldn't invite up to their treehouse. His job was just to make sure said treehouse invader didn't stab her in the back and steal their Grognaks. He could manage that for one trip over to the Back Bay, right?

"This the guy you've been running with recently?" MacCready shifted the rifle on his shoulder, squinting at him like he was last month's chopped mole rat.

Deacon put on a smile, joking, "Whatever she's told you, don't believe a word of it." Mockingbird laughed but her bastard friend's scowl only lessened to humor her.

"I've still got time before I have to head back to Goodneighbor, so I'm in." Marlene smiled way too genuinely at MacCready, thanking him for his help. MacCready grumbled something in reply. When she turned her cloudy eyes on him in that knowing, "Are you going to sit this one out?" look, he felt childish. But mooooom, I don't like Robert!

How she could make not trusting a shifty, ratfaced killer-for-hire feel bratty was a magic trick he'd never solve. Under her even gaze, Deacon found himself nodding his head ever so slightly. More of a bob, really. A reaally, really reluctant one. Marlene brightened.

"Great. Robert, this is Deacon. Deacon, MacCready."

"Deacon? What kind of name is that?"

Marlene didn't miss a beat, looking flatly at him. "The same kind as MacCready."

__________

Well, they had finally made it.

They camped out on the rusted, tiny fire escape of an apartment complex next door to the massive mall, high enough up that Deacon really preferred not to look down.

It felt like hours to knock off the hordes of ferals that crawled out from everywhere, even from the comfort of their very own sniper's nest. Marlene and MacCready were in their element, talking trash and seeing who could down more, ignoring the wind rustling their clothes and making the whole structure creak.

What was better than two-hundred-year-old architecture, huh? How about two-hundred-year-old-architecture five stories up? That was a winner.

Marlene popped her collar, shifting to try and minimize the cold seeping into her wool coat. MacCready reloaded, tossing a look her way. "You're such a wuss about the cold, boss."

"There's a reason they call it cold. I'm sorry if you get a kick out of freezing your ass off, but I don't." She squeezed the trigger, a shambling feral's head bursting like a grape, eyeing MacCready in return. "Besides, you're always in three layers of flak gear because you're fifty stories up. I'd be worried if you were cold."

"It's this or getting swarmed by the frickin' things. People can laugh at 'em all they want, with enough ferals together I'd rather go up against those Brotherhood jarheads you like so much. At least they don't bite."

Marlene laughed, "Fine, let me freeze. But I don't know how right you are. Your buddy knight Rhys might have been foaming at the mouth."

"You sure it's not contagious?"

Marlene knocked shoulders chastisingly with the merc, throwing a look over her shoulder to rope Deacon into this debate. "Deacon, you agree with me, don't you? My fingers are burning."

He hated to say it, but MacCready may have been onto something there. His partner was always bundled against the cold, irritation etched into her face the nippier it got. Totally not the winter wonderland type.

"Sorry, but I'm burning up," he replied cheekily, fanning himself like a southern belle just to be contrarian. The subdued smile that hung on Marlene's lips helped keep his mind off the sickening drop below them. Good. He had taken a backseat since MacCready knocked out their feng shuei—he had to keep an air of mystique to outsiders, after all, but observing without snarky commentary wasn't his strong suit.

Once they got inside the Copley Mall was huge, and they took a break to gawk at it's cavernous ceilings. An odd stone patch of wall jutted out in the center with a border around the bottom, cables and rebar and plaster piled on top. Most of the light came from holes gouged in the roof, cloudy skies visible above.

MacCready's face pinched as he scanned the empty storefronts, his vulture's eye not deeming anything valuable. He rolled a toothpick around in his mouth, making a disgruntled sound as he pushed forward.

Marlene stopped in a patch of light, lingering in a way MacCready didn't ever notice. She looked carefully, taking in every busted window and half-destroyed escalator and no doubt trying to reason this with her memory of life before the war. Deacon joined her silent vigil.

Cold air blustered in from drafts, broken panels swayed idly, once vibrant posters were stained and peeled. She was looking at a puzzle, the butt of an inside joke most people would never know. When MacCready hit the first step on the staircase she started following again and Deacon walked alongside her, trying to figure out what she was thinking just by her expressions.

Marlene idly reached out and trailed her hand alongside the stone wall, a mild lift to her eyes as if she could still be surprised at the two-hundred-year-old pedigree all the wasteland dust had. They weren't dust bunnies anymore, they were dust rabbits. She opened her mouth, about to tell him something.

"Hey, boss, you should see this!" MacCready reappeared at the top of the escalator, smirking down at them. Oblivious as to why Marlene was taking her time.

Deacon stuffed his irritation and exchanged the briefest of glances with Marlene before they climbed to the second floor. Once there, it was obvious what MacCready found so funny. Two skeletons in the rags of what used to be a suit and a yellow dress, arms wrapped around each other in a last embrace. Dozens of papers littered the floor.

Civil defense flyers.

