(I know I know, "But Ispell, there IS NO special quarters for Maxson"! Well, it seems completely out of place that he would sleep in the same bunks as the rest of the soldiers aboard the Prydwyn, and I'm pretty sure that if they had the time and resources, the good folks at Bethesda would've programmed one in. Maybe there's a murphy bed in the overlook. Who the fuck knows. Point is, bear with me for the story's sake, okay? Also, I'm going to post a deleted scene version on Ao3, so if you want that PM me for a link.)

When she enlisted, very few other soldiers could tolerate Knight Lark Wendal. She was very... opinionated, and religiously followed her moral compass. She could be a handful at times, and a few of the Proctors made certain that their interactions with her were short and to the point.

"Knight, you are to clear out an old army satellite base. Be careful, a pack of ferals has taken up inside it; God knows how they got in."

"Yes Sir!"

"Knight, we've gotten word of a Deathclaw making nest dangerously close to a supply settlement. See that it doesn't get that far."

"Yes Sir!"

"Knight, we've discovered and captured a synth; your orders are to 'escort' it here."

"With all due respect, Ma'am..."

Every Proctor and order-giver in the Prydwyn loathed to hear those words. In the end, she would manage to trade her assignment with someone else, or-God forbid- actually do her job.

That happened a lot with the Commonwealth soldiers. Most of them had family who were ghouls, and a couple of them knew a synth who was a good guy.

So if Wendal was such a pain to work with, why keep her on?

Because she was an inexplicably brilliant soldier. She was one of the best the Brotherhood had ever plucked from a tato farm off the rad-soaked hills of Boston. Granted, that wasn't many; not yet anyway. But she was damn good. Her specialty was in leading manhunts and wiping out 'infestations', and though she often questioned her orders, she always came through.

Despite her proficiency, the thing she was best known for was getting on Elder Maxon's last nerve. Nearly every large op she was included in (which was a reluctant few because of this), she argued her points privately with him. She was respectful of him; he was a magnificent leader, and an even better soldier than she. She was almost never insubordinate, and absolutely never in front of the other soldiers. But it was a constant argument with him, and she was certain Maxon hated her.

And at first, she was right.

Over the past two years of being in the Commonwealth, Maxon was used to hearing from Knight Wendal for a variety of reasons. Pack of ghouls she's being sent out to exterminate? "Elder, we should wait for more intel. There have been no reports of injuries; they could be sane."

And of course, he'd have to listen to her suggestion, because while he hated anything that wasn't a pure human—he'd been told to do a little more to improve public perception by BOS HQ after the Danse fiasco, in which the Sole Survivor of Vault 111 began a crusade against the Brotherhood. Not extinguishing every ghoul life was probably a good way to get people to realize that they weren't the monsters they were told about.

Maxson began to actually look forward to whatever debate Lark was going to bring him next. He went out among the soldiers more often, hoping that she'd see him and get in his face about something. For a long time, he'd thought it was just because arguments are thrilling, and he was dying for a chance to put her through a wall for trying to fight him. if he pushed just the right buttons, he was sure he'd get the chance.

The more frequently he thought about her, the angrier about her it made him. Something about her felt... off. Strange. Uncomfortable. It made him loose focus at the worst times as he began pre-calculating what to say in response to her. He started putting her on assignments he knew would rub her the wrong way every now and then. To add insult to injury, he denied her shore leave to visit her family when she received news that her brother was getting married. But... Was he doing it because a good soldier never puts insignificant family events before their work? Or... Would he just miss her company?

He got his answer half a year later. He learned that she had been covertly keeping in touch with Danse and the Sole Survivor, Amelia. Furious, he demanded that Lark speak to him in his quarters at once. He was so angry that his knuckles turned white over a pair of holotapes tucked inside his trembling fist as he waited impatiently in his bunk.

This arrogant, childish Knight wasn't going to be a Knight for much longer now. He'd finally have her out of his hair.

She stepped through the hatch and stood at attention.

"You asked to see me, Elder?", she said in a husky tone, something she only ever did if she knew she was in deep shit.

He let out a shit eating grin and held up the holotapes. "What are these, Knight?", he said almost calmly.

"They're holotapes, Sir."

"Oh, no. Not just any holotapes, Wendal. They're for you. It seems that a certain Scribe was running these back and forth for you, and suddenly had a moment of clarity. Apparently, you have been consorting with the enemy", he seethed, throwing the recordings on the ground in front of her feet. "Explain yourself, Knight."

She stood, stunned, looking down at the orange holotapes with her mouth slightly agape.

"I..."

"You...", Maxson replied mockingly.

"I didn't see any harm in it, Sir. I wasn't speaking to them about anything related to the Brotherhood."

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth, Sir, I swear! I was only in correspondence with them about personal matters!"

"Personal matters like what, hmm? Is Danse a happy synth now, all married to a traitor?!"

"I was talking to them about my father, Sir! He's very ill. He's dying."

"You could have used an approved courier! You could have gotten in contact with anyone else on the ground! Hell, you could have even gotten in touch with someone going on a ground mission!"

"No I couldn't have, Maxson! Most of the people here aren't friendly towards ghouls, and there are plenty of them working for my parents on our farm! Some of them helped raise me! I couldn't risk that!"

"But you could risk your career as a Brotherhood soldier?", Maxson said coldly.

Lark stopped breathing, frozen.

"Sir... Are you saying..."

"As of tomorrow, you will no longer be a Brotherhood Soldier. Your rank and privileges will be stripped, and you will be taken off base by a vertibird to the Airport. From there you will be escorted off of Brotherhood property, and if you are ever seen near here again, so help me God-"

"I never would have had to rely on them for information, Sir, if you had let me have even a single day of shore leave.", Lark hissed, taking a step closer.

