Deacon was ready to collapse by the time night fell, but there was thirty minutes’ difference between camping in the dirt and sleeping in a bed, so he pushed through the exhaustion (and Fixer’s complaining) to get to the little suburb at the edge of the woods.
“This better be worth it,” Fixer grumbled as he reached in through the window to pull the latch off the inside of the door.
“Having a roof and four walls is almost always worth it,” he assured her. Then, eyeing the side of the house: “Three and a half walls.”
That got a smile out of her, at least, and she and Dogmeat headed inside, with Deacon taking up the rear.
He directed her upstairs. letting her get a head start as he made a lap around the lower floor to make sure it was still secure. Rain and time had dislodged a couple of the window traps, and he took the time to reset them before heading upstairs.
When he made it into the only accessible room on the second floor, he saw Fixer on the floor, punching her backpack into a more pillow-like shape. It was a nightly ritual when they had to sleep rough.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, shrugging out of his own bag.
“There’s only one bed,” Fixer said, gesturing at the bed in the corner of the room. “Bed” was being generous, really, it was a cot at best, but at least this one had a full-size mattress. “I figured I’d take the floor.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Deacon said automatically. Fixer looked between him and the bed.
“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
“It’s fine, I’m used to - “
”I’m used to the floor, and I won’t bitch about my back in the morning.”
His mouth closed around his protest and he just gave her a sour look. She grinned at him in return and he just shook his head.
“Get in the bed, Fix.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor in your own home.”
”It’s not my h - why are you like this?”
”Learned from the best,” she said cheekily, flopping onto her bedroll and laying down with her back to him. Dogmeat laid down next to her, shuffling sideways until he was stretched out against her on the floor.
Deacon just glared down at them. Before he was trying to be polite. Now he was going to be petty.
On the other side of the room, near the top of the stairs, he rolled out his own bedroll. Fixer had been right, was part of the problem - he was going to bitch about his back in the morning. But he would have won the argument, and that was the important thing.
She looked up at the thump against the floor. “What are you - “
”Getting ready for bed.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Deacon.”
”Hm?”
”Get in the bed.”
”I’m good down here,” he said, wincing as his knees hit the hardwood. “You’re free to use it, though.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
”And then you’ll have the bed all to yourself.” He laid down with his back to her, feeling her glare like daggers in the back of his head.
He dozed off, in theory. Every time he was about to drop off a draft would come through the baseboards or the dog would sneeze or Fixer would shift, making the floorboards creak. She had to be at least as uncomfortable as he was, and yet there they were, two idiots on the floor with a perfectly good empty bed.
This is stupid. He sat up, kicking out at Fixer’s foot. The room was small enough and his legs were long enough that the kick connected. “Fixer.”
She sat up, propping herself on one elbow to stare at him over the dog. “What?”
”This is stupid.”
“I’m glad you agree - “
”Get in the bed.”
“I won’t - “
”Get in the bed,” he repeated patiently. “And I will get in after.”
She stared at him across the small space. He’d taken his sunglasses off to sleep, and could see her clearly in the moonlight coming through the slats of the window.
“We - we won’t both fit,” she said, after a long moment.
“We’ll make it work,” he said. “Because this sucks. And it’s stupid.”
She hesitated. Deacon had just about decided that if she tried to argue again he’d just tell the dog to take the damn bed, but she eventually got up and shuffled into the bed. There was only one thin sheet, and she pulled it up to her shoulder as she laid down facing the fall.
Suppressing a groan at the way his joints protested, he moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bedframe creaked ominously, but it held, and he stuffed his pistol between the mattress and box spring before he stretched out with his back to her.
Isn’t this better? he wanted to say. Wanted to poke her about having given in. But he was too busy realizing that he had made a terrible mistake.
It wasn’t that he and Fixer stayed an arm’s length from each other at all times or anything. Their general activities didn’t really allow for that. But this was different. This was warmth radiating down the whole line of her body where it aligned with his. This was the same thin sheet covering both of them, connecting them in some abstract way that he could never articulate but was now burned into his awareness.
He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. He needed sleep. But that warmth was searing into him, almost too hot even with the distance between them.
Then the mattress jostled heavily, tossing both Deacon and Fixer around as Dogmeat wormed his way between them, determined not to sleep apart from Fixer if he had any say in it.
“Motherf - Dogmeat,” Fixer groaned, but there was a laugh in her voice.
“Mutt,” Deacon grumbled, but relief flooded through him. Dogmeat was between him and Fixer, blocking the heat from her body. The dog wasn’t exactly an ice cube himself, but it was different. It felt different. And once Dogmeat was settled into place and the mattress was still, he fell asleep almost immediately.
“Morning breath,” she coughed, and he smiled blearily. Fixer was prone to bedhead, but he rarely got to see her before she smoothed it down. Her head was about 60 percent cowlick, and it was weirdly endearing to see first thing in the morning.
He rolled off the edge of the mattress to let Fixer and Dogmeat out, and was surprised at how stiff he wasn’t. With the two of them and the dog crammed onto a mattress meant for one adolescent at the most, he’d expected to feel like his bones had fused together. But he was weirdly agile, especially for first thing in the morning. Small mercies, he supposed.
Fixer was huffing and grumbling as they strapped on their gear, until Deacon finally turned around.
”What,” he said flatly. Fixer was trying to reach around herself for a strap on the side of her armored vest.
“This fucking strap,” she muttered. The vest was made for someone half again her size, and they practically had to duct-tape it to her to get it to sit correctly.
“Come here.” He walked over to her, hesitating for half a second before he laid one hand on her waist and the other on the errant strap. It wasn’t weird. He’d expected the warmth that seeped through her clothes to echo the warmth that had plagued him last night, but it was just…Fixer, now. Which was weird in and of itself.
He shoved it to the back of his mind. It was only a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Last night was proof enough of that.
He helped Fixer into her armor, both of them shrugging their packs onto their shoulders and heading out. They didn’t speak, none of Fixer’s usual running commentary. He wrote it off as them not having eaten yet - they had to get somewhere it was safe to light a fire, first - but one of the times he glanced over at her he caught her looking back.
His eyes snapped back to the front. He had his sunglasses back on, there was no reason to think she’d seen him. But he kept his eyes to himself regardless, rolling his shoulders to try to shake off the ghost of warmth along his back, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.