MacCready handed one to Marlene, snickering. It was ragged but the bright red and blue words were still legible. 'THIS IS NOT A DRILL. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND IF UNABLE TO PROCEED TO YOUR NEAREST PUBLIC SHELTER, DUCK AND COVER.' Deacon recognized it—you didn't see many flyers from pre-detonation, but in the city you sometimes found them cluttered among the rubble and advertisements for Slocum's Joe.

Marlene blanched and Deacon felt a twinge of guilt as her eyes dragged themselves across the page, knowing what she'd find. "See how much good 'duck and covering' did them," MacCready chuckled, blasély turning to start up the next set of stairs. It...well, it wasn't a problem that was unique to him.

Deacon felt like an asshole thinking about it, but people in the Commonwealth drew a hard line between themselves and the mythic, stupid people of pre-war America. He had always had an interest in history, and knew that wayyy before Marlene came around, but it wasn't until knowing her that he'd begun to feel so damn guilty about it.

To most people, skeletons were an eyesore. A clatter of bones that were only good for their amusing poses or raider jewelry. To Marlene, though? He grit his teeth, fiddling with his sunglasses and conveniently not looking her direction. Trying to block out all the times agents in HQ had tossed around skulls like hot potatoes.

Marlene didn't say anything, dropping the paper and making a show of rolling her eyes at MacCready. "What, like you've got a better idea? I'll take anything that lessens the possibility of my face melting off, thanks." She jogged to make up the few steps he had on her, "and what did I tell you about the 'boss' thing?"

They were off to the races again, MacCready's nasally voice cutting back against Marlene's mellow, slightly accented tones. Deacon found it funny—her East coast squawking was only ever noticeable on 'o' heavy words, like boss. So it wasn't ever quite boss, it was bahs. It made him picture the classy lawyer done up like the guards in Diamond City, all suited in baseball gear and talking about lousy beer and broads.

He'd pay to have her ham it up like that sometime. He'd probably have to wait until she was a few drinks in, though.

A few haggard ferals later Deacon waited with Marlene while MacCready raided the food court, stuffing box after box of Sugar Bombs in his bag.

His partner appeared more interested in the first floor than old cereal. Surprise, surprise.

He leaned his back against the railing, slinging an arm over it just to get her attention. The usual cloudy color of her eyes seemed gloomier than before.

"That used to be the largest fountain in Boston. Back Bay was the ritziest shopping district in town." She nodded towards the rock wall that stretched from the first floor all the way to the fourth. "Kids used to throw coins in it all the time. For good luck." Deacon would be lying if he said he understood America's obsession with fountains—not if it was socially unacceptable to drink from them, at least. Still, he could sympathize.

"Don't tell MacCready that," Deacon quipped, only because he knew the merc couldn't hear. "Is it weird seeing it two-hundred years later?"

Marlene chuckled, mimicking the way he leaned against the railing. "No. It didn't work for the last two years, anyway. The city shut it off in it's 'rationing policies'." She trailed off, leveling her gaze at him. "We weren't stupid, you know."

There was something in her eyes that said a lot more than she did. Marlene was bad about that. Some defiance, some righteous indignance and understanding that their worlds were lifetimes apart.

"We talked about it a lot. Nate and I talked about it all the time. We just couldn't stop it. You can only bang on politicians' doors for so long." She sighed, working her jaw and trying to soothe her own worries. To come to terms with it centuries and months later.

"Hey, about the flyers—I know it wasn't like that. People just like to think like that 'cause it's, y'know..."

"Easier?" Marlene offered, crossing her arms. "Can't blame them, really. We always say the same things; 'How could it get to that?' 'It'll never happen again.' 'We learned our lesson.' I don't know if we ever do."

"People really haven't changed, huh?" He watched MacCready's determined scavving, wondering if he should tell her he found that comforting. Marlene might not appreciate it.

Quiet for a moment, she clasped her hands together. Judged whether or not she should share more. "They never dropped the flyers in Sanctuary Hills. The vertibirds passed right over us and the sirens started right after that. You could see them. When I ran with Nate, they looked like birds. It reminded me of something he said a long time ago...though I guess everything is a long time ago now."

The corner of her lips twitched downward, a private mourning crossing her face. Sometimes it scared Deacon just imagining everything going up in smoke. Your home, your friends, your family, every person you ever even passed on the street-

"Hey, boss!"

Never one to miss an opportunity to gawk, Deacon threw a look over at the mercenary as well. Whatever words that came out of his mouth were overshadowed by the "Holy hell" Marlene threw at seeing the full yellow suit MacCready pulled from under the donut counter.

If Marlene would ever jump for joy, then would've been the time. Most people would just pop some rad-away and be done with it—even with the hype around the glowing sea—but her unspoken fear of radiation made sense to Deacon. Y'know, being 2077 vintage and all. See what some radiation can do to a lizard and the clicking takes on a whole new meaning.

Oh, and that whole "destroying the world" thing. That one was kiiinda important.

After MacCready was satisfied he had soaked up as much praise as he could handle, he lit a cigarette and followed Marlene like a purse dog. I mean, Deacon followed, too, but he wasn't half as punchable for it.

