17. The Mother of Sorrows

After a week of no contact from Whisper, Deacon was starting to get restless. Had she been captured by the Institute? Killed? From what he’d overheard at his surveillance station outside the Boston Airport, even the Brotherhood wasn’t certain what had happened to her. The explosion that had rocked the terminal a week prior had been extraordinarily violent. What if Whisper hadn’t made it out in time?

In spite of wanting to wait around for news about his partner, Deacon had left the warehouse after four days. He still needed to find Trailblazer, and whether he liked it or not, the work of a Railroad intelligence operative was never done. With Whisper MIA, he was once more the only agent in his department. The spy could put off the search for Trail for another week or so, if he made himself useful in other ways. If he got extremely lucky, Trailblazer would resurface on her own and save him the discomfort of having to coax her back into the fold.

Deacon wasn’t a coward, not exactly. There were facets of his personality that had been locked away in the deep dungeons of his heart, and there they had to remain, no matter the circumstances. The blood-rage that came along with his anger could never see the light of day again, not if he could help it. The spy typically found it easier to avoid confrontation rather than risk letting himself lose control.

But now, by running away from an uncomfortable situation, Deacon had made things so much worse. If he’d just talked to Trailblazer about Tommy’s death, the naive and kind agent might still be safe in Stanwix Safehouse. Instead, she was out on her own in a world that would show her no mercy. Deacon couldn’t help but feel responsible for her fate. At the same time, he couldn’t bear to find out what had happened to her after she’d vanished into the Commonwealth.

So instead of actively looking for her, the spy headed northeast, following the highway towards Salem. It had been months since the last time he’d had a chance to check in with his informants there. After the Switchboard had fallen, the Railroad’s safehouse in the region, Randolph, had gone dark, leading HQ to cut off most of their contact with the area until things cooled down again. Technically, Deacon still wasn’t supposed to operate along the northern coast, but as it was, he needed to clear out a few of his old caches. If he happened to determine the fate of Randolph Safehouse while he was nearby, that would just be frosting.

As he neared the bottom of the peninsula, however, his inner turmoil compelled him to head east instead of continuing north to Salem. His troubled steps, as they often did, steered him towards Nahant Island. The small island community had been decimated by the War, its peaceful rows of wooden cottages never designed to endure the punishment of nuclear fire. Of those structures that remained, only a few had anything worth exploring, and Deacon knew them all backwards and forwards. Nahant, in spite of its proximity to the raider stronghold of Libertalia, was still a peaceful place. Exploring it always calmed his nerves, gave him a renewed focus.

Arguably his favorite building in the town was the chapel, its tall, white spire providing a gorgeous view of the bay. Sometimes, when he found himself in the area, Deacon would spend hours tucked up in the steeple, enjoying the chance to relax while he could take it. There was a serenity he found there, in spite of the ever-present danger of Mirelurks and raiders. It was towards the small church that he now headed. If nothing else, it would do him some good to feel the breeze off the bay, to let his worries drift off into the crashing waves for a few moments. Besides, it was getting late enough in the day. He could camp there, and resume his journey to Salem in the morning. Anything was better than bedding down on the freeway.

Instead of blissful silence, however, when Deacon approached the chapel door he heard a muffled voice from inside the building. The spy froze, listening carefully as his heart thudded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Someone was intruding on his sanctuary, and he wasn’t thrilled about it. It was hard enough finding any quiet place in the Commonwealth, let alone quiet and relatively secure. That someone else was in his space was irritating, and potentially dangerous.

“...but why?” the voice cried softly, filled with unbearable anguish. “How could you do this to me, after everything I’ve been through?”

Deacon frowned. He knew that voice. It was Whisper’s. But who was she talking to? What was she doing here? He eased the door open quietly, sneaking into the narthex. Whisper knelt in the small sanctuary in front of one of the few remaining pews, her head inclined upwards as she continued to speak.

