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ziracona · 2 years

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“There isn’t any time!”

“-s—yes there is! There’s time, because there has to be! Think for a second!”

“-Deacon-!”

“-Just! Shut up! —think, for a second, Dez. We can’t rush it! We have—we have to be tactical here.”

“I understand that, but the risk is too high. We have to treat this like a worst-case scenario. We don’t have the time to figure out if it is, and gamble with people’s lives.”

His head was aching, and his side throbbed. The voices were hushed, desperate, angry, tense, but he could hear them well enough. It was so quiet past the pounding in his head, it would have been hard not to.

God damn it! Damn it...

How had this happened? What had happened?

And what now? Do I just…die?

Shit. Probably. Probably in about a minute here, one of them would come over and put a bullet in him. He didn’t know why they had bothered to keep him alive so far at all.

“I get the impulse, but panicking is going to hurt us in the long run,” came one of the voices he knew again, calmer now, trying to appeal to reason, “If we have to evacuate /everywhere/, then, to where? We have to burn tourists?—how do we replace /every/ supply line? Who do we warn? ‘Everyone’? We can’t warn them all at once, so who first? Even if we go for a complete salt and burn, we have got to at least go into it with an idea of what to prioritize, or it’s going to get a lot worse than it already is.”

Pleading. He almost sounded like he was pleading. Like he knew how bad it really would be. Maybe he did. Preston didn’t.

“…Fine.” The woman he knew as the leader of the Railroad let out a breath, agitated, and shifted her feet somewhere in the next room. He heard the creak of a floor, the sound of rustling fabric. “You see what you can get, then, and I’ll hold off on some of the runners. We need to help our own wounded first anyway. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Preston couldn’t see any of them, but he heard them all moving then. They were in the next room, but still close—or. It was a library, maybe more accurate to say a few rows down. He was near a corner, by a little hall. One of them was coming this way, but he couldn’t see, laying how he was, on the floor on his side, facing away. He couldn’t get up. His arms where handcuffed behind him around a pipe by the floor, but it wouldn’t have really mattered anyway. He’d been shot, and the fight had all gone out of him in an instant hours ago anyway. Even if he’d been free to run, he was pretty sure he’d have just laid there. What else was there to do?

And now one of them is coming to kill me, probably.

He was scared, then, with the thought, because he wasn’t sure what would happen once the trigger was pulled, and he was dead. Where he’d be. If he’d be. There was a lot of fear in that.

But, there was fear in everything. Maybe it would be almost peaceful if someone decided to make it end. That was a feeling he was used to too.

And both feelings filled him at once as a pair of mud spattered sneakers entered his vision, and as their wearer knelt, Preston tried to look up.

Oh.

It was a painful, sick ‘oh’ in his head.

“Garvey? Still awake?”

“Yeah,” answered Preston quietly, looking away from Deacon.

“Good.” He started to say something else and stopped, distracted, and Preston felt a hand on the wound in his shoulder and flinched. “Still bleeding…”

It hadn’t been a question, so Preston didn’t give an answer.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time,” said Deacon, former focus back, removing his hand from the wound. Preston wasn’t looking at him, and Deacon must have wanted him to, because he moved his hands beneath his face and tilted it up to see him. Sick, Preston obliged and looked back. Deacon was bleeding too. So much on his arms and chest that it was hard to tell if any of it was his, and if so how much. There was spatter on his face too.

He’d removed his sunglasses. He must have done it just now, when Preston wasn’t looking, because he’d had them on when he sat down.

It was different, seeing his eyes.

That was probably why he’d done it.

“I need you to tell me everything you know,” said Deacon, voice calm and reasoning, but intent, pushing. “Who else knows? Was Sole bringing backup? Did they hit the safe houses too? Who else is coming?”

Preston met his gaze; it was imploring, expectant even. It was too much to look at, now.

“I don’t know,” said Preston hopelessly. The truth.

He felt sick. Sick from his memory, sick from seeing Deacon’s face, sick from blood loss. It would be good maybe, he thought now, to bleed out now and be done with it, after all.

“You don’t know?” echoed Deacon like there must be an error here, “Were you alone when he approached you? Did he stop anywhere? Did he make any calls before going in? Did he say anything about after? Did you see anyone else?”