They lingered outside and the spy extraordinaire didn't think anything of it until MacCready mindlessly blew some smoke on her in his chatter, sending Marlene into a coughing fit most agents only pulled off in the catacombs...in the painfully open skies of the Back Bay.

"Oh, shit! Sorry. Forgot." Deacon couldn't have imagined the mercenary putting out a cig that fast for anything. As soon as the coughing subsided his eyes flicked between their faces, trying to find the puzzle piece he was missing.

"You okay?" MacCready asked.

Marlene's eyes flicked to Deacon, flashing guiltily. Suspiciously. "Fine," she brushed past him, making sure to leave a large gap between her and them. "Let's get going."

Chapter Text

"It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, you know."

Deacon's cryptic statement interrupted her careful Rad-X count. "What doesn't?" 11, 12, 13.

"You. Mockingbird."

Marlene gave in, throwing a look over her shoulder at him. "You do remember you're the one that came up with that name, right? Have you been knocked in the head while I wasn't looking?" She swept the monstrous pills into their container, knowing she was over prepared and still having to fight the urge to recheck everything. They had food, water, stimpaks, med supplies, Rad-x, Radaway, and ammo. The sickening green that clouded everything in the distance still looked like certain death.

Deacon looked up from his Yankee Doodle Bird Guide, "that was a week ago! Old news by now. Say, how does Cardinal sound? Did you know ducks slept with one eye open? Ever see a hummingbird in real life?"

Okay, so he was joking. Running his mouth as usual.

She would've complained about whoever sold him a bird guide but really, it was just a relief he was back to his chatty self. Deacon had played coy around MacCready, and all she had to do was look at Robert's face to see how well her partner was received. Apparently the only natural enemy of a polite liar was a direct asshole. So she said goodbye to Robert in Goodneighbor and she missed his sighing already. But it was for the best. He'd only try and talk her out of it, anyway.

Because anyone in their right mind would look at the endless nuclear green that stretched out in front of them and realize what a mistake they had made.

Deacon? Deacon smoked and caught up on his bird watching knowledge. Apparently the kiwi had the largest egg-to-body ratio of any bird. If they weren't extinct before...he started. While Deacon joked around, Marlene's palms sweat. Her weak heart was just another reason she wasn't fit for this job. Nate should've been the one here—would've been able to patch that suit of power armor up from Concord and stomped in and found Virgil in the time it took Marlene to stop recounting their Rad-X. Like going over and over the file of a case she knew she'd lose.

Surprisingly enough, walking straight into the death cloud wasn't that bad. Not at first, at least. It didn't seem to dampen Deacon's spirits, at any rate. Whatever boy scout jamboree he had playing in his head, it was a world away from the suffocating worry that had settled in her chest.

This twist of fate was just more proof she should've been the one on ice. What a joke, sending her in instead of Nate. If there was a God he was one sick puppy. Why should the 6'5" power armor mechanic be the one to survive the nuclear apocalypse? Well, maybe because his desk job wife had a pacemaker and couldn't even drink coffee?

So she crinkled along in her hazmat suit, listening to her pip-boy tick faster and faster until it was just one static hiss in the wind for Deacon to talk over. Well, she thought. People always said lawyers should go to hell. They kept it low and slow, and spent large swathes of time hiding in the charred rubble while massive scorpions skittered by. As bad as they were, nothing sent her heart bouncing around her chest like hearing a heavy gait in the distance, evocative of raider guts and the glint of blood on metal.

Focusing on Deacon's footsteps got her through it while she counted evenly and suppressed the flutter that was starting in her chest. They got to a shanty town in the crater, and Deacon grumbled "Children of Atom" under his breath. Children of Atom? That sounded like it was ripped straight out of one of Nate's comics.

"What the hell is that?"

"Your friendly neighborhood radiation worshiping cult." Oh. Of course it was. Lightning flashed above them, and a low growl resounded closer than before. "Annnd maybe our best bet for now. Feel like turning on that antique charm of yours and getting us some directions?"

There was nothing more alienating than standing in a pit of what used to be a neighborhood and forcing a smile for the kook that had threatened to execute you a minute ago for wearing a protective suit in their holy place, except maybe having a giant lizard separate your head from your body. She didn't get a yellow brick road for her trouble, but at least they knew where this mysterious scientist's cave was. Kind of. Bostonians weren't any better at giving directions two hundred years down the road, but at least there were no harebrained ideas about banging a u-ey downtown or getting on the mass pike at five. Turn left at the big fuck-off rock, right at the stingwing nest.  Got it. Doable.

Marlene wasn't about to complain at their turtle pace, either. Having to dole out more Rad-away to Deacon made it clear another half hour had slipped by within spitting distance, but there was no Glory to back them up. Her partner had his talents, but no matter how many bird puns he came up with it wouldn't mean anything if what found them didn't have a sense of humor. Nothing in the Glowing Sea did. Hell, even she was too busy sweating in her own personal oven to sigh at his jokes. The suit was a pain, sure, but it was the last protection against this new fucked up world she had. Being dunked in this much radiation at once...she was amazed Deacon wasn't green.

