Work Text:
"Ha-ha," Deacon said, and "Whee," and other things of that nature. This did not seem to calm the other synths on the speedboat with him. In fact, it did not seem to make Nick Valentine, at the wheel, feel any better, either.
"Keep your head down," he snapped at Deacon, and when Deacon did not immediately do as told he grabbed him by the back of his head and shoved him down low in the boat just as a volley of laser fire burned past them.
This sudden change in position flared up the pain in his middle again. The Med-X Nick had so efficiently gotten into him had made him almost forget the blast of plasma he'd taken in the belly. Now it occurred to him to be afraid, but a look around at the synths huddled as low to the floor as they could go reminded him why he was doing this in the first place.
"We're almost—" Nick started to say, but before he could finish a metal canister about the size of a fist clattered into the boat. Without a thought Deacon reached for it, to try and pitch it out into the ocean, but before he could close his hand around it the thing exploded, and a gen 1 synth snapped into being where it had been.
One of the other synths shrieked, and Nick swore, and the boat veered sharply to the left. The synth kept its footing and leveled a gun at Nick, and the only thing that kept it from blasting his head off was Deacon grabbing it by an actuator in its leg and pulling as hard as he could. It stumbled off balance for one merciful moment, just long enough for one of the other synths to throw itself at it and push it off the boat entirely. Deacon grabbed the third Gen synth and pulled it down beside him so it wouldn't fall out of the boat or get shot.
"Thanks," he said to it.
"What?" it called back over the roar of the motor.
"Who here can snipe?" Nick yelled back at them as he pulled a rifle from somewhere about his person. Deacon raised his hand. "Not you. Someone who hasn't been shot yet."
"Let me just call MacCready down here. Oh, wait, we're in the middle of the ocean."
Nick growled but handed over the gun. Deacon set it carefully on the back of the boat and raised his eye to the sight. Some hundred yards back (and gaining) was another speedboat, this one piloted by a courser and containing enough first Gen synths to worry anybody.
"Saltwater's gonna ruin his jacket," Deacon said, looking a little enviously at the way the courser's black trenchcoat trailed behind him in the wind.
"What?" yelled Nick. He didn't look away from where he was steering.
"Nothing." Deacon took a breath in and, on the exhale, pulled the trigger. The shot went wide. A second shot went high as the pursuing boat crashed down from atop a wave. The third shot struck the courser in either the chest or the shoulder (that trenchcoat made it hard to tell), and the boat veered for a moment or two to one side. Deacon paused for a moment, blinked, shook his head to clear the growing fog. He fired off the rest of the clip, and another volley of laser fire battered the back of the boat. Slick from the water and all but numb, his hands fumbled as they reloaded the rifle. He got off another shot, this one taking out one of the first gen synths at the courser's side. Not terrible, Deacon thought, but still not quite there yet.
"Deacon," Nick called, his voice strained with concern. He weaved the boat in the water to shake some of the laser fire that followed, and Deacon struggled to aim at the courser in the commotion. "Trade me."
"I've got it."
"Like hell you do!" Nick grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back. "Take the wheel."
Deacon started to answer back, but in the first place Nick had already wrenched the gun from his grip with his frame hand, and in the second place his hands were starting to really shake, and in the third place he didn't know what to answer smartly back with. He took the wheel.
"Everybody stay low," he told the other synths. "But try to have fun, too. It's not every day—" Here he was interrupted by the crack of the rifle and a curse from Nick. "... It's not every day you get to partake in a high speed chase!"
The others looked at him like he was nuts, and maybe he was, but at that moment the waves threatened to rip the wheel from his hands, and he returned his attention to trying to keep it from capsizing. Nick fired again, and again, and let out a sharp breath. When Deacon glanced back, the courser was down and the pursuing boat had veered off to the side. Another smattering of laser shots fell short of the speedboat. It was over.
"Huh." Nick straightened up, still looking off at the other boat. "Okay. That's... I'll take the wheel off you, I guess."
Deacon held tight to the wheel. It had taken Nick, what, three shots to do what Deacon hadn't in an entire clip? He could handle steering for a while, give the guy a break.
"Deacon."
"I'm fine!"
"My dude," said one of the other synths. "You got shot."
"Deacon," Nick repeated. "We're out of range. Now we need to get out of line of sight. Let me have the wheel."
The plasma burn ached tremendously. Deacon wasn't even sure why he was protesting anymore. He let Nick take the wheel from him and slumped back against the side of the boat.
That was all he knew for a while.
Something cool and damp and viscous was slathered over his palm, causing Deacon to jerk awake with a start. He blinked, glanced around, took in tattered wallpaper, hanging buoys clustered around grimy windows, and, leaning over him, Nick Valentine, a tub of ointment in his degloved hand.
"Burned your hand pretty good on that relay grenade, huh?" Nick asked, apparently rhetorically. "Gotta stop reaching for those things."
"Wanted it off the boat," Deacon groused. "Don't know what else you expected me to do with it."
Nick slapped a little more ointment on his hand and began wrapping a bandage around it. "Don't know what I expected. A little bit of self-preservation instinct, I guess."
"I'll have you know I have scads of self-preservation instinct." Deacon attempted to sit up, only to be sharply reminded of the plasma burn on his front. "Ouch." Nick rolled his eyes. "Don't judge me!"
