Standalone story, but this is what The Fall and Rise of Western Civilization spun off of. I just couldn't stop thinking about these two after writing this.
Danse closed his eyes tightly and let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. The pre-war Sentinel site he and Knight Sinclair just cleared out had been identified as the most likely target in their quest to recover the specific type of nuclear bomb needed to refill Liberty Prime's depleted arsenal. The location had delivered, and in spades. There had to be a payload of at least a hundred bombs. Possibly more, if they were fortunate. Mark-28 thermonuclear bombs, still encased in their sturdy, U.S. military-issue crates.
Proctor Ingram had given the two of them next to no intel regarding where to begin searching for the nukes, other than the fact that a distinct signal had been detected in the Glowing Sea. Unfortunately, the high background radiation masked the exact coordinates of the signal. Finding the stockpile would be a matter of speculative guesswork, no small amount of luck, and ultimately, boots on the ground. Two very specific pairs of heavily armored boots, to be precise.
Fortunately, he and Knight Sinclair had already spent the better part of a week carefully quartering and mapping the rad-soaked environment of the Glowing Sea during their search for the rogue Institute scientist. A squat pyramid-shaped facility had been marked on Sinclair's Pip-Boy as meriting future Brotherhood investigation, for it was obviously well fortified and military in nature.
When they put their heads together and started planning the mission in his quarters aboard the Prydwen, they both agreed it was the best place to start. The facility was built with the appropriate shape and material to withstand the detonation of high-yield, air dropped nuclear explosives. As a matter of fact, it had done so. The nearby proximity of the central blast crater suggested that the facility had been the likely target of the bomb which had devastated the Commonwealth.
Danse gave up on counting and turned his attention to logistics. He would record an accurate tally as the stockpile was loaded for transport back to the airport. He expected that transporting the nukes would be the most difficult obstacle to overcome, given their present location and unexpected surplus of munitions.
One, they'd need the heaviest of the cargo 'birds flying as closely to the ground as possible. Two, full air support would be required for escort and defense from the border of the Glowing Sea all the way back to the Prydwen.
Three… He cast a skeptical look at the nearest forklift. He doubted the heavy equipment that was present still worked, although it should have been protected from any EMP. Might be worth a shot trying to get one of the forklifts running, just to save on spent fusion cores and wear and tear on power armor.
Fortunately, Knight Marquez had been on the duty roster that morning; the young man had a knack for reviving pre-war technology. It had been truly enjoyable to see the rusted out Corvega limping slowly down old Washington Boulevard in front of the Citadel. At least until the engine had caught fire, anyway. And spread to the desiccated rubber of the tires, then to the chassis itself...
"Are we doing the right thing, Danse?"
The softly spoken - and unusually hesitant - question captured his undivided attention. Danse swiveled his armored torso and automatically lowered his gaze to compensate for Sinclair's petite stature. She was standing next to him, head tilted slightly to one side with an exceptionally solemn expression on her face.
One of many instantaneous answers to her question came to mind: "Absolutely." "Without a doubt, soldier." "Of course." Those weren't the answers she was looking for, however. It was far deeper than that.
He knew something was bothering her. The further they descended into the facility, the further she had withdrawn into herself and her power armor. All he could do was shorten the gap between them and double his watchful guard over her to compensate for her odd inattentiveness.
Danse knew trying to pry information out of her was a fool's errand unless she was ready to talk; in that they were two - what was the old world vegetable? Ah, yes. Peas. A long green legume. They were two peas in the same close-mouthed pod.
However, if she was now ready to talk, he was available. Always and no matter what the circumstance.
"If something's bothering you, I want to know."
She looked down at the ground beneath her feet and kicked a large flake of concrete, sending it skittering across the floor where it shattered into pieces against a crate.
"Maybe we should just leave. Scrap the mission. Using these… It feels wrong. They should have been used in China, not now. Not here in the Commonwealth. I've seen one too many mushroom clouds in my lifetime, Danse." Her voice was strangely muffled.
Her head tipped back even farther, eyes sliding across and down the highest row of stacked bombs before returning to his face. Danse reached out, plucked the signal pulser out of her lax fingers lest it drop to the concrete, and set it on top of the nearby forklift. Had Sinclair even set the signal off yet? Quickly he looked. No, the switch on the handheld unit was still in the off position.
That was unimportant at the moment, however. What was of utmost concern to him was the doubt etched into her furrowed brow. The weary, strained sadness that had settled over her face. Their current mission was of vital importance; Prime was nearing completion. Once the giant robot was rearmed, the final step would be to restart his nuclear engine.