She almost said it plenty of times. "Hey, if my suit rips out here I'm going to have a heart attack. Just, y'know, a fun fact. It would probably kill me instantly."  I mean, she couldn't even go through metal detectors. But what would it matter, really? He wouldn't drag her back at this point, but it felt like admitting too much. She could talk other people into whatever she wanted—she was good at that—but convincing herself there was any way she'd get used to this place? With old metallic co-workers, roaches bigger than corgis, cults and creatures ripped straight out of a Saturday night radio play?

Marlene, in the depths of her chest, under the the squeaky vinyl of a hazmat suit and those layers of certainty she wore like armor, knew she was was out her depth entirely. She was afraid. The 'Wealth, the wastes, whatever you wanted to call it—here, sneaking by horrors in such an arid, empty shell of a place wasn't where she could afford to show her weaknesses.

"At least it's not a real sea," she sighed, talking more to herself than Deacon.

"What, don't tell me you can't swim," he elbowed her, wagging his eyebrows. Obviously joking.

"No." Almost drowning once had been enough for her.

It took a while for Deacon to realize she wasn't just being deadpan, and that only stopped him for a second before he was back to firing off jokes like he sucked in air. It could be a wasteland thing, she thought. Grow up with a nice sprinkle of deathly radiation in everything and the nuclear graveyard where Roslindale used to be is just a junkyard. It's a nuisance, like Robert and skeletons or the Atom Cats having to fight off Gunners to get back to poetry night. It took a different breed of person to just shrug something like that off. Something that they weren't born with, something the wasteland made them into.

So to Deacon the Glowing Sea was a dangerous eyesore that smelled like rotting eggs and decay. Never mind it was where Nate's folks lived.

Maybe it was just the odd light bathing everything that made it look like he was gripping his rifle especially hard.

They waited for the earth-shaking footsteps to recede completely, and Deacon nodded for her to stand. Marlene took a breath, seeing only charred trees and a half-collapsed building through the storm. They started off, already past the humming hive and knowing they had to be close when the ground shifted under her feet. She shoved Deacon forward. He yelped a little, but didn't ask questions when she started dragging him forward full pelt. Glancing over his shoulder and seeing the ground start to fall away right where they stood probably helped.

The massive claw that emerged looked even larger than other radscorpions', drenched in clouds of green like some eldritch abomination. Marlene ran alongside Deacon, choosing directions on a whim and looking for the slate gray of rocks. Anything this new world whack-a-mole couldn't pop out of. Firing a shot would get anything in a mile radius on their ass in minutes, and Marlene still had to fight every nerve in her body that shook on her trigger finger.

When Deacon stopped dead she whirled around to face the skittering of too many legs behind her, finally getting a full on view of the ugly that was pursuing them. Well, if they were going to make their presence official, she would be happy to start out with a bullet between one of it's unblinking eyes. "Wait!" Deacon grabbed at her suit, tugging her after him in a sudden turn, leaning into it like a pointer dog. It wasn't long until she saw what Deacon did, and Marlene had never been happier to see a turret.

Deacon dove in first and she happily scrambled in after him, a second before the turret's hum turned into the harsh electronic beep of it engaging. It sprayed the radscorpion, showering them in hot casings and any idea of stealth had just swan dived out the window. Marlene's breaths came in gulps and she slumped against the rocks while her pacemaker kicked in, righting her crazy rhythm. Virgil's cave! It had to be. They actually made it! Cans jingled behind them. "Oh. Visitors," a voice boomed. She tilted her head backwards and for once, staring up at an eight foot tall super mutant, Marlene was at a loss for words. "No sudden moves," he enunciated clearly. Ho-ly fuck. Marlene could manage that. 

So they talked to Virgil—talked Virgil out of killing them, actually, and Marlene recounted everything from Shaun's kidnapping to blowing Kellogg's brains out. Marlene agreed to find his serum if she made it into the Institute, and everything he said clicked piece after piece into place. The molecular relay only worked because the most dangerous synths the Institute had were implanted with chips in the back of their heads to zap them back and forth. Coursers. They were going to have to hunt down something that was made to kill and turn the tables on it. Deacon looked pale when he considered it. "Not many agents have even seen a courser, much less lived to tell the tale. Even a heavy...well, it's a good way to get your name crossed off the blackboard back home."

Virgil was unwavering. "It's the only option you have. You're farther than anyone else has gotten, and you're the only one who can do it." He blinked slowly down at Marlene. "That pip-boy on your wrist, it has a radio, doesn't it?  The primary insertion point is in the ruins of CIT, which is directly above the Institute. Whenever the relay is used, it creates a lot of interference across the whole EM spectrum. A radio tuned to the lower end of the band should be able to pick it up and follow it to the courser itself."

Marlene stared back at herself in the dim glaze of her pip-boy's screen. It could lead her right to them, and it had been on her wrist this whole time. It could lead her right to Shaun...

"The courser chip, just tell me what it looks like."

It only took an hour for everything to go wrong.