It was so hopeless. You kept me alive, for information, and I can’t even give you that.

“I don’t know,” whispered Preston again, feeling Deacon’s palm against his cheek, and how cold it was, “I thought we were coming to warn you until he started shooting.”

He wanted to cry.

There was a change in Deacon’s expression at the words.

Preston didn’t recognize it.

For an instant, Deacon glanced away then, thinking.

“I’m sorry, Deacon,” whispered Preston, easier when he wasn’t having to meet his eyes, voice weak and cracked, “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” said Deacon levelly, looking back then, “I know it.”

It was all playing in his head like it had been for hours now. It could only be what? Thirty seconds of time, and it had changed everything in his life.

The loop went on and on behind his eyes, like this time he might be able to alter it.

Sole, walking in. Telling Desdemona what the Institute wanted. Deacon listening, thinking fast. Not worried about the immediate at all, among friends. Planning ahead. Preston had been doing the same, but passively, ready mostly to follow someone else’s plan and get to work. And while they were thinking, Desdemona had asked if Sole was still with them, and Preston had thought that it was sad, that her life, her line of work, must have been the way that would make her feel the need to ask a question with such a clear answer.

And then Sole had shot her.

Not first though. Gone for Glory first. She’d been right beside him, like Preston was, doing exactly what Preston had been, and he’d pointed the gun casually to the side, said, “No. I’m not,” with a regretful little smile, and pulled the trigger. Everything had slowed for Preston like it always did only for the kind of moment he wanted to remember least, and he had watched in shock as Sole turned the gun on Deacon. Everyone had gone for their gun then. It had been chaos. He’d fumbled automatically to get his own rifle up, not even thinking, not able to think in the utter shock and confusion of what was happening. Only muscle memory responding in the face of sheer horror. And a woman who’d given him caps once for the Minutemen had leveled her rifle at him with hate and betrayal and fear on her own face, and God help him, in his fear, he’d gotten his gun up first and fired.

He didn’t know where he’d hit her. He couldn’t remember, because he hadn’t even thought about the motion when doing it at all. But he remembered her shout. And sweating, panicking, he’d charged a shot and swung his gun around for the next target. It couldn’t have been more than six seconds, all that blood, all that fundamental, permanent change. Six seconds. Sole was firing. Carrington had been shot. There were only six of them in the room with Preston and Sole, good enough odds. And the person on the other end of Preston’s sights when he looked had been Deacon. Teeth gritted, already bleeding, shouting something Preston hadn’t heard, leaning to shove Desdemona out of the way of a round from Sole that would have taken her head off. A clean, easy shot. Just across the war table. Deacon had sensed the barrel, and looked at him. Fear, desperation. He had swung around and brought his gun up too, but not fast enough to stop Preston from killing him, and they had both known it and watched it happen like statues. And instead, only thinking once, Preston had pivoted left, his gun barrel almost against Sole’s temple this close, and blown off his head.

He remembered the moment the head broke, and then something had hit him in the side. Someone had shot him, and he’d been knocked against a pillar and gone down, and he hadn’t tried to get back up.

“Garvey.”

Deacon was saying his name in the voice of someone who’d already said it more than once, and Preston was surprised by how much of a struggle it was to focus on him again. I. I…am dying, maybe. I…think.

“I need you to think,” said Deacon once Preston met his eyes, “as hard as you can. You didn’t know. But how did it happen? What exactly did he say? Anything you can remember helps. Anything at all. Were you alone? Was this in Sanctuary?”

“S…” Sanctuary? “…No,” said Preston weakly, struggling now to remember, “No, I was with him. He…relayed in and out by bunker hill. Told…” What had he said, exactly? “…me that. Shaun wanted the Railroad taken out. When I asked what happened. I said ‘What now?’ He said, ‘We go talk to Desdemona.’ I. I thought…”

“Yeah, I would have too,” said Deacon quietly, looking away again a second. “That’s good, though,” he continued when he looked back, “If you were with him when he relayed out and back, that means he didn’t tell anyone else who wasn’t inside. That helps. No stops, no radio calls on the way in?”

Preston tried to shake his head.