And then… Then the Institute would fall. Saying that he looked forward to that day was a gross understatement. Her feelings were understandably more ambivalent, considering their ultimate target.
"Eyes on me, soldier," he commanded quietly. He had known this moment of reckoning would arrive eventually.
Carefully, slowly, he reached out an armored knuckle and gently nudged her chin up so he could see her shadowed eyes better. Windows to the soul, some long dead poet had written. And so they were. She regarded him steadily and without evasion, yet her eyes were clouded with a good deal of turbulence.
That wouldn't do. He knew Sinclair well enough to realize she was asking for help. He'd try to ease her mind and shoulder some of her burden; it was the very least he could do for his fellow soldier and subordinate. His friend. She'd do - and had done - the same for him.
Where to start, though? What topic could he touch upon to re-emphasize the importance of their mission yet reassure her? Obedience? No. She was too willful for that tack. Sinclair was a self-described Boston Irishwoman with the temper and stubbornness to match. He had been … unable to moderate those particular traits. Failed miserably, he privately admitted to himself.
Duty? Honor? Perhaps. She had those two qualities in abundance.
Sympathy would make things worse right now, he knew her too well to even try. Therefore, he would simply speak to her as her commanding officer.
Danse clasped his hands at the small of his back and widened his stance. "Pay attention to what I'm about to say, soldier."
Sinclair narrowed her eyes at the brisk order but straightened from her slumped position and nodded her head sharply. She replied with a crisp, "Yes, sir."
Danse chose to overlook the sardonic inflection she applied to the word 'sir.'
"Over the course of our association, you've been an exemplary model of a Brotherhood soldier. Your goals and beliefs, while not totally in line with those of the Brotherhood, are aligned closely enough where you have successfully accomplished every mission you've been assigned and then some."
She was still watching him but her eyes were now veiled and face unreadable. With a touch of inner amusement, he identified the same stone-faced expression he himself often assumed. It seemed that she had picked up certain traits from him after all.
Back to the task at hand, soldier.
"It is quite possible it would have taken the Brotherhood an extended period of time to find a way inside the Institute had you not joined our cause. Your assistance was extraordinarily valuable in gaining entry."
Danse paused to let his words soak in. A small frown dented her forehead.
"However, there have been lapses and blind spots in your judgment that I've had to learn to come to terms with as your commanding officer. Most notably your insistence at maintaining a relationship with the synth detective from Diamond City."
Pause. Her shoulders stiffened mutinously.
"Your sympathy and friendliness towards ghoul-kind and other undesirables. Mercenaries, drug-users, and the like."
Pause. Her pointed chin rose defiantly and her eyes blazed with anger. Good. She was mad. He had her right where he wanted her - riled up and on the defensive. It was an admittedly odd way of handling her, but the method had proven itself.
"You personally allowed the synths in both Greenetech Genetics and Bunker Hill to escape." He permitted an unfeigned, icy steel to permeate the words. As a veteran officer with the Brotherhood of Steel, those two particular lapses in judgment had been very difficult to swallow.
No pause was necessary. She erupted, right on cue.
"There are blind spots in Brotherhood doctrine too. You know it too, even if you won't fucking admit it," she spat. "Goddamnit, Danse! All of the choices I've made so far have been the right ones. Letting those synths go was the right thing to do. "
She stabbed a finger at his chest plate, then hissed out a curse as she shook the abused digit.
Danse took a deliberate half step forward, forcing her to either step back herself or be crowded uncomfortably against his power armor. She stood her ground, even pressed nose to chest plate as she was. He held a distinct psychological advantage; she was a dainty creature, barely reaching his shoulder even without his suit on. Nonetheless, she was glaring up at him challengingly, refusing to budge an inch. He expected no less from her.
He didn't understand, would never understand, why she didn't see the Gen 3 synths as enemies. Maybe it was due to her association with that damned Nick Valentine - they were thick as thieves. Perhaps if he had been able to join her inside the Institute he'd have better insight into her thought processes and would have been able to guide them down the appropriate channels.
The whole situation frustrated him, just as she was in turn frustrated with him for not understanding exactly why she felt the way she did. Her argument was that she had been something called a human rights attorney before the Great War.
Yet it was crystal clear to him: synths were not, in fact, human. They were the enemy, manufactured and programmed. Machines, ghastly replicas of humankind. Brotherhood doctrine clearly outlined the multitude of reasons why their very existence was loathsome.
Danse took a deep breath and reined in the sudden blaze of anger. It would serve no purpose. Anger would only unnecessarily escalate the situation.