Marlene would be fucked if feral ghouls were what took her out. Literal ghosts of the old world tearing flesh off bone, taking chunks of her with them bit by bit. Piece by piece. People she might recognize if their faces weren't melting off their bodies. If they weren't creatures doing their best to plunge teeth and nails through the tinfoil that kept her heart going right. They should be commenting on the Boston smog and saying curt hellos, all done up in their—God, what day was it—Wednesday best.

Who wanted to die on a Wednesday?

Marlene had never had to fire so quickly in her life. Aim, fire. Aim, fire. Aim, fire. They had almost been out of the Sea when the ferals had surrounded them, pouring out from an old office building like an old horror flick. Deliverer slammed back in her hand over and over, just barely forgiving her shaky hands. Ferals flashed up in a blur and crumpled just the same, getting closer each time. One, two, three, four...She took a step back. Deacon's shoulder bumped against hers and he tried to say something through the din but Marlene couldn't listen.

Not through her heart pounding in her ears.

It was so fast she couldn't say how they got separated, but what had been ten each turned into what felt like three dozen hands grabbing at her, fetid rotted fingers tearing against her suit. A blow from the back knocked her sideways. Hands waited. She unloaded at anything that touched her, nothing but ghouls in sight.

Marlene wrenched her arms free over and over, knocking them away just to get pulled another direction.

A steady thumping was enough to send the ghouls into even more of a frenzy, and the crinkling plastic suit was the only thing that meant she didn't have bites taken out of her. It was hard to breathe. Where was Deacon? "Deacon!" She yelled, his rapid fire feeling further and further away. The thumping only got closer. But priorities, priorities. It wouldn't matter if a deathclaw set up a fuckin' spit and slow roasted them if they were already dead.

"Polo!" a ragged voice called back, barely sounding like himself. Jesus Christ, Marco Polo. Leave it to Deacon—Marlene tried to catch a glimpse of him and was blindsided, a feral's face lunging forward until it connected with her own. Blow after blow it practically swung it's head off it's neck, clamping it's hands on her arms and making the whole world rattle.

She grabbed for the Bowie knife on her belt, tearing it loose and slashing up in one brutal arc. Glass splintered onto her face when the mask cracked with the final headbutt but the feral dropped. Marlene screamed and reeled back, the cuts on her face already pouring blood. The air clawed it's way down her throat, thin and reeking of a nightmare.

She couldn't see. She couldn't see and her heart was exposed.

"Birdie! Birdie!"

Marlene lost it. The stomping only got louder and she was thrown around like a rag doll. She wiped and wiped and blood still streamed over her vision, giving ghastly visions of feral ghouls cut through bright red. Her heart ran away from her, unguarded and screaming, screaming, screaming. She was afraid. So afraid and her heart knew it. She couldn't hide it anymore, and the pain wiped her out like she hadn't felt in years.

A body would slam against her and she'd stab and stab until it stopped moving. As feral as they were. Certain she was going to die.

Funny, as it got closer the deathclaw sounded more and more like Nate. The mechanical, pressurized, whatever-the-hell of his suit. What was the newest design? T-60? He had been so proud of that one.

Marlene couldn't help the relief that washed over her at the thought of Nate coming to carry her over that hill. She didn't want to see it, the end. The teeth sinking into her face and getting to her neck in strips. They pawed at her body like pigs on the subway, wanting to take her back. Her heart felt like it was going to burst when her head was yanked back by her now free hair, sending a shot of pain up her neck and leaving her head tilted back to the sky, taking big, gasping breaths of radioactive debris.

Her heart fought her, scrambling like she was in cardiac arrest. She took one swing and hacked off the hair that was trapping her. She was wasn't losing it, she was lost. The rumble got so close Marlene could almost hear Nate's voice, smell his pomade through the blood and filth and sickness in the Sea. "You want to name him Shaun? That was my favorite uncle's name. The baseball player down in South Philly."

Shaun's face came back to her, all pink and new. His little arms, reaching out for her. She was the only parent he had left. The glass dug deeper into her face when she tried to shield her eyes from the blood, so she gave up seeing. The world swam through her radiation sickness and she sunk the knife up to it's hilt against any feral she could reach. Fuck it, she thought. I can't die here. Shaun needs me.

Nate would have to wait.

The sudden crack of laser fire almost made her faint. The bodies piling up against her lessened and Marlene couldn't even afford to think. Her guardian angel could be Nate or his cousin Louie for all she cared. "Birdie!" Deacon's voice cut through again, somewhere behind her.

She tried not to choke on blood and glass. "Deacon!" Marlene was grabbed by a force so powerful it lifted her off the ground. She swung wildly, shocked when her knife reverberated on contact. Metal. Actual metal.

"Haylen, fall back and head north. We don't want to take on any more of these things than we have to."

Not Nate, but it reverberated in her chest the same way. Deep and low. Danse.

"Stay with us, civilian." His gruff voice crackled through his helmet, as steady and sure as iron. Every step he took swayed the world and made her feel like her organs were tossed from one side of her body to the other, but it only made her grip on the cold metal harder.