“I don’t understand, Lord,” she continued, her voice contorted in pain. “I’ve been trying so hard to do the right thing, to help as many people as I can. Why are you punishing me like this? My son…of all the things you could have willed, why do this to us? Do you even give a shit about us? Or did they kill you too, when they destroyed the world?”

She was oblivious to Deacon’s presence as he crept closer, which was for the best. As curious as he was, the spy did not want to disturb her. Deacon’s heart ached for her. It was hard to believe after all she’d endured that Whisper still clung to her faith. Perhaps it was a comfort to her, a source of strength. He wasn’t entirely sure.

The only people Deacon knew with any sort of religious fervor were the Children of Atom, and they weren’t exactly known for their serenity. Well, there was the Brotherhood of Steel, he supposed, and their nearly religious obsession with technology, but that was its own form of crazy. Whisper didn’t seem insane, or even a zealot. She just seemed...lost.

“I...I don’t know if I can go on,” Whisper prayed. “I need a sign, some way to know you have a plan to get me through this mess. I know it’s terrible to ask, but I can’t do this on my own. I need help. Please, just give me the grace to carry on.” She knelt in silence for a few minutes, her eyes still fixed on some blank space above the ambo. What she was looking at or for was anyone’s guess. Her lips continued to move even as she watched and waited, continued silent pleas for help spilling from her.

Deacon gently eased himself into the pew behind her, careful not to intrude on her meditation. Even still, the weathered wood seat creaked in quiet protest as he sat. He saw Whisper’s shoulders tense, though she continued her silent vigil. After what felt like an hour, she finally looked away, sitting on the pew with a melancholy sigh. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” she mumbled. “You sure as hell never listened to me before. Why start giving me anything now?”

“Well,” Deacon said softly, “I might not be a god, but if it was up to me, I’d have given you laser vision. That’d be cool as hell.”

Whisper’s abrupt laughter echoed through the empty church, mingling with her residual tears in a choking cry. “I thought it was you, Deacon,” she said, gasping for air as she calmed down. “What are you doing here?”

Deacon grinned. “Oh, you know, I was just out for a stroll. But what about you? How long have you been back?”

“It’s been a few days,” she said, sniffing as she wiped her runny nose and tear-worn eyes on her sleeve. “I...I wasn’t sure what I should do, actually. And when that happens, I usually find myself here.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “Did you know that I grew up just a few doors down from here? My dad’s house is gone now, of course. But we always used to come here for Mass. Hell, I even got married here. St. Tom’s has always been my special place, I guess.”

Deacon grinned. “Mine too! I like to come here sometimes. Not to pray, or anything. But I love the steeple. It’s a good place to sit and reflect.”

“That’s really crazy,” Whisper replied. “Of all the places in the Commonwealth…”

“Tell me about it,” the spy agreed. He stood from his pew, climbing over the back of the bench in front of him to sit next to her. “So, I’m sure you realized that I heard, like, that whole thing,” he continued. “Spy habit, and all. You might as well fill me in on what happened.”

Whisper shook her head. “I’m not sure I should. It’s not that I’m unhappy to see you, Deacon, and I do want to talk,” she added hastily. “I just...I’m not sure I want Dez knowing about any of this yet.”

Deacon chuckled. “Well, what if I promise not to tell her anything until you’re ready for her to know?”

She frowned. “You’d do that for me? No offense, Deeks, but you’re not exactly the most trustworthy when it comes to keeping secrets. Gathering intel is literally your job.”

Deacon had to admit that she had a point. And most of the time, he’d eagerly offer up any kernel of information to his boss without hesitation. But something in the way Whisper looked that night, the way she held her arms crossed over her abdomen like she was guarding a wound… he couldn’t bear to see her suffer.“Yeah, but blabbing your business isn’t,” he replied. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, Whisp, but I just want to help you.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?”