“Okay…” said Deacon, thinking hard, “Alright. He doesn’t ever have a strict time frame to check back in, when I’ve run with him, so that gives us a little time before they know something’s wrong, if we’re careful. This is better than I thought…” His face was caught up in a scowl, lost in rapid thought, but past that he almost looked relieved now. It made Preston feel better to see it. Maybe they would make it. “He mention anything about any of the safe houses? Anything except coming to HQ?”

“No,” said Preston.

“I really need you to think,” pressed Deacon calmly, careful almost, “If you can, if you remember exactly what he said, tell me.”

“He…” Preston stopped, struggling to remember and be sure under the intense scrutiny, thinking about what else might happen to these people if he didn’t remember enough, or remembered wrong. Come on. Come on. What had he said?

Bunker Hill. Talking to Meg about her little side business while waiting. She was a sweet kid, and it was nice. Traders coming in. Worried a little by how long it was taking. Then, he’d been back. Preston could never get used to the sight of a relay. It was like a comic book come to life. He’d been relieved, and a little anxious. Said something like, ‘General? Everything go alright—you look a little shaken up.’

Had he? Or had Preston imagined it. If he’d payed more attention, would the worry have read as a different emotion? Had it been worry? Had Sole even thought about what he’d do, had he labored over it? When had he decided? On the walk? The second he was asked? Weeks ago? Preston had no idea. How had he had no idea.

Shit.

This was his fault. His fault, again. The same thing that had happened in Quincy. His leader had sold them out, and he hadn’t noticed in time to save anyone, and people were dead. Nothing had changed. Three years, and he hadn’t changed, people hadn’t changed, the world hadn’t changed. Nothing had. Nothing.

“Preston.”

Shit. Deacon had never used his first name before. And now I’m not even keeping it together enough to help the little I maybe could.

“He said…” tried Preston again, forcing the little energy he had left into focus. “‘It’s the Railroad. They’ve decided they’re too dangerous to keep alive anymore, and he knows I know where to find them. I’ve been ordered to go to HQ, and take care of leadership.’”

That was it, wasn’t it? And he’d said ‘That doesn’t sound good. What do we do?’ and Sole had said, ‘We go talk with Desdemona.’

And Preston had felt relieved, and said, ‘Alright,’ and that had been it.

“That was all?” pressed Deacon, needing to be sure.

Preston nodded weakly.

For a long few seconds, Deacon forced him to hold his gaze, searching for something. Lucidity? A lie maybe? Preston didn’t know. But he found it, or didn’t, and let go of his face then.

“Okay,” said Deacon quietly, resting Preston’s head back against the floor, “Thank you. I can work with that.”

Preston tried to nod, and gave up at a weak half motion. He just didn’t have the strength. I wonder if he’ll kill me now.

Deacon hesitated a second, then stood, already somewhere else in his head. He didn’t take out a gun, or say anything else, just turned and went back the way he’d come.

“Wait,” called Preston hoarsely, feeling a sudden fear well up in his chest that Deacon would go and he would bleed to death alone in a few minutes and never say anything to anyone again.

Deacon had already moved past him, but he heard him stop and turn, waiting.

“The woman I shot,” choked out Preston, trying to keep his voice from splintering, “Did I kill her?”

“Rekha?” said Deacon quietly, “No, you didn’t. At least, not yet.”

‘Not yet.’ “Bad?” asked Preston, feeling his eyes well up past what they could hold, and staring at the ancient peeled wallpaper opposite him.

“About like you,” said Deacon quietly, voice softer than usual for some reason, “But, I think she’ll make it.” There was a moment of hesitation, and then his footsteps receded, and this time, Preston let him go.

#Fallout 4 #Deacon #Preston Garvey #fallout 4 fic #fo4 deacon #I told you’d I’d make a drabble Damn it!#Me writing Deacon and Preston’s lives made worse by Sole angst again ‘I just think they’re neat’. look they would have had insanely #impeccable interactions if they spent more time together it’s not my fault there’s unlimited potential in that relationship. also I love #them both so much. ALSO also one of the biggest goofs in FO4 is the things that don’t turn companions hostile and at Least Nick Preston #Hancock and Pipes should all turn hostile if you try to kill the RR after working with them & it ain’t gonna write itself

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