Like a drowning cat even after the scream of ghouls stopped, even after his rifle quieted, even when the silence let the bits of glass in her face come back into her focus and she picked out the first few shards to feel the warmth of blood flooding down again, flowing all the way down to her chin and dripping off. Hell. She really was in hell.

Marlene couldn't tell if it was the adrenaline, the blood in her mouth, or the radiation sickness that made her puke, but she had the decency to lean away from the man while doing so. Everything after that was patchy, just his voice issuing commands and Deacon's voice beside her—maybe his dumb sunglasses, too—trying to keep her awake. "Pacemaker. Can't take radiation. Heart," was all she managed. 

When Marlene opened her eyes again, she could see. She saw orange, in fact. A beautiful shade that dipped into something dark in the corners of her vision.

"Birdie, take these." Deacon was ringed in dying color, blood splattered across his dingy shirt and drying onto his armor. He squatted down and shoved pills into her hand. Marlene didn't ask questions and choked them down, trying to find where all the breath in her lungs had gone. She was propped against a wall out in the middle of nowhere.

Scribe Haylen was the one she saw next, a damn friendly face even if the fear on her face was evident. "Ms. Crowley! Try and relax and slow your heart rate, it will help stop the bleeding. Here, we'll help you up—we're very close to our camp."

Christ on the cross, standing made her lightheaded. Haylen was there to catch her and mustered a surprising amount of force for her tiny frame, steadying and coaxing step after step out of her. She was tiny, and Marlene was still surprised when Deacon slipped his arm around her side and leveraged hers behind his head to take over, anyway. Not that he was incapable of being helpful, but..Marlene tried to keep her head up enough to see the side of his face.

He looked like shit, too.

The rag kept running red. Deacon would dunk it and hand it back and Haylen would tweeze out another shard, wincing for her.

"It's pure luck you weren't blinded." Marlene couldn't turn to see him, but could imagine the look on Danse's face anyway.

"Yep." Marlene was too drained to stop the lecture that was incoming. The world was still shaky.

"What were you thinking going into the Glowing Sea without power armor? When you asked about it before I told you whatever you were hoping to find in there wasn't worth the risk, and I don't know why anyone would tell you otherwise."

Deacon looked at her, one eyebrow raised. She sighed. "No one told me that, Danse, alright? I had to-" Her jaw clamped down on her tongue when Haylen pulled again, and the familiar warmth dripped down her lips. Deacon looked green. She put a hand up to her face and held the rag against where it burned. It was all half-real and slick with sweat. Lucky she could still talk. "I had to go to help my son. Sorry you had to drag us out of there, I appreciate it."

Danse sighed. "Then consider it returning the favor for your help in Cambridge. It's not my place to split hairs on the reason behind it, but you should have come to us for aid first after you made your decision."

Now that? That was funny. "What was it Maxson called me? A distraction?"

Haylen snickered under her breath, which at least made something feel normal. She had spent a fair amount of time aboard the Prydwen with Haylen and Danse (Rhys, not so much), absorbing every scrap of information she could from the Scribe and naturally falling in step with the Paladin. She loved the ship, laying on her back in a bunk and hearing the distant echo of footsteps and the barking of orders. A true military brat. How sick was that, she wondered? Finding peace by throwing herself into unquestioning structure, the promise that someone else would know what to do?

It was easy to sink into it—for once in her life losing herself to the system hadn't felt like such a bad thing. And that was exactly why she had to leave.

Danse's voice still held that disappointment. "He was only stating the fact that continuing to engage with you has no benefit for the Brotherhood or our goals in the Commonwealth." He stepped into her field of vision, pulling up a stool beside Haylen's and loosening Marlene's grip on the rag. It was red again. She hadn't noticed.

"Because I won't join."

He wrung it out with much more force than Deacon did, pouring purified canteen water over it. "Yes. You would have been a natural fit and when I informed Elder Maxson he shared my hopes. But it was your choice." He handed it back.

Danse wasn't used to keeping feelings from his face and his heavy brows knit together. I'm disappointed but it doesn't mean I stopped caring.

Teaching her practical skills, eating with her in the mess hall, asking if she knew the story of one historical battle or another. Maybe he had a feeling all along she'd say no. Maybe that was why he felt freer when they spoke, prone to long discussions on whatever oddity they passed in their travels. And then Maxson passed her and Haylen poring over some unissued power armor schematics and looked at Danse. "Danse, last you informed me Crowley refused to enlist."

Danse had taken a deep breath. "That's true."

"Then she's a distraction to your work. Our work." And that was that.

Danse was oddly silent on the vertibird ride down. She thanked him and wished his squad luck and he kept his eyes trained to the floor. It was only after she stepped off that his eyes met hers and he said firmly, "Stay safe." She hadn't replied in that moment—just looked at him and saw everything he didn't want to see. He wasn't afraid of losing himself in the machine. He was afraid he had nothing to find.

Danse guided her hand towards her nose, reminding her to apply pressure gently but with intent. When Deacon asked if she was going to need stitches and Danse and Haylen started seriously discussing it, Marlene already knew the answer.