What he did understand - and fully empathized with - was the jumbled, twisted mass of confusing emotions she felt for her son. The very architect of the Gen 3 synths. He had been a witness to their final conversation on the rooftop of the old ruins of C.I.T. A mother coldly and ruthlessly informed by her son that if she was not with the Institute, she was against them, and therefore an enemy.
Sinclair had waded through hell and high water to find that son, only to learn he had aged far beyond what she had expected while she slept the decades away in cryogenic slumber. He had been molded and shaped and twisted by the organization that had kidnapped him. She longed for him, grieved for him - no, mourned - with every fiber of her being.
Yet... she was grimly determined to stop him and the abhorrent Institute he was Director of for the good of the Commonwealth.
Danse deeply respected and admired that tenacity. In the course of the last several months it had changed her from a soft, pre-war civilian into a formidable, driven soldier, capable of tackling the most insurmountable of tasks. He wasn't being immodest by acknowledging the fact that under his tutelage, she had unleashed her full potential.
He only needed to direct her focus back towards that determination. It was the driving force behind every decision, every mission, every action they undertook.
Sinclair's anger tended to flare high and burn out brightly but quickly. Now was the time to reason with her and drive his point home. He allowed the steel of command to drop from his voice and quietly said, "At ease, soldier."
Uncertainty spread across her features. Straight, level brows rose and puckered questioningly, then gathered into a disgruntled frown once again as she looked away from him. Clearly, she had been gathering herself to continue the very familiar and long-standing argument between them.
It was rather... enjoyable to take the wind out of her sails. She glanced at him again, started to look away, then snapped her eyes back as she saw the slight smile on his lips.
Once again, Danse tilted her chin up toward him and allowed the pad of his thumb to linger at the hinge of her jaw for a self-indulgent split second before withdrawing his hand.
He pitched his voice down to a low, soothing rumble, a tone she had responded favorably to in the past. "I'm going to speak to you now as your friend. Understand?"
He waited until he received an acknowledgement; she licked her lips and nodded hesitantly. The sudden blaze of fury had indeed come and gone as quickly as a rad storm. Now that it had dissipated, he could see her gaze was still troubled, however.
"You've had to make many hard decisions recently, decisions I don't envy. I've been by your side for most of them and plan on being by your side for the even more difficult times that are yet to come."
Affection filtered through the muddled emotion in her eyes. He clasped her shoulders in his hands, mindful not to crush her delicate bones with his augmented strength. She felt like a bird in the steel cage of his hands.
"You have a strong sense of morality that guides you. Wrong or right, you stand by your decisions, yet you don't make them lightly or hastily. Moreover, you don't allow your emotions or heart to overrule your brain. All of these factors are important, and all I or anyone else can ask of you."
He sighed heavily. "You know exactly what kind of danger the Institute poses for the Commonwealth, more than anybody I can think of. More than Maxson, even. How long does it take to… to manufacture one of them? Minutes."
She nodded. "Born, programmed, and enslaved in the name of science." The words were bitter and resentful.
Late one chilly night, curled against his side for comfort and courage, she had finally told him what she had experienced inside the Institute. All she had seen, all she had overheard. The process by which new synths were created. The disused FEV lab with abandoned mutant specimens still bobbing in their tanks. The clinically cold environment that was matched only by the cheerful, yet inhumanly impersonal staff.
The realization that she had fought so many battles, dared so much to find her son, only to discover she had failed before she had even started destroyed her. He had picked up the broken pieces of her and carried her through that devastation, but only barely.
Then there was the matter of the experimental child synth. It… had not been included in her reports. The thing's existence had caused her weep with abject heartbreak against his chest. He had felt so helpless and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it, other than hold her as tightly as he dared without hurting her.
A child, for god's sake. A child synth built to resemble what her stolen infant would have looked like in time, had he not been cruelly stolen from her.
Yet beyond any of that, the choked horror in her voice when she had disclosed the final offer the Director - her own son - had proposed if she joined their cause still made his blood run cold.
He was aware that what he had to say next would wound her. He regretted the necessity but it would provide the required emphasis like nothing else could. The Brotherhood Paladin in him would say the words for the benefit of the mission Elder Maxson had tasked them with.
But he wouldn't say the words for himself. Never for himself - the part of him that was her friend. Nor would he ever include them in any report he ever wrote, for they had been privately disclosed to him.
"They'd even offer to clone a dead man to suit their purposes. Your murdered husband, Nora." That ghastly proposal was what directly led to her disassociation with her own son.
Sinclair blanched and rocked back from him as if slapped. If he hadn't been holding onto her shoulders, she'd have fled, and rightly so. He … didn't feel good revisiting that horrible proposition. In fact, he felt terrible. She twisted ineffectually against his grasp and hissed at him fiercely when he refused to let her go.
