I, Synth : Epilogue

Denali eyed the broken boards beneath her feet and sighed. She'd get around to fixing them eventually. But there were too many other things that needed fixed first.

One needed to prioritize.

She was tired of prioritizing. She was just tired in general.

Between keeping the Brotherhood of Steel playing nice with the Commonwealth citizens, organizing the Minutemen, moving the synths and the Institute survivors into places where no one wanted to kill them, a herculean task, among a million other things, she felt herself being worn thin.

It used to be, at times like this, Deacon would make some sort of joke and gently steer her away from what was frustrating her. It used to be he was a constant presence at her shoulder, his intimate knowledge of this broken world bolstering her up when she faltered. Even now, a year after the destruction of the Institute and his disappearance, she still expected to turn and find him strolling behind her in whatever costume took his fancy that particular day.

She took careful steps, feeling the rotting wood give a bit beneath her fingers and sag beneath her feet. Almost to the stairs now. She took a breath and let it out slowly. No use lingering in the past; she'd learned that lesson all too well.

For now everything was running relatively smoothly. Soon the Minutemen, their numbers bolstered by the Brotherhood, would move on the raider strongholds and super-mutant nests in an effort to remove them permanently. As always the Railroad would be operating in the shadows, coordinating quietly in the way they did best.

Deacon had never understood why she had turned to the Minutemen when it became clear that the Institute needed to be stopped. But the Railroad were few, and not used to operating in the offensive. She would have lost far too many and in the aftermath she knew she would need their help getting the synths settled into new and, hopefully, better lives.

Besides, she had no doubt that somewhere in the mix the Railroad would have moved against the Brotherhood, and they needed them as well. Or so she had thought at the time.

She would have liked to talk it over with Deacon. He had been against the Brotherhood's involvement, and with good reason. The general soldiery weren't too bad on an individual level, but their leadership tended on the fanatical side. Sometime soon something may have to be done about it. Perhaps it was time to gently pick Danse's brain on the matter, not that she would ever tell him why she wanted the information.

She sighed again. But not today. Today she was going to her refuge, was almost there, in fact, and she was going to try and rest. To forget.

Too bad her nightmares wouldn't leave her alone.

She blamed those nightmares for what had come after the destruction. For driving him away.

She leaned against the creaking railing, looking out at the fog-shrouded sea.

She hadn't wanted to be alone that night. Her mind just wouldn't shut down, Shaun's eyes staring at her accusingly, the sounds of screams, the smell of fire consuming flesh and paint. The infiltration and destruction of the Institute had been a nightmare in and of itself. The memories it left behind were even worse.

He had been lying in bed but not sleeping when she appeared at his door. He turned his head to look at her as she stood, uncertain and grief stricken and guilt-wracked in the doorway. She had asked to stay. It had been a long heart-breaking moment before he shifted over and patted the bed beside him.

It had felt so right, lying there beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest and feeling his heart beat. It had felt so right that all the pain and terror came bubbling up and she wept. For too long had she kept it all tamped down and now it chose to rise and swell over her like a drowning wave.

She had clutched him as though he were the life-line, expecting at any moment that he would move away from her grasping hand.

But he hadn't. Instead he had rolled closer, enfolding her in his arms and letting her sob against him until she was limp with the relief of finally having poured it all out. He had tucked her head under his chin and stroked her hair so gently.

And when she pulled back just enough to lift her head and press her mouth to his, he didn't move away.

It was an act of affirmation, that they were there, that they were alive. Their lovemaking was occasionally awkward, two bodies unused to such intimacy, but oh so sweet and tender. As though they were pretending that the only thing that existed in this moment was the other. A wonderful, beautiful lie that everything would turn out all right in the end.

A lie that could not withstand the light of day.

When she awoke, warm and rested and sated in various ways she had reached out to him to find his side of the bed empty.

She heard movement and opened her eyes to the dim morning light filtering through the window-boards.

He was sitting in the room's one rickety chair, watching her. A full traveler's pack sat near his feet.

Her heart beat a tattoo of despair against her ribs. "Please don't go."

He took a long breath, eyes hidden, face emotionless behind his dark glasses.

"I…" She stood, holding the blankets wrapped around her body. "D…" She felt as though someone were sitting on her chest. "Please."

"What do you want me to say?" He asked; voice harsh with the emotion he wouldn't allow on his face. "I've been a lot of things…I can't be this. I can't be what you need."

"You don't have to be anything." She protested, keeping still for the fear of spooking him into running before she could finish. "I love you."

"You may think you do."

"Don't you think I would know?" She asked. "Don't you think I would know what love feels like?"

"You love your husband."