"Let's just get it over with." They flushed the wound one last time and even with the numbing cream swiped over her nose and down to the corner of her lip, Marlene couldn't decide if Haylen and Deacon were more nervous than she was.

Jesus Christ, what do I look like?  She stopped digging her nails into her palms and looked at Danse instead. "Will you do it?"

Danse's hands rested steadily on her face and she tried not to think of asking for a shot of whatever they had that was strongest while he tilted her head down and pulled the needle through as quickly as possible without sacrificing precision. His eyes flicked up to hers frequently, but he left Deacon to fill the silence with idle chatter and bad jokes. They sat together in reality. Marlene watched her blood run down his arm, creeping into the neatly folded sleeve of his jumpsuit.

The longer she looked at Danse, the more it settled back in her stomach. If it hadn't been the feral ghouls, she would have gone into V-fib and then cardiac arrest. Nate would've freaked to beat the band. When they met she had been slamming back an office's worth of coffee to make it through the day. He charmed her down to something more reasonable, then eked it down and down and somehow convinced a woman who made it her life's work to win arguments that she could live without it. All because some doc said it was bad for her heart.

And here she was, doing everything short of mainlining radiation into her bloodstream. Begging her pacemaker to fail.

Danse undoubtedly had Maxson ringing in his head and stayed here, anyway. Doing his best to tug thread through her skin and asking for nothing in return. "This has no benefit for the Brotherhood," she murmured, careful not to move her top lip. Not that she really could.

Danse met her gaze. "I am aware of that."

"So it was your choice to help us."

Danse's voice dropped to match hers. "Meaning?"

"You're a good soldier, Danse. Don't let that fool you into thinking that's all you are."

Marlene didn't have the heart to look at herself until she was alone with Deacon.

They fished out a tape from a dead drop and he insisted they rest up at an abandoned safe house. It wasn't secure any more, but so out of date that it had been dropped from any Railroad registry or Institute watchlist. Dust to dust. It covered everything in a fine film, and a gouge in the ceiling let in just enough moonlight for them to find their way around.

It had probably been easy on the eyes before the bombs: Atlantic blue-gray paint on the walls, a low, dark wood loveseat and chair set in the living room. A patinaed sunburst clock hanging crooked. It was a small space, and Marlene took one end of the hallway and Deacon took the other.

She pushed open the first door. Empty. What had clearly been a young girl's bedroom, peeling pink wallpaper and the skeleton of a bunk bed. Marlene swallowed past the lump in her throat. It was just like Shaun's bedroom. His splintered cradle, his baby book... She closed the door. Deacon waited until she placed her hand on her other doorknob and signaled. They shoved them open, but the only ferals left were the ones in Marlene's memory.

They both let out heavy breaths. "Clear," he said. Marlene wanted to reply. Wanted to find the word hanging in the back of her throat—wanted to find any  word there. But the only one she managed to breathe out was "mirror".

The door frame creaked under her white-knuckled grip, but it was all that was keeping her upright. The sink was opposite the door, throwing back her own reflection. Chewed up and spit out. Marlene had to see all of it—every ugly cut and blood encrusted, butterfly bandaged souvenir. She stepped closer, dragging fingers along lacerated skin. A drop of blood came with her hand when she pulled it away, splattering in the sink basin. Nothing else followed.

It didn't even look like her. Not like the cheeks her mother had lovingly pinched; the lips that Nate always found like second nature. Nate. Marlene was tired of pretending like her heart didn't ache just thinking about him. What would he think if he saw her now? This world had cut her open from the corner of her lips to the other side of her nose, and she was a fucking hypocrite for hating it so much.

"Hey, Birdie, you know it'll be okay, right?" Deacon lingered behind her, tucking his pistol into his jeans and leaned against dirty tile. She couldn't blame him for the bullshit that was coming out of his mouth. It was the only thing you could say. But it was laughable he had a straight face while saying it.

She let her head drop between her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut. "What's okay?" Her whole body ached. "Really, what is it out here? Breathing? I'm not sure anything could be worse, Deacon." She dragged out a morbid smile for the stitches, the all too close reality of death. "So we found Virgil. Now we have to hunt down a courser, kill something that's designed to be a killing machine, search the whole state for scraps to build something so technologically advanced if everything else in my life weren't so tremendously fucked I wouldn't believe it existed. I just want my son, Deacon! I can't—I don't know how much this can take from me."

The silence needled Marlene with the fear of saying too much. She had played her cards so close to her chest, held back from Robert and Nick and Danse and almost every other friendly face out here. She didn't know what about Deacon was different. Maybe nothing.

"I know it's a lot. I'm not going to try and convince you of anything different, but I didn't offer to be your partner just because I like the sound of my own voice. I mean that's a bonus, but I really think you've got a shot. More than any of us. I don't know what it means to hear it from me, but I know it feels bad right now. I get that. Today...sucked. But we're doing something about it. You're doing something about it."

Marlene nodded, trying to believe that. Funny. The one time he was serious and she was waiting for the punchline. "Wait there."

