Breakfast Table

I came out of the office at the truck stop yawning and stretching, greeted by a bald man in a suit and trench coat conversing with Codsworth. Dogmeat lay at his feet, gnawing away at a brahmin bone.

When he turned to look at me, the rising sun bounced off of familiar sunglasses.

“Deacon,” I murmured, and a smile crept upon both of our faces.

After running to the back of the building to change, Deacon came in and sat at the table with me.

“I, uh, didn’t know when you’d be up, but I cooked up some of the leftover brahmin from last night,” he noted with some hesitation. “And, hey, about the Big Talk…” his words trailed off, and he turned his face away.

“D, do you want me to believe that story?” I asked in ernest, and reached across the table for his hands.

“I do, ‘cause that’s the most true thing about my life, Elliot. Yeah, I lie a lot - like a shitton - but that’s mostly for show and try-not-to-tell.” I met his gaze. Seeing myself in his sunglasses was something of a common thing with him.

“Well, dammit, Deacon, I believe you. Why? I don’t have much reason to, but you’ve saved my ass when you didn’t have to, so I’d say you’re pretty fuckin’ solid.”

Deacon’s cheeks turned a shade of pink and he looked out the window at Dogmeat in his doghouse.

“Shut up and eat your brahmin, softy.”