Deacon nodded. “I mean, if it makes you feel any better, we could go sit in the old confessional over there,” he joked, gesturing to a half-decayed wooden box against the wall. “Seal of Confession and all that.”

Whisper snorted. “I’m pretty sure that only applies to priests,” she mused. “And you’re just a Deacon.”

“Hey, how do you know I’m not ordained?” the spy retorted. “I was pretty close with an old priest back in Rivet City, you know. Fr. Clifford. He was one heck of an agent. A shame his parish closed down after his death.”

“Something tells me, in spite of your codename, that you’re not the holy orders type,” Whisper replied. “My Bible’s a bit rusty, but I’m pretty sure lying’s a sin.”

“The Ink Spots certainly think so,” Deacon mused, humming gently.

Whisper smacked him playfully on the arm. “You know what I mean, you ass.”

“My point stands, Whisp,” the spy said. “I might not be the most reliable man in the world, but if you need me to keep your secrets, I will. But act now!” he continued in his best advertiser voice, “This offer is limited!”

She sighed. “Fine. I...God, where do I begin?”

“Well, you’re not a ghost,” Deacon offered, “so obviously the Signal Interceptor worked. Maybe start with what happened after that.”

Whisper took a shaky breath. “It was strange. When I arrived, there wasn’t anyone around, just a few computers in a startlingly clean room. When I stepped inside, I expected the Institute guards would swarm me right away. But instead, I heard a voice over the intercom. A man’s voice. He welcomed me, told me his name was Father.”

Deacon snorted. “He actually called himself Father? Well, that’s not creepy in the slightest.”

“It gets worse,” Whisper continued. “He told me that he was going to let me see my son, kept telling me about how I was misinformed, that the Institute wanted to save humanity. I took this elevator through this huge, clean facility...and then there he was. My boy, Shaun. He looked exactly like I saw him in Kellogg’s memories, with my eyes and Nate’s wavy ginger hair that never fucking behaved...” she trailed off, trembling slightly. Deacon didn’t ask her any further questions, just waited for her to continue. “Deeks,” she said at last, her voice full of trepidation “it was terrible. Shaun was terrified of me. He cried out for that man, Father. And then, this old man entered the room and used some sort of recall code on him. Shaun...he was a synth the whole time, Deacon.”

“Shit!” Deacon exclaimed. He honestly hadn’t been expecting that. As far as he knew, the Institute had never created a synth child before. That bit of news definitely had some serious ramifications for the Railroad’s work. “So, what happened to your real son?” he asked. “Do you know?”

Whisper looked up at him, her emerald eyes bloodshot and full of uncertainty. “My son...he’s Father. He’s the fucking head of the Institute.”

“What?” Deacon stared at her, gobsmacked. “How’s that possible?”

“Apparently, my husband didn’t die a decade ago,” Whisper replied softly, wringing her hands. “He died almost 60 years ago. I was...I was frozen for that long.”

Deacon frowned. “Whisp, it wouldn’t be the first time that the Institute lied. Maybe--”

“That’s the worst part,” she interrupted, her voice shaking. “I know Father’s telling the truth. He looks so much like Nate’s dad, there’s no way he’s not our son. But I missed everything. He’s an old man, now. I never got to see him take his first steps. I never got to teach him to ride a bicycle...” She laughed bitterly. “Most importantly, I guess I never got to teach him not to be a slave-making monster. The Institute...what they’ve done to my baby…” Whisper broke down in deep, soul-wrenching sobs.

“Damn it,” Deacon muttered, taking her hands in his. “Whisp, I’m so sorry. Damned Institute. Is there nothing they won’t destroy to further their own ends?”

Whisper squeezed his hands tightly as she continued to weep, gasping, shallow breaths punctuated by heaving cries of torment. Deacon wished there was more he could do for her. Part of him wanted to just take her in his arms, to protect her was much as he could from the pain that consumed her, and he nearly acted on that impulse. But he held himself back. No. He’d already crossed one too many lines with her. If things went any further, if anyone saw and misinterpreted what was going on...he couldn’t risk it. So instead, he just sat awkwardly next to her as she wailed, hoping that his presence, at least, might give her some comfort.