She didn't let it hurt her, or at least didn't let it show. "Yes, I did. I loved him. But that doesn't mean I can never feel love again. Love isn't exclusive. It isn't finite. Just because I loved him doesn't mean I can't love you."

She took a step forward. He withdrew to the door so she stopped, trying to think of the words that would keep him from making that last step.

"You know what I am." He said.

"I know what you were." She said softly. "And I know what you've become. I look at you and I see a good man, Deacon. Please, give this a chance."

He seemed to battle with himself for a moment before his chin lifted. "I can't. Goodbye, Den."

And he was gone.

She stumbled, coming back to herself with a snap to realize that the rotting railing had given beneath her hand. She took a few careful steps back, breathing heavily.

She didn't blame him. Though from time to time she had thought…had hoped, that he returned her feelings, he was right. She knew what he had been, she knew what he was.

And she had fallen in love with him anyway. She couldn't pinpoint the moment when friendship had become something more, but she thought it may have been when he vanished after her into the Glowing Sea. The thought of losing him on top of everything else pressing upon her had nearly broken her. When he returned…she had very nearly done something foolish then but had held back, determined to keep him by her side no matter her personal feelings.

Even then she had known.

Irritably she pulled her hat off and ran her hand through her hair.

This wasn't why she was here. She was here to rest and recharge and getting lost in maudlin memories wasn't going to help.

She crammed her hat back on her head and walked those last few steps to her little house at the edge of the sea.

The light slanted sideways through the stilts, and the buoys she had hung to give the place a little more color swung gently against each other with soft clacking sounds. She let the sights and sounds soothe her roiling mind. It worked just as well now as it had when she and Nick had first cobbled the place together out of salvage and driftwood.

She thought Nick had understood why she needed this refuge. At the very least he hadn't protested when she requested his help and she thought he had been as pleased as she had been when it all came together so well. He was a frequent guest, one of the few she let into her private haven.

The stairs creaked beneath her weight.

She hadn't even brought Shaun here.

Right now he was under the watchful eyes of the citizens of the Twilight Drive-in. She wished she could spend more time with the boy, but it was so hard to be around him. He was so sweet and intelligent and curious about everything.

He was a painful reminder of what might have been.

Whenever she looked into his eyes she saw Shaun's accusing stare, saw him dying as he watched her tear apart everything he had spent his life building.

But of course the child synth didn't know that so she was careful not to let it show.

Eventually she would have to search for a more permanent solution as far as his living situation. No doubt the people would begin to suspect something was amiss when a few years went by with no change in the boy. He would not get taller, never fall in love, get married or have children. A true Peter Pan who could never grow up. She didn't know how to tell the citizens and she didn't know how to tell Shaun the terrible reality in which he was unwittingly immersed.

Given the mistrust the Commonwealth held against the synths she wasn't entirely certain he would be safe should the truth come out.

She sighed again, dismissing the issue for another day.

The door creaked as she pushed it open. She took an odd comfort in it. It was a sound that meant home.

She stood in the entry and felt the stress of the outside world drain away. Her hat came off, tossed on the side table without a glance. She leaned her rifle in the corner, and hooked her silenced pistol on the pegboard. Her fingers hesitated for a moment. In that moment everything seemed to hesitate.

The world started moving again as she took her coat off and hung it by the door.

"Made yourself at home?" She asked, sitting on the edge of her bed to unlace her boots.

"I may have helped myself to your store of Fancy Lads. Hope you don't mind."

She shrugged. "I only kept them around for you. Too sweet…and irradiated for me."

A small pause. "That's what makes them special."

She set her boots aside and padded over to the little hotplate. "Coffee?"

"Wouldn't say no to a cup."

She was proud of herself for keeping her hands steady as she poured water and measured the precious grounds. Soon the scent of coffee competed with the smells of the cigarette smoke and the sea.

She felt his eyes on her back as she made two cups, the steam rising lazily from them into the heavy air.

He accepted his mug with a nod, head turning to follow her when she sat in her usual chair. The cushions embraced her in a familiar and welcoming way. It was a feeling she needed right now, now that her retreat had become in some ways even more nerve wracking than the world outside. She wished he would speak. There were too many things she wanted to say, but she didn't know how to begin.

"Nice place." He finally said around the rim of his coffee cup.

"I like it." She replied.

"I can see why." He said. "Very peaceful here, and you have a great guard dog."

"Dogmeat's not here…"

"I meant that Longfellow…er, fellow." He slanted her a half-smile, welcoming her to join in. She found it difficult. "He's pretty alert, considering."

"Oh." She nodded. "He didn't see you come in, I take it."

"Course not. My sneak skills are at maximum." A long pause followed before he continued slowly. "I didn't want him telling you I was here."

"Why is that?"

