These stories will probably not be in chronological order. I'm writing just as inspiration hits.

Small spoilers for the search for Shaun and the beginning of Danse's background.

Danse felt useless. The basement of the Memory Den was cluttered with machinery parts—spare bits for the memory pods, he guessed—and two of the pods themselves. Sam lay in one now, her eyes open but unfocused, hands gripping the armrests. She didn't look anything like the relaxed patrons upstairs who had appeared to be enjoying a nap with pleasant dreams. Sam looked like she was being tortured from the inside. He wanted to pull her out of the machine, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. This was her only lead, her last hope to find her son.

He turned to glare at the synth—Nick Valentine—sitting slumped in a chair next to the pod. Danse's stomach curdled at the sight of the thing's scalp peeled back on the base of its metal skull where Dr. Amari had plugged in the bit of Kellogg's cybernetic brain implant. Nick was bent, looking at his knees, wincing occasionally as if in pain. Could synths feel pain? Maybe it was just a glitch as the two mechanical parts interfaced. Still, Danse had to admit he was impressed with him—it. He hadn't expected the synth to be so eager to help get information that would expose the Institute, but he had, seeming as determined as Sam.

Abomination the synth may be, but at least he was a helpful abomination. And maybe Danse wouldn't trust him as much as Sam seemed to, but he could at least thank him for the help when it was over.

Maybe.

Danse wondered for a moment if he would be as quick to plug in his own brain to help Sam, but dismissed the foolish thought. He was human and therefore couldn't plug himself in like the synth had. But... He glanced at his sponsor's face, tears now leaking down the sides of her open eyes as Dr. Amari's screen showed a scene which must have been her husband getting shot by Kellogg.

It felt wrong to watch somehow; an invasion of privacy to see her darkest moment. And yet, Dr. Amari and the synth were there too. Sam had been willing to expose this to all of them, had known that this scene was one she might have to relive. She had even asked Danse to come along, fully knowing that really she only needed Nick to be there. It was an act of trust that humbled him, made him warm on the inside.

Sam was twitching now in the pod, jaw clenched. Danse looked away. Would he be as brave? Could he relive the worst moments of his life? Cutler's death had been hard, but as much pain as that had caused him, even Danse had to admit that it wasn't the same as watching a spouse die and your child disappear in front of you.

"Alright," Dr. Amari murmured, still standing in front of screen. She tapped a few keys. "I think that's the end. Stand back please, Paladin."

Danse shuffled back as Amari opened the pod. Sam was still shaking, her cheeks wet.

"What's wrong?" he asked sharply. "Why isn't she waking up?"

The doctor cast him an exasperated look over her shoulder as she readied a stimpak. "Walking through another person's memory isn't a refreshing nap. She has gone through a minor trauma. Give her a few minutes, and she'll be fine." She leaned over and wiped the inside of Sam's elbow with antiseptic, plunging the needle of the stimpak in with practiced precision.

Sam relaxed almost immediately. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her breathing became more even. Dr. Amari pressed two fingers to the inside of Sam's wrist, nodded, and stood up, going to the back of Nick's head. The process for the synth was less involved. As soon as Amari disconnected him from the implant, Nick blinked, the yellow irises glowing brighter, and straightened in his chair.

"All set, doc?" he asked in his gravelly voice, but he was looking at Sam.

"She'll be fine, Mr. Valentine," Amari assured him. "Hold still while I close you back up... There. You're free to go. Don't be surprised if you experience a few mnemonic events, however. You were connected long enough that I wouldn't be surprised if there was some bleed through of the synapses. Your cognitive processors will need a full cycle to clean out the foreign junk data."

"I'll run a diagnostic tonight," Nick promised, putting his patched fedora back on his bald synthetic scalp. He glanced up at Danse, yellow eyes thoughtful, then nodded. "I'll wait upstairs."

As the synth's steps faded upstairs, Dr. Amari watched Sam a moment longer. "She's coming out of it," she said, as Sam's eyelids fluttered. "Perhaps you should get out of your armor."

Danse cast a quick look at the doctor. "What? Why?"

"She'll need you," she said simply. "My bedside manner only goes so far." Her mouth twitched up in a smile.

Danse was confused, but none of his instincts were screaming that this was some elaborate kind of trap, so he backed into a corner out of the way and pulled the manual release, climbing out of his armor as Sam was beginning to stir and groan. He hurried to the pod's side, feeling—as he usually did outside his armor—smaller, less certain of himself. But that vanished when Sam opened her eyes and looked at him. Her hazel green eyes were bloodshot. She looked… lost, not at all the strong, confident gaze he was used to seeing.

"Danse," she said.

"Hi," he said, feeling suddenly foolish. What did you say to a person who'd just hopped though a psychopath's memories that happened to include the murder of her husband and abduction of her child?

But Sam didn't seem to notice his idiocy and sat up, lurching against him so suddenly that he almost fell over. Her hands clutched at the front of his BOS uniform, and she buried her face against his shoulder. Danse stiffened, mouth going dry.

"S-Sam?"

But she only shook her head against him, and burrowed deeper, as if trying to climb outside herself. Danse knew the feeling. After Cutler had died—no, after he had killed Cutler—he remembered the helplessness, the rage, and anger, the feeling that he was coming loose at the seams. It was partly why he loved wearing his power armor so much. Inside it, he was in control and solid; chaos made orderly. But Sam's power armor was sitting in the opposite corner of the basement, and he knew that wasn't what she needed right now.

Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her. She was cold, and he tried to will his warmth into her. He didn't say anything else—speech didn't seem wise when his heart was trying to evacuate his chest—but he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, holding her tight. Not too tight—he forgot, sometimes, how small she was—but tight enough that he could feel when her trembling stopped and her breathing evened out. Against his conscious will, his hand had moved up and began stroking her hair. It had come loose from its regulation knot at the base of her skull while she'd lain in the pod.

"Pull it together, soldier," he murmured into her hair. She huffed a watery laugh, and he felt warmth bloom through him. Yes, he thought, as she began to pull away, swiping at her eyes. He didn't' know what would come, but he knew he would do everything in his power to help her.