"You're in The Last Plank, by the way," Nick said, as if he hadn't spoken at all. "I sent the synths on ahead to Acadia."
Immediately the anxiety set in. "You shoulda left me. What if they run into fog crawlers, or coursers, or..."
"Longfellow is with them. Nothing's gonna happen to them or to you."
Deacon remained unsure. Of course Longfellow was a good guy, and he was a hell of a guide, but he was just one person. Nick would work well with him, and Deacon would have been fine by himself. The synths would have been safer. Everyone would have been safe.
"And in the meantime," Nick continued, "you're going to relax, heal up, and then we'll head back to the catacombs and get our next assignment." Deacon sighed. "What?" Nick asked, sounding a little irritated. "What objection could you possibly have to that plan?"
"No objection. I just feel like we'd cover more ground if we split up. You catch up with the synths and make sure they get to Acadia, and I'll figure out what Des wants us to do next. I won't even leave the Last Plank," he added quickly as Nick started to protest. "I'll radio ahead, and you can swing by after you get back."
"That would be a great plan, if I trusted you to follow it."
"You shouldn't trust me. But in this instance, it would be nice if you would."
Nick shook his head. "I guarantee you that Longfellow and the synths will be in Acadia before I can catch up with them. They will be fine. You, on the other hand, are hurt right now." He put his good hand on Deacon's shoulder and gave it a half-playful shake. "So here I'm going to stay. Get used to it."
Deacon looked away. Nick was trying to be kind, he knew, but the result was less comforting and more infuriating. They'd both agreed (or so he thought) the the important thing was the safety of those synths, getting them somewhere the Institute couldn't reclaim them. Nick's insistence on treating him like a sick kid was getting in the way of that goal.
"Believe it or not, I do know how you feel."
Somehow, Deacon was unconvinced.
"I do! Ellie's always after me to... to turn down the self-sacrifice when I'm out on cases." Nick squeezed his shoulder slightly, and then his hand fell away. "I'll tell you what she's always telling me: you're no good to anybody dead."
Deacon scoffed. Conditions were hardly that dire. He wasn't even that badly hurt, just—he winced as the plasma burn stuck to his shirt—a little banged about.
"You know what, Deacon?" Nick said wearily. "Do what you want. You usually do. Just think about what I said, yeah?"
And before Deacon could respond, he walked out the door and was gone.
"I will, thanks!" Deacon called after him, too little too late. He sat back against the headboard and picked at the bandage over his hand. His entire front ached from the plasma burn, and it hadn't occurred to him how he was going to operate the radio with his non-dominant hand. Screw it, he'd make it work somehow. He'd certainly done more difficult things.
But god if he wasn't tired of difficult things.
Frick, he thought. Not those burnt-out thoughts again. Life in the Commonwealth was difficult, that was all there was to it. The Institute's presence only made it worse. He just had to buckle down and do what had to be done.
"Ugh," he said aloud, and "Why?" and other things of this nature. This did not make him feel very much better. He considered punching one or more of the hanging buoys, conveniently dangling at about eye level, but that would probably mess up whichever hand he chose to use. Instead, he opted to wrap himself up in the rough wool blanket that covered the bed and curl up in a ball. There he stayed.
Nick found him like that god only knew how much later. He sighed and came to sit on the edge of the bed. "Not feeling much better, huh?"
Deacon had a frantic urge to yell something to the effect of, no kidding, Detective Valentine, but he got hold of himself just in time. In lieu of yelling, he curled up even tighter.
"I heard from Longfellow. Synths reached Acadia, safe and sound. Does that make you feel better?"
It did, a little. He didn't feel moved to say anything.
"I don't know what it is you need from me, Deacon. You've gotta tell me. Preferably out loud."
"I don't know," Deacon mumbled.
"Pardon?"
"I SAID I DON'T KNOW." Nick shook his head. "I don't know what I want. To burn the Institute to the ground, maybe. At least then we wouldn't have to worry about them anymore."
Nick said nothing.
"It's just unending, you know? There's always more synths getting hurt and more coursers menacing us and more work to be done."
"True."
"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."
"If you need a break..."
"More like a change of universe. Why couldn't I have been born in the universe where we all work in a coffee shop or something?"
Nick shrugged. "I've got to imagine that gets old after a while, too." Deacon groaned and pulled the blanket over his face. "I think a break would do you a lot of good. You ever heard the saying 'You can't draw from an empty well?'"
"You accusing me of being empty? I'll have you know I am very full, primarily of anxiety but also of fluids of various kinds."
"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?"
Deacon shook his head.
"I'm saying you need a rest. Celebrate a little."
Deacon scoffed. "Celebrate what? That the Institute is still out there somewhere, abusing innocent synths?"
"A whole group of synths just made it to Acadia. How about celebrating that?" When Deacon didn't respond he added, "Believe it or not, you can't bring down the Institute by yourself. You have to give yourself a break, and you've gotta celebrate the little victories. That's all there is to it."
"I know that," Deacon said, pulling the blanket back from his face. "I just don't like it."
Nick shrugged. "Not much to be done about that, though, is there?" For a while they were silent. Then, finally, Nick asked, "Want to talk about literally anything else?"
"God, yes," said Deacon, and so they did.