"Are we doing the right thing? I think you know the answer to that," he quietly concluded.
All of the fight drained out of her and she slumped forward alarmingly against his armor. After a long, silent moment, she dully acknowledged the truth of his words. "Yes. I know."
He wished he could volunteer … something more. Perhaps a strong and steady shoulder for her to rest her head on, if she wished. Or a pair of strong arms and a tight embrace. Sinclair had never failed to turn to him when she needed reassurance and comfort - would it be appropriate for him to take that initiative now?
It was … becoming more and more difficult to separate the friend in him from the commanding officer. Was there even a difference anymore? She was certainly his equal in every way that mattered. Danse sighed and squeezed her shoulders.
"I… I realize what we're asking of you. Who we're asking you to destroy. But you won't have to do it alone. I didn't have anybody to turn to after… After Cutler. But you will. You will have my full support."
The earnest, heartfelt promise brought with it a wave of familiar pain. Danse sighed and let his hands fall from her shoulders. It had been three years and not one day went by where he didn't mourn that loss. Not one day went by that he didn't wish it had been someone else in his sights...
"Shit. Shit," she breathed. "You loved him, didn't you? Danse..."
He raised his head and arched his brows in surprise at the unexpectedly perceptive insight. Thoughtfully, Danse eyed her while considering his response.
Yes, the feelings he had for the other man were outside the boundaries of brotherly love and friendship. He had never been sure if the deeper feelings he had for Cutler were reciprocated or not. There were moments where he thought maybe… just maybe… The brush of a hand here and there. One breathless almost-kiss, interrupted.
Then he had received his promotion to Paladin and they had been split into different squads. And then…
She deserved to know; in truth, she quite possibly was the only person who cared enough to ask. Perhaps Haylen would also care… ? Yes. Yes, of course she would. But he didn't have nearly as tight a bond with the scribe as he did with this Knight. Perhaps Sinclair knew him better than he realized.
"Yes, I did," he answered simply. The acknowledgement shifted something deep in his chest.
Sinclair's small hand crept up and stroked his cheek comfortingly. Her eyes softened and she rubbed her thumb back and forth across his cheekbone. "I'm so sorry, my friend."
The compassion in her candid gaze was a soothing balm. A drink of purified water after a dry, hot day. It filtered over him and through him, running into scorched cracks and crevices. Perhaps, in time and with her help, he could start the long-delayed healing process.
Hesitantly, Danse reached up and covered her hand with his own. "As am I."
Sinclair ruefully murmured, "What a sorry pair we are."
She looped her arms around his waist and let her head fall forward against his armor with a heavy thump. Despite the ebb and flow of the intense emotions swirling around them, the sound caused him to wince in pained sympathy. That had to have -
"Ow," she muttered.
- hurt. "You need to quit doing that."
"Damn it, I know. Put some padding there or something, will you?"
"It'll throw off the whole balance of the suit, Sinclair. We've been over this how many times now? Power armor is not meant to be hugged."
"Take it off, then."
"Not gonna happen, soldier."
"Damn you for always being right, anyway." She wasn't talking about the silly argument anymore.
"No, not always. This time, however…" Danse gave her shoulders a brief squeeze.
Sinclair rubbed her forehead briskly with the heel of her palm, then reached out to pick up the signal pulser. With a tiny sigh, she flicked the switch on and set it back down.
She pulled her shoulders back and straightened her spine; he watched her visibly drawing herself back together, shred at a time. Knight Sinclair was back in place, toughness and resilience right there alongside the underlying vulnerability of Nora. Damn, he was proud of her. She was one hell of a woman and he was lucky to have her call him friend.
"Now what?" Expectantly she looked at him.
Danse shrugged easily. He was glad to be back on solid, mission-related footing now instead of emotional quicksand. "Now that the site's been secured, you should return to the airport immediately. I'll remain on watch until the vertibirds arrive."
She gave him an archly amused look. "Was it something I said?"
He allowed himself to smile in reassurance. "Not at all. If we want Liberty Prime to reach peak fighting efficiency, we can't afford to lose this stockpile. Elder Maxson will be expecting an immediate, personally delivered report, especially when he finds out our mission has been so successful."
"Danse, they've been here for two centuries. They'll be fine." Her voice was back to its customary dry and sardonic tone. "And Maxson can go -"
"Knight. That's enough."
Sinclair crossed her arms over her chest and flicked an impertinent eye roll skyward. She was most likely right; nevertheless, he wasn't going to budge. He, too, could be stubborn when and where it was warranted.