"Good. The gloves are finally coming off.", Maxson thought to himself.

"You were supposed to do your job, not waste a week on the ground for some petty celebration. Maybe if someone had died, but not for just for your brother's wedding."

"...How did you know I was requesting leave for my brother's wedding?"

Oops.

"All mail that comes in or out of the Brotherhood bases are moderated. You know that, or you wouldn't have gone through a third party!", he answered a little too quickly.

"Yes, but last I checked, it was restricted for anyone outside of the Scribes designated to check that mail to read or listen to anyone's mail unless it was deemed dangerous!", she snapped back, connecting the dots.

"You... You've been organizing against me for months! You've been trying to get me kicked out, haven't you?!", Lark accused.

For once, Maxson hesitated. Had he been? Maybe subconsciously. He had been looking at her mail; he'd had a hunch she was hiding something, and something big. He wasn't wrong, she'd been in correspondence with the damned synth Danse!

So... Why did he feel guilty? Why did his heart freeze at her accusation?

"You bastard!", she growled as she leapt at him and managed a punch to his right cheek.

Damn! How did he not see this coming?!

She went to land another punch in his stomach, but he dodged to the left and swept her off her feet with his leg.

He waited for her to get back up.

"What do you think you're doing, Wendal?", he said in a steely voice.

"Don't you remember? I'm not a soldier any more; I can kick your ass if I want to!", she shouted, once again jumping at him. This time he knocked her away with his elbow, and grabbed her by her wrist. He put his arm up so that his elbow was at her shoulder, and his fist was in front of her collarbone, forcing her up against the wall.

A snarl was on his lips as he looked into her face.

She was so, very angry.

And the room was very hot. Hazy, even.

So you could call it heat delirium, bad judgment, or even just plain stupidity that he decided to push a deep, intense kiss on her at that moment.

You could call it heat delirium, bad judgment, or just plain dumb luck that she kissed him back.

They lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling for what felt like hours before either of them said a word.

Lark took a deep breath.

"Elder-"

"I think we're a little beyond 'Elder', Wendal", Maxson said without turning his head to face her.

"Maxson... What... happened?"

"We had sex", he replied a little angrily, raising a hand in emphasis.

"But why?! Why did we... Why did you? I thought you hated me", Lark asked again.

"I thought I hated you", she trailed off.

"Well, obviously, neither of us hates the other", Maxson answered, with a haughty yet uncertain air.

"At least... I think...", he thought to himself.

Lark looked down at the floor, guiltily.

"I'm sorry", she said quietly, sitting up.

Maxson rolled onto his side and looked at her with confusion.

"Why are you sorry?", he said, the frustration ebbing from his tone. He took ahold of her arm; gently this time.

"He looks like a god damn puppy", Lark mused.

He was so much less intimidating for some reason. It made no sense! What had just happened was by no means the 'tender, sweet romance' that she had always dreamt about, or read about in books-but it was by no means unemotional. It was the exact opposite. It was raw, primal... Almost carnal. But as scary as it sounded in hindsight, she felt totally safe. They had both been in control, though it seemed like neither of them were. She had never really noticed herself having feelings for Maxson, but when she lunged at him, she immediately regretted it. Not because he was obviously stronger than her, and not because she had respected him for so long.

Because she didn't want to hurt him; not really. Of course, she'd figured that out far too late. His jaw had grown a light shade of purple, and was clearly swelling. She had an oblong, yellow bruise on her stomach, and a handprint on her wrist. He'd gotten it a little bit worse, since he hadn't been expecting any attack at all. There were other abrasions as well, though those came from... moments of passion.

Passion. It sounded funny in her head. When she'd thought of passionate escapades before, they'd always been so romanticized. By candlelight, a thunderstorm in the distance; or maybe in a cabin by the woods, thousands of fireflies lighting up thick fields of tall grass outside. Not even once had she envisioned it on a steel floor, cushioned by a military issued blanket. Not on a zeppelin, high over a Brotherhood Base. Not with a superior officer, not to mention the most superior officer she worked under.

And absolutely not with Maxson.

"I'm not... I won't be a whore, even if it is to save my career in the Brotherhood", she replied firmly. She said it with a hint of spite, but she didn't break his light grip on her arm.

He hadn't been smiling, but his face fell just the same.

"That was never my intention. THIS was never my intention", he replied angrily.

"Wendal, you are insubordinate. You fight me at every order, every turn! It's impossible to get anything done with you constantly bending my commands and using loopholes to get around exact orders!", he continued. He started to shout, but quickly resumed a quieter (yet harsher toned) volume.

Lark kept staring him in the face, eyes locked; cold steel against cold steel.

Maxson sat up as well.

"But, you're one of the best we have in a fight, and we can't afford to lose you. I thought that I hated you. I thought that if I got you courtmarshalled, that you'd be gone and I wouldn't experience as many flashes of white-hot rage."

"And now?", Wendal asked in a monotone voice.

"And now... Now everything's changed. I'll figure something out."

His gaze hardened moreso, but she refused to look away. It was a battle of wills.

His nostrils flared, and he looked slightly more distraught though again the anger had mostly drained from his face.

"I'm not going to get rid of you. Not for the contact with them, anyway. There's nothing incriminating in the tapes. Your brother's married, and your father's getting sick, and that's all there is to it. So no; you're career in the Brotherhood isn't over. Whatever the hell this... incident was, it's never happening again. Ever. So don't go on deluding yourself that you're trading sex for ranking. Nothing's changed; at all."