Deacon came back with a bar stool and set it behind her, tapping the back and palming a pair of scissors. "I can fix one thing already." Marlene looked at the pathetic shape her hair was in, mutilated by her own knife and rotting hands. Deacon snipped in the air like a grade schooler. "I've shaped up plenty of wigs," he said, like that was supposed to inspire confidence. Marlene drug a hand through it and tried to let it all go. Smiled at him, even. As much as it hurt to do. "I did say it can't be any worse, right?"

She couldn't look away from her reflection, from the red wisps of hair dropping past her shoulders to the careless line carving her face in two. It was so vain to survive the apocalypse and get upset because she'd be scarred. She was such a hypocrite. Deacon was quiet for once, and it pulled the words from her before she knew it. "I came home from work and got a letter from Nate once. I almost couldn't recognize his handwriting. He had cried all over the page and kept telling me how sorry he was. 'They say they're giving me a medal and I'm coming back but I'm not me, Cal.' Heroic idiot saved his squad and got second and third degree burns for his trouble. His face and neck, his arm and almost all of his chest." Marlene stopped. It was too easy to go back there. To that horror. Those long nights whispering everything Marlene had never dreamed Nate would need to hear from her.

He held her with his 'good' hand as tight as he could even when he wouldn't let her touch him.

It took Deacon a while to respond, and Marlene let the gentle clipping lull her into closing her eyes. The weight dropped off, the blood and fear and the fallout clinging to it. What those ferals had touched. Ruined. 

"And you still loved him when he came back?" He asked.

"I couldn't stop loving him if I tried. I still can't." Marlene bit her tongue, her throat tightening again as soon as she opened her eyes. "He would be so disappointed if he knew I couldn't look at myself the same way."

Deacon shook his head. "You're too hard on yourself; you're still allowed to, like, feel things, Birdie. And the scar? Just think of it like...wastelander camo. It'll get better way sooner than you think and then what do you have to worry about? One badass scar?" He held out his left arm and twisted it around so she could see a long, thin scar on the back. "Look, here's one of mine. Not nearly as cool. I mean, I got it taking down a mirelurk queen, but there's no drama to it. No pizazz. We can start telling people a deathclaw gave you yours. That's what Maxson says, isn't it?"

Deacon snickered to himself, running his comb through her hair and evening out some of the choppy length left. Marlene laughed despite herself. Deacon definitely had a way of putting things, good or bad.

"Where did you actually get that scar? It looks like a knife wound."

"I've told you never to rearrange Carrington's shelves before, right?" Marlene just rolled her eyes. But the smile hurt a little less.

"Do you think it's a little crooked?" She tilted her head both ways, looking carefully at the way the left side seemed slightly closer to her shoulder.

Deacon crouched to get level with her. He circled around her for a solid minute in perfect silence, looking almost comically intent. He was serious, tucking a hand under his chin. "I think you're right. Let me take a little bit off the left." He raised the scissors again and Marlene surprised them both when she caught his wrist.

"No, I...I like it." Deacon's face was unreadable, but he didn't move away. After a beat he cracked into a smile, cocking his head to match her haircut's slight slant.

"Hm. You know? I think I like it, too." 

It was a quiet night, and Deacon said he'd take dinner duty while she washed her face. They talked about some of their favorite authors while she set up her bedroll and he sat cross-legged on the couch, trying to remember if he had read anything by Yeats. He was human. A man who stumbled over words long dead and grinned when she half-remembered the ends of his sentences.

Marlene carefully traced her new memento with the rough rag and smiled back. For one fleeting moment, it was almost like she wasn't alone. 

He stacked chair legs up like a post-nuclear boy scout and shoved scraps between them for tinder, getting a fire going and ramen boiling over it like second nature. She guessed it was. If Deacon smelled like anything other than soap or sweat, it was usually the cheap sodium spice of ramen packets. He slid off the sofa to sit beside her while they ate, and Marlene appreciated it without comment. It was odd the things you missed: the sleepy morning coworker hellos in the elevator, the connection from sitting shoulder to shoulder over a shared meal. God, so much was gone... but not this. People hadn't changed. It was a hard pill to swallow sometimes.

Deacon stretched as far over as humanly possible without uncrossing his legs to fish around in her bag for chopsticks with the tips of his fingers. Somehow he didn't fall over.

It was funny, without saying anything the gold and black lacquered ones she had found in the Fens were hers and the red plastic ones were his. He offered them out. "Thanks." The noodles still tasted cheap, but Deacon added Cram to the pot so at least it was overpowered by the pork salt. He sat casually, one knee pulled up and a loose grip on his chopsticks. Marlene saw him, his glasses flooded with green light. Looking over his shoulder and gripping his rifle tight, even as he ran his mouth almost incessantly. This felt a lot more...natural. She chewed her ramen slowly.

Maybe he had been just as nervous as she was.

"You really shouldn't touch your stitches, you know." Deacon eyed her over the rim of his bowl, slurping. She hadn't noticed her hand creeping up to touch them again.

She gripped her necklace instead, wishing it could lessen the guilt in her stomach.

"Can I ask you something?" She turned away from the fire and faced him. "The real you?" 

Deacon set down his bowl. "If you're sure you want the answer."