Chapter Text
The very first time Nate meets Deacon, he doesn't know that it's Deacon. Doesn't know it's anybody, really, beyond some no-name wastelander trying to scrape by, trying to survive like everyone else. He's just finished clearing out a warehouse full of raiders for a small settlement he'd wandered into on his way to Diamond City. They'd seen the musket slung across his back and straightaway asked if he was with the Minutemen, hope and fear laid plain in their voices. One of them, bless their heart, was verging on tears.
And yeah, Nate has to agree: it's pretty sad the way these things never seem to work out.
Nate's not with the Minutemen.
Preston Garvey, whose heart is too big, and whose smile was understanding if not a little strained when Nate turned down his call to arms, citing prior obligations, had sent him on his way with a crash course in wasteland survival, best wishes, and an open invitation to rejoin with the ragtag band of do-gooders once Nate's own personal affairs were in order. Nate still feels pretty bastardly about it, but what's a guy supposed to do? He can't exactly go around saving everybody when he can barely take care of himself as-is.
But the guilt had rolled in like a radstorm even as he opened his mouth to tell them the truth and be on his way, so of course he had to go and spout some bullshit instead: Yes, he's with the Minutemen. He'd be glad to take care of those raiders for you. All he asks is that you pay the favor forward someday for somebody else in return, y'know, we've all got to pitch in, look out for each other—
He really just wants to punch himself sometimes.
The very grateful settlers have, naturally, no extra beds to spare, but there is a man perched up at the fire pit, stirring a pot of what may—or may not—be food, when Nate settles down next to the tato patch to camp for the night.
The two of them coexist in silence as Nate catalogues his fresh collection of bruises, blisters, bumps, and scrapes... No bullet holes, thankfully. No wounds worth wasting a stimpak on.
Nate wonders how sore he'll be in the morning, if he manages to get any sleep at all.
"Ta-da," then sings the man at the fire, startling Nate out of his sulk. "For the illustrious conquering hero. Three cheers, and all that." He gestures with a bowl full of mystery soup—and Nate must be staring for longer than appropriate because the man insists, "C'mon, you definitely need this."
Nate's gut rumbles; he takes the bowl. It's the first actual meal he's had since leaving Sanctuary Hills
The open night air is just as chill, but the quiet at least feels welcome now.
Nate nurses the warm broth slow, thoughtfully, breathing steam in as he drinks and tries to put a name to the ingredients. Molerat, he thinks, maybe, and tatos. A definite surplus of stewed tatos. Nate's not sure yet how he feels about the strange little, twisted, hybrid plants, but it's not as though it genuinely matters anymore. Food is food is food.
Eventually Nate slides down to curl against the wall, abandoning the empty bowl and allowing his eyes to drift shut. One slow blink, and then one more—he jolts awake, just before sunrise.
Nobody's around to bid him farewell as he shoulders his pack and moves on.
-
He runs into Deacon again in the city.
Literally, runs right into him.
He's tired, hungry, deep in thought, and in such a hurry on his way out of Valentine's that he rounds a corner without a first glance, crashing into a guard so hard that the poor guy's sunglasses go flying.
"Shit, sorry," says Nate as they regain their balance. He pauses only long enough to dust off the glasses, handing them back and making his getaway before the guard decides to stop him for questions.
He doesn't get a good look at the guy's face, but he does get a feeling in the back of his head like maybe he might've forgotten something.
No matter; he's got a detective to find.
-
Nate gawks as the ghoul stabs a grifter to death, and a bright spot of light glints from the sidelines.
Nate spares a glance to confirm it's no threat—only someone's sunglasses—before refocusing on the scene before him.
The ghoul—the mayor—grins a ghastly grin as he strolls around the corpse, cleaning his knife on a scrap of flag. "Welcome," he says, "to Goodneighbor."
-
Nate climbs the monument at Bunker Hill.
Nothing more than a whim, really; it's something he never bothered to do way back in Boston's glory days, and who knows? This chance may well be his last.