Eventually, Whisper’s breathing slowed, and she blew her mucus-filled nose on a small scrap of cloth she’d extracted from her bag. She stared at the filthy cloth for a long while, her bloodshot eyes filled with guilt. Deacon couldn’t even begin to guess the cause, at least until she spoke.

“Deeks, I can’t go back to the Brotherhood,” Whisper said emphatically, standing from her pew. She paced across the floor in front of Deacon, rambling almost hysterically. “I just can’t. How am I supposed to look Danse, Maxson, any of them in the eye, knowing what I know? They want to kill my son...a man I don’t even know. But he’s my son, my baby...how can I hurt my baby?”

“Then don’t go back,” Deacon replied calmly. “You have no obligation to, Whisp. They don’t know you made it out of the Institute yet, right? They probably think you’re dead. If not, we can fake your death or something. They never have to know. How’s a freak deathclaw-riding accident sound? Too much?”

“Deacon…” Whisper warned.

“Not enough?” he asked. “Well, I could say you ran off and joined the Children of Atom. I did that for a few months, you know. The chanting was a bit maddening, but the outfits were fun.”

Whisper groaned. “Deacon, I can’t. I have to report in, or Danse will be punished. I can’t do that to him, after everything. He deserves more than that. He deserves the truth.”

Deacon shook his head, standing to meet her. “No. Whisper, I can’t let you do this to yourself. Just...damn it, just stay with me. Together, I know we can figure out a solution.”

“I...I can’t,” she replied, looking down at her feet as she fussed. “I can’t tell the Railroad about Shaun either. What would Dez do, if she knew the truth? There’s no one I can turn to, Deacon. I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

That was it. Before he had a chance to stop himself, Deacon caught her wrist as she paced frantically past him, pulling her into a tight embrace. Whisper struggled against him for a moment before settling into his arms, her cheek flush with his. The soft, subtle scent of her homemade shampoo filled his nose, and he had to fight the instinctual urge to bury his face in her brilliant white hair.

“You have me, Whisp,” he said softly. “Whatever you need, I’ll help you.” And for once, he knew that he completely meant it. In spite of his best efforts, in spite of his own reservations, Deacon would do anything for Whisper...for Myra. The realization was terrifying, but somehow, he couldn’t back down. Not now. Not as long as she needed him.

“I thought you weren’t a hugger,” she mused after a while as he held her.

“I’m not,” he replied with a smile, “but who’s gonna believe you if you tell them this happened?”

She chuckled. “You’re an absolute bastard sometimes, Deacon, you know that?”

“Eh, I’ve been called worse,” Deacon said, releasing his grip on her. “So, how about it? You and me, the open road, some awesome undercover hijinks?” The spy grinned warmly at Myra. “Come on, a little danger’s just what you need to take your mind off things. And I’ve got just the plan. Before I ran into you, I was on my way to Salem. I’ve got a contact up there, real nice guy. Frequents a bar run out of an old garage across the North River. I’ve been meaning to reestablish contact for months. It should be a nice, easy job. Are you in?”

“I guess,” Myra said glumly. “But you know that running away from everything isn’t a solution. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face this.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replied, “but let’s worry about that later. Right now, what you need is a distraction.”

She sighed. “Okay. I guess I could use some fun. But only if I get to wear something cute. It’s been a while since I’ve had an occasion.”

Deacon nodded. “We’ll stop by one of my caches first. I don’t keep a lot of women’s clothes lying around, but I should have a few things you could try on.” He eyed her carefully. “I mean, you’re taller than the last woman I stocked clothes for, but I think we can make it work.”

Myra’s tear-worn eyes lit up like those of a dog who had been promised a scrap of meat. “The last woman? Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about that.”