"Wasn't sure if you'd be exactly welcoming." He rubbed his free hand over his smooth head. "We didn't…part in the best of ways."

"I didn't blame you." She murmured. "I don't blame you."

"That makes one of us."

She turned her head sharply to look at him, but he was staring down at his cup of coffee.

"Deacon."

He hummed an acknowledgment.

"Deacon, look at me."

He turned his head slightly.

"It wasn't your fault. You were right. I knew that you were…are still in love with Barbara. I was selfish. I wanted you to see…" Now it was her turn to look away. "I wanted you. I took advantage of the situation." She stood and turned to the window. "It was wrong of me to try and force you to love me."

She heard a thump and the rustle of clothing. She didn't turn to look.

"You didn't have to force me to love you." She felt his hand, cautious, on the edge of her shoulder blade as her heart leapt into her throat.

"Then why did you go?" She forced out.

"I...it's not a good excuse, but I got scared. Facing down a Deathclaw in your underwear scared, but like, times a thousand." His fingers moved across her shoulders, but lightly, as though he was prepared for her to move away. "So I ran. It's what I do, remember? Ran as far as the Capitol Wasteland."

"Why there?"

"Certain someone was heading that way, so I tagged along." His fingers were on her arm now. "Had a few things I wanted to say to him. More I talked to him…more I convinced myself."

"You always were a smooth talker."

"Yeah, but this time I listened to what I had to say."

He was so close to her now that she could feel the familiar heat of his body on the skin of her back. It was a real fight not to lean into that warmth, let it envelop her.

"And I listened to what Mac had to say. He's not so bad once you get to know him, just had a few notions he needed to be disabused of." His hand went to her hip, resting there as he took another step closer. "Last I saw he was heading off into the fog. Seems there was someone he wanted to see."

She smiled, though she knew he wouldn't see it. "Hope it goes well, for both their sakes."

"Yeah, me too." His breath brushed the back of her neck. "Den…is this going well?"

"I think so." She replied. "Are you still scared?"

"Shaking in my boots." He said. "It's…been a while. Figured you might have changed your mind once you had time to think about it."

She leaned her head back, and he took that last tiny step so her head rested on his shoulder. His arms curled around her.

"I thought about it." She rolled her head so she could look at his face. It was a bit of a shock. She turned in his arms, pulling back a little so she could raise her hand and trace the tan lines his glasses had left behind. His eyes found hers, uncertain, hopeful and still a little scared. "I thought about you every day. I missed you every day."

"You know I'm damaged goods." He whispered.

She rested her forehead on his. "So am I, D. But I think we have enough salvageable pieces to make it work."

"Now you sound like Sturges." He sighed.

She chuckled.

"Speaking of…heard he got that movie projector up and running." He said softly, eyes darting down to her lips then up again.

"That's right." She told him. "We haven't found any complete films yet, too much deterioration, but the settlers don't seem to mind."

"Want to go see one with me?"

She drew back a little, her mouth falling slightly open. "Deacon, did you just ask me out on a date?"

"Call me old fashioned."

"You're old fashioned." She laughed, delighted to see how his eyes lit up with humor.

He pulled her closer, stopping her laughter with a knee-weakening kiss.

When she emerged, slightly breathless, she looked up into his heated gaze. "How old fashioned are you?" She whispered.

"Not that old fashioned." He murmured.

"Oh." She leaned in again, breathing in the scent of seawater and coffee, cigarette smoke and him. The smell of home. "Good."

Author's Notes:

This scene, or something like it, came into existence even before Annette and 'I, Synth.'

One of my personal disappointments in the game was the fact that I, as the player character, fell in love with Deacon long before I discovered that he was not one of the romance options. So, I wanted to write a story in which the two of them got together. But that's pretty common, right?

I thought about it, and came up with a different idea. I could still write that story, but I would write it as a story within a story, where their relationship was there but not part of the main narrative. I wanted the General to fall in love with him off screen over the course of the campaign.

So 'I, Synth' came into being as a concept. Annette got thrown into the protagonist spotlight and MacCready sauntered in. As a synth Annette tends to be very reactive to her situation. Rarely do you see her take initiative. You'll notice that in many of her interactions with Mac came from him giving her 'orders' without realizing it that she followed, again without realizing it. It took the climax and her separation to make her finally start to stand on her own two feet. And now, should their relationship work out (it does, I'm the author) she'll be at his side instead of walking behind him.

D and Den are a different beast altogether. There were reasons, after all, that they could not be a couple in the game universe. The trick was to break down those barriers in a way that kept Deacon's character intact.

I hope I managed it.

Because there's a reason I will never side with the Institute or the Brotherhood.

He wears glasses, and is secretly a redhead.

Don't ask me how I know.

Much love,

M. A.