When he reaches the top, there's a man in a chair, frowning into a Grognak comic—feet propped in the open window, sniper rifle across his lap. He radiates discomfort so strongly Nate almost expects to hear his Geiger counter tick.
Nate abouts-face and excuses himself, rattling apologies over his shoulder.
-
Nate fakes helping Travis Miles win a staged fight at the Dugout Inn, and spies a familiar fake guard at the bar, grinning along with the bartender. By the time the dust settles, he's vanished.
When Nate asks later, Vadim describes a "strange man, very mysterious, always asks after the hot gossip. Says he is with security, but who is knowing for certain, ah? Normally they all wear masks."
-
Nate and déjà vu become very well acquainted.
-
242-year-old man walks into a bar—no, that's it. That's the joke.
At a tiny two-top table in the corner lounges a person of no real interest: slicked-back black hair, prewar clothing. A bit worn down, but otherwise clean. Generally unremarkable on the whole, blends right in with everyone else. Except for maybe how he's pretending to read a faded prewar newspaper, wearing sunglasses in a dimly lit room.
Except for maybe how Nate's seen him before.
Enough, Nate thinks, is enough. He takes a deep breath, puts on his game face: casual, calm; less soldier, more saunter. "Hi there," he says, "This seat taken?"
"Yup," drawls the guy, eyes glued to his paper. And if that's how he wants to play this, then fine.
"You're lying."
The man's head tilts, just a fraction, and Nate knows he's got his full attention. He slides into the opposite chair.
"Hi there," Nate repeats. "How're you doing?"
They're in a public venue, so overt violence is unlikely. Especially if this guy wants to maintain his low profile.
Second worst-case is he tries to make a break for it, but Nate's pretty sure his own legs are longer. He's fairly certain he could catch the guy, maybe even hold him down to interrogate at gunpoint if it all came down to barest basics; he'd prefer it didn't come to that, but hey. Never hurt to be prepared.
"So there's something I've been concerned about lately. Wondering if you could help me out. Figuring you'd be the one to know, after all." Nate pins him with a pointed stare. "How long have you been following me?"
The stranger frowns, starts to squirm in his seat, takes his sweet time to respond—puts the paper down, adjusts his dumb glasses, projects an air of vague unease as he mumbles towards the wall, "A while." His hands are on the table, empty. No threat.
"Uh-huh," Nate hums, polite as a peach. "Any particular reason why?"
Chapped lips pulling into a grimace, the stranger then looks to the floor. One sheepish hand combs the back of his head before falling to rest at his neck, covering his pulse points.
"It's just," a sigh. More fidgeting. Then, "You're so handsome!" he blurts finally, and of course he picks now to look back up, now that Nate's choking on his own spit.
"You're pretty much perfect in every way, and I...didn't know. When my next chance would be. I thought, maybe, if I could work up the courage..."
Nate wonders dimly if he's being pranked.
"God, wow," the guy goes on, "this isn't at all how I wanted this to go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—for everything. I really messed this up. I'll just—I'll leave you alone, I'll go—" and he's out of his chair and half clear of the table before Nate catches him by the wrist.
"You're lying," Nate hisses, face burning despite himself.
The bastard keeps his poker face for two whole seconds before it dissolves with a grin and a snort. "Yeah," he chuckles. "I really am—but you should see your face! Hoo boy—did I have you going, or what?"
Nate moves to rub at his eyes with his free hand, then thinks better of it, sighing instead. "Are you gonna sit and talk like a civilized person, or do I have to hold your hand until one of us gets bored and does something drastic?"
"Well," the man says, "when you put it that way," amiable enough as he backtracks away. Nate lets go and celebrates one tiny victory: the guy sits instead of bolting again.
"Who are you?" Nate tries.
"Name's Doe. John Doe," and Nate's never seen such a shitty liar lie so earnestly.
"Cute. Your actual name, please?"
"I'd compliment your research if I didn't know better. That line usually works on anyone who's not prewar." Not-John leans forward, extends his right hand, adjusting his sunglasses with the left. His nails are clean and short, fingers smooth, palms warm.
"I'm Deacon," he says. "Nice to meet you."