Deacon shook his head. “Come on, Whisp. You know I’ll just make something up anyway. Why do you even bother?”

“One of these days, you’ll tell me the truth,” she replied with a soft smile. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

The spy chuckled, trying to cover his doubts. “Like I’m that easy. Besides, if I told you the truth, I’d lose all my mystique, and then you’d leave. I can’t have that, now, can I?”

Myra echoed his laugh. “Definitely. I bet you’re actually boring as hell.”

“Not that boring seems to be a problem for you,” Deacon replied. “I mean, you like Danse, and I’ve never met anyone more boring than that guy.”

Her smile faded. “I don’t want to talk about Danse right now,” she said. “Not until I’ve figured out what I’m going to tell him about Shau...about Father.”

Deacon cursed himself inwardly. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s not think about any of that stuff. Hell, if you want, we don’t have to think about anything at all.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Not thinking for once sounds great. Now, you mentioned a bar. I assume there’s alcohol there.”

The spy grinned. “You know there is.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Myra replied. “Let’s get going!”

“Whisp,” Deacon warned. “We’re going to work, not to get drunk.”

She frowned. “I can do both.”

Yeah. This was a really terrible idea. But Deacon couldn’t bring himself to tell her no. After what Myra had been through in the last week, she’d earned a little stupidity. And hell, what was the worst that could happen?

::::

The Puritan’s Vice would have been an unremarkable pub, except for its location on the ridge of a tall spit overlooking the river. It was evening when Deacon and Myra arrived at the bar, and the gentle neon glow from its exterior shone like a beacon against the brackish waters like a siren call for boozehounds. The building itself was fairly small, four or five diner booths and a long bar taking up a great portion of the available space in the dining area. Behind the bar was a small but respectable kitchen, offering a selection of well-curated snacks to ease the flow of alcohol. Outside, several rowboats had been converted into the roof of a large deck, where a handful of additional tables in various states of disrepair served to expand the dining room.

“So when’s this contact of yours supposed to show up?” Myra asked quietly, swirling her second whiskey gently in her glass. She sat beside Deacon in one of the weathered old diner booths, her striking hair brushed and pinned elegantly around the top of her neck. The dress she’d chosen from the cache, a simple green cotton number, clung to her every curve. It might have been slightly too tight, but hell if the spy was going to complain. As far as Deacon was willing to admit, she looked stunning.

“We’re early,” Deacon replied with a sigh. “Always best to check out the crowd before any secret dealings. ‘Hasn’t that idiot Deacon taught you anything?’” he added in a pretty spot-on impression of Dr. Carrington.

She chuckled, “No, he’s usually too busy fooling around to tell me anything important.”

Deacon huffed, casually throwing an arm over her shoulder. He leaned in close to her ear, nearly pressing his lips to the delicate skin. “As if anyone could ever fool around on you, beautiful,” he whispered. The spy did his best to ignore the alarm bells in his mind. Just for tonight, he’d decided, Railroad protocol could fuck right off. Myra had been through hell. She deserved some fun.

Myra gasped as his breath tickled her skin, her shoulders tensing. “God damn it, I’m trying to concentrate on the job.”

“So am I,” Deacon protested. “You’re the one who said it’d be fun if we went undercover as a couple when I asked what cover you were comfortable with. I recommended that you play my sister. Or did you forget?”

“There’s undercover,” she hissed back, “and then there’s...whatever this is. I’m getting tired of your games.”

“Liar,” he protested. “You love my games.”

“Takes one to know one,” she replied, pulling away from him. “Fine. Let’s play. First one to slip out of character owes the other one dinner. And I want that awesome brahmin steak they serve at the Colonial Taphouse . The one that costs 300 caps.”

Deacon smirked. “Oh, you foolish fool. Don’t you know I never break character?”

“Then this should be easy for you, shouldn’t it, handsome?” she asked, gazing up at him with those damned emerald eyes.

Deacon was once again extraordinarily grateful for his sunglasses, though he wished the lights in the bar were a little dimmer to hide his blush. His subconscious berated him for his behavior. She was the one drinking, so why was he letting his guard down? Why was he so eager to play with fire, after everything he’d witnessed? “Like taking caps from a dead man’s pocket,” he replied, “darling.”

Myra laughed hoarsely, tossing back her drink. “Barkeep!” she called, shaking the glass in the air. Deacon frowned, pulling her arm back down.

“I know you’re new to this business, Hope,” he hissed, “but we’re supposed to be avoiding drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t want to spook our supplier.”

“Oh, so that means I can’t have another round, Davey?” she asked, pouting slightly. “I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to marry you, you cheapskate.”

Deacon stifled a laugh, taking her glass. “Fine. Wait here.” He walked to the bar, eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble. So far, everything looked fine, which worried him. The Commonwealth was teeming with suspicious people. That a bar at this time of night would be bereft of a few rough bastards was unlikely. Something told him that this was a setup.

“Seems quiet tonight,” he said to Myra when he returned with her whiskey.

Myra nodded. “Like the world itself is stopped, just for us,” she murmured demurely. Her eyes flashed with concern as they met his, but she quickly played it off with a gentle smile.

Deacon sat back down next to her, resting an arm casually around her shoulder. “With you here,” he mused, “I think I could handle that.”

“One of you two had better have a geiger counter,” grumbled a gravelly voice as a figure approached their booth. The newcomer was short and lean, wearing a filthy gray suit that was about two sizes too big for him. His dirty blond hair was matted and long, kept contained somewhat by a dark fedora. Deacon grinned as the man slid in across from them.

“Sorry, pal. Mine is in the shop,” Deacon replied. “Remind me to teach you the new code before I leave,” he added in a low whisper.

The newcomer looked Myra over appraisingly, his rheumy eyes curious. “Long time no contact. I thought you were dead. Who’s the broad? Another of your... packages?”

Deacon shook his head. “Who’d kill little old Scavver Dave? I’m too lovable.” he gestured to Myra. “This here’s my wife, Hope. We’re celebrating our honeymoon. I told her to stay back at camp, but she insisted on coming along for this meet and greet. Hope, honey, this is Mr. Morrow. He’s in the scavving business too.”

Myra shot Morrow a winning smile. “It’s a real pleasure,” she said. “Davey never introduces me to his friends. I keep telling him, how am I supposed to be a good hostess if I don’t ever get a chance to entertain?”

“Well, if you stopped inviting your brothers around so often,” Deacon said playfully, “my friends might be more comfortable with you.”

Myra chuckled, kicking him under the table. “So, have any scrap we might be interested in buying off of you? My dear husband promised me something nice for a wedding present, as if being with him wasn’t a present in itself.”

Morrow nodded with a chuckle. “You lucky dog. As a matter of fact, I have a nice watch here that would suit the lady perfectly,” he replied, pulling a beautiful silver wristwatch out of his blazer pocket and sliding it across the table.

Deacon intercepted the piece, studying it closely. He noted with satisfaction that the battery compartment was slightly loose, a tiny scrap of paper peeking out around one of the seams. “How much?” he asked.

“There are quite a few fellows interested in that particular item,” Morrow said quietly. “You’d better make me a pretty good offer...Scavver Dave.”

The spy frowned. So the tourist was being followed. Fantastic. “Hope, honey,” Deacon said, “would you like to try the watch on?”

Myra gasped. “Oh, darling, it’s beautiful!” she gushed as she clasped the metal chain around her slight, ivory wrist. “I love it.”

“Well, I love you,” Deacon replied with a warm smile. “Only the best for my little woman.”

Myra blushed, a gorgeous rosy hue igniting her freckled cheeks. “Oh, stop!” she giggled. “You’re too much!”

“That’s why you married me,” Deacon mused. “Well, Morrow, I guess we’ll pay up. She’s fallen in love, and how can a guy like me ever say no to a girl like her?”

Morrow smiled nervously. “20, no...30 caps should do,” the man replied. “Let me settle my tab from the other night with the barkeep, and I’ll be back to collect.”

Deacon nodded, and the tourist slipped from the booth, carefully making his way over to the bar. “He’s hot,” the spy whispered in his partner’s ear as he caressed her other cheek. “Keep an eye out for trouble.”

“I hope you have a plan,” Myra murmured, smiling coyly as she pulled his hand from her face, rubbing her thumb slowly across his fingers.

“You’d better be cool with improvising,” Deacon mused, “because I think we’re out of time.” Myra shivered as the spy’s lips grazed her neck. “You see those two guys who just came in?” he murmured into her skin.

“Y...yeah,” she moaned softly. “And the other one who’s been clocking Morrow from the deck?”

“Mmhmm,” he replied. “I think those are the guys who are after our tourist.”

“What’s our play?” Myra asked, her free hand already reaching for the knife she kept at her hip. “Distraction, or do we risk a fight?”

Deacon sighed. “Given the tight quarters, I’m going to vote for distraction. There’s too many people in here to risk a brawl.”

“I think we can manage that,” Myra said, leaning in and capturing his lips with her own.

Deacon froze, his whole body tensing up at the contact. This was not in the script. He’d told Myra to improvise, but he hadn’t meant for her to kiss him. Still, Deacon knew they were committed to this bit now, for better or worse. And, once he got past the smoky heat of whiskey on her lips, it wasn’t the most unpleasant choice he could think of.

The spy kissed her back hungrily, trying to sell the role of a newlywed. Myra’s soft lips felt like satin against his as they parted with a heady gasp. She moaned against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he scooped her out of the booth, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than he would have expected, though Deacon suspected that the adrenaline surging through his veins might have had something to do with it as well.

Deacon broke their kiss as he staggered to the bar, depositing Myra on the counter. His lips trailed slowly down Myra’s throat, leaving gentle nibbles in their wake as his eyes swept the room. Excellent. Everyone was staring at them, including their marks. Some of the bar’s patrons glared at the pair, clearly unhappy with their antics. Others grinned lasciviously, eager to see more. Deacon smiled as he saw the kitchen door swing shut. Morrow was on the move. Just a little bit longer, and the tourist would be home free. Myra gasped as the spy’s hand ran down the side of her stomach, finding a sensitive spot. He smirked. So she was ticklish. He’d have to remember that for later.

Deacon tried to keep his mind on the mission and off of his fellow agent, but the longer their ruse continued, the harder it was for him to remember that this was all an act. It felt so damn good to touch her, to have her touch him. He felt a gentle heat rising just beneath his skin, a fire that had not stirred in many long years. Not since…

“I love you so much,” Myra gasped, leaning down to capture his lips.

With a sudden burst of trepidation, Deacon pulled away from her, breathless. His heart raced in his chest so quickly that it felt like he was going to pass out. What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be keeping Whisper at arm’s length, not ravishing Myra in front of a live audience. Distraction or not, this was too much. And hearing those words from her...

“I’m sorry,” he managed before running out into the night, his mind reeling as he struggled to breathe.

“Davey, come back!” Myra’s voice called after him.

Deacon sighed, feeling incredibly foolish. He’d forgotten about the damn bet. She was still playing, still committed to her character. She hadn’t meant any of it. But he’d stopped pretending minutes ago. He stared down at his hands in disgust, his fingers haunted by the memory of her supple body.

What the hell was his problem? He’d run these sort of undercover missions before. Hell, he’d even engaged in similar gambits with other assets for one reason or another. But in the past, he’d always been able to keep his head. He’d compartmentalized, never forgetting that it was business. With Whisper, though, things were different. He’d wanted things to get out of control. He’d wanted to forget that it was work. He’d wanted it to be real.

“This can’t be happening,” he murmured. “Not now. Not to me.”

“Deacon?” Myra asked, startling him. She appeared beside him, her concerned eyes focused on his face. “Is everything ok?”

He nodded. “Morrow is in the clear. We did it.”

“I wasn’t asking about the job,” she continued softly. “Deacon, what happened back there...I...that was…”

“That was business,” he replied coldly, turning away from her. “You did well.”

Myra drew in a sharp breath. “Deacon, that didn’t feel like business. Maybe I’m just not used to this, but I…”

“That’s right,” he retorted harsher than he meant to, exactly as harshly as he needed to. “You’re not used to this. Look, I’m sorry, but whatever you think that was, I promise you, you’re wrong.”

“Then why can’t you look at me?” she asked, walking around to face him. “Why did you leave, if I’m wrong?”

“Just leave me alone,” he hissed. “Go back to the Brotherhood before your precious Paladin gets in trouble.”

Myra’s eyes widened. “What happened to me staying with you?”

“You can’t,” Deacon said. “You were right all along. You have a responsibility to report back in. I was selfish to ask you to stay.”

Myra took his hands in hers gently. “Maybe I want you to be selfish,” she replied. “Deacon, please. If I did something wrong, just tell me. I know that was a little intense but I--”

He pulled away from her, his face contorting in disgust. “Don’t touch me! I told you to go!”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes brimming with tears. “Damn it, Deacon, I thought we were friends. Maybe even…” she sighed. “If you want to be miserable, fine. I’ll leave. When you come to your senses, come find me.”

Myra pulled her pack tighter over her shoulder before running off into the night, a strangled sob lingering after her, replaying over and over in Deacon’s ears.

The spy sank to the ground, his lower lip quivering slightly. It had been the right thing, putting a stop to their game before things had gone too far. He’d done his duty by the Railroad, and he’d saved her the trouble of getting too invested in a charade. So why did it feel like he’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life?

It was the heat of the moment, Deacon rationalized. He wasn't thinking clearly. His worry for Myra and desire to cheer her up were natural. That he'd felt attached to her was normal, given the circumstances. Sure, he'd overreacted after the fact, but he had rules to abide by. He'd give her a few days to forgive him, and then he'd track her down, would apologize for his bad behavior. They had only been toying with each other. She'd forgive him, definitely.

A strangled cry pulled Deacon out of his thoughts, and he ran behind the bar, his stomach clenched. There, gurgling on his own blood, was Morrow, his throat torn open. The dying man locked eyes with the spy, desperately reaching for him. His body contorted in pain, making his fingers look like the claws of some cursed beast as they curled. Deacon glanced around in panic, trying to see who had attacked his informant, but there was no one around.

"It'll be okay," the spy soothed as he knelt to examine Morrow's injuries. The tourist took a few shuddering rasps before life left him, his eyes frozen wide in horror. Deacon groaned. There was nothing he could do for the man now. All the spy could do was gather intel that would hopefully prevent more tourists from facing similar fates.

The wounds Morrow bore were strikingly similar to others he'd seen recently on the bodies the Railroad had recovered from fallen safehouses. Small cuts and scratches in various depths dotted the man's body, as though a flock of crows had confused him with carrion. But there were no real crows, not any more. Those that remained were artificial, the spies and agents of the Institute. Watchers, trained to observe and recall, apparently now also authorized to kill. If they'd seen Myra with Morrow and Deacon, given her recent trip to the Institute, she could be in real danger.

Choking back a cry of fear, Deacon ran into the night, following the path that Myra had taken. How the hell had he let himself be so stupid? He searched the area for hours, trying to determine where his partner had gone. But it was hopeless. Myra had vanished like a wraith, leaving behind only regret and the faint taste of whiskey that still lingered on Deacon's lips.