"Elder Maxson's orders were quite clear, soldier. I'm not to take my eyes off of these bombs until every one of them has been counted, tested, and loaded. Back in your power armor, soldier."
She muttered under her breath - something insulting, no doubt - but the only words he was able to make out were "tin can". Sinclair obediently moved a few paces away towards her power armor, then paused, cocked her head to one side, and looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Danse?"
"Yes?"
"Y'know, Haylen spilled the beans on you when I first met you guys. She told me protocol is your bread and butter. She was quite right."
The impish, lopsided grin on her face told him that certainly more than just his appreciation for military etiquette had been discussed. He suspected that the furtive, whispered discussions interspersed with peals of laughter that took place between the two women during downtime contained topics that he would find… embarrassing to overhear.
He shifted uneasily as she advanced on him purposefully. Perhaps a judicious retreat from this unpredictable female would be in order…
Too late for that. She was standing directly in front of him, grinning widely as if relishing his sudden discomfort.
"Despite all that, she told me you're a good man." Sinclair rolled her eyes again. "Then again, she said the same thing about Rhys, so I seriously question her judgment. But she was right. Is right. Will always be right. And when was the last time someone told you as much?" she finished rhetorically.
She quite indecorously stepped on his armored toes and hooked her fingers into the neck cowling of his suit to hoist herself up so that they were nose to nose.
"Hi there," she said affably.
"Hi," he said warily.
"The thing with the Brotherhood is nobody is else is gonna tell you that you're one of the good guys. Oh, they'll tell you 'good kill' or 'mission accomplished' or some bullshit like that. But you're too grumpy for anyone to actually compliment you to your face. Good thing you don't intimidate me one bit, isn't it?"
He frowned at her. "I'm not-"
Sinclair tapped her finger on his forehead. "See what I mean? You're positively terrifying when you scowl like that."
Danse let out a heartfelt sigh and scrubbed a hand across the back of his head. Why was she so damned difficult all the time?
She laughed and slung her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly.
"I'm about to tell you something that's been long overdue. Shamefully overdue. Thank you, Danse. From the bottom of my heart. I don't know how you manage it, but you keep me sane."
Her gratitude was unnecessary, but warmed him nonetheless. Tentatively he reciprocated the embrace and patted her awkwardly on the back. He was never quite sure where to place his hands in these moments.
She pulled back far enough to look him in the eye. Hers were suspiciously damp, something he knew better to call attention to, prickly as she was.
Her eyes were searching his face, flicking from eyes to mouth and back up. It wasn't the first time he had caught her looking at him so intently. What was she looking for?
"You're wrong about one thing, though," she said in a soft, affectionate voice.
Dryly, he said, "Is that so? Please, enlighten me."
"There are times, my dear grouchy Paladin, when one must allow emotions out of their cages." Sinclair tilted her head and grinned unrepentantly at him. "Just so we're clear, this is me, letting my heart overrule my brain. Oh dear."
Her breath tickled the shell of his ear as she leaned forward and whispered, "And - my goodness. I think that was just an emotion I felt."
What on earth…?
Danse felt the angular pressure of her cheekbone against his own. Gently, she scraped her nails against the grain of the short hair at the base of his neck once, twice, before smoothing down the perpetually unruly hair at the crown of his head.
His heartbeat faltered as she nuzzled the juncture of his jaw and ear with her cold nose. It then started hammering alarmingly as she scrubbed her cheek against his beard. The contact must have pleased her, because she hummed low in her throat and repeated the motion. The tiny little noise sent a bolt of … something … shooting down his spine.
He suddenly became acutely cognizant that her mouth was a mere fraction of an inch from his. Her eyes were glowing so brightly he had to close his own to try to regroup his scattered senses. Every nerve in his body was crackling with awareness – it felt exactly like tuning into a radio channel that had been static but was now crystal clear and broadcasting loudly.
Wait. What the hell was he doing, holding her like this? He had no business- He was her… And what… what was she doing? She shouldn't -
The initial press of her lips against his was gentle and sweet, soft and chaste. She placed tiny kisses in a row along his lower lip, and then shifted her attention to the corners of his mouth, delicately tasting him with the very tip of her tongue. She nudged his nose with her own, unmistakably inviting him to respond.
Was he panicking? No, an officer did not panic.
Outwardly, he was frozen in place. Inwardly… well, his stomach resembled the molten vats of iron in the old Saugus ironworks. His brain was scrambling to find an acceptable response. The rest of him was urging him to accept her invitation, to claim her mouth. To steal her breath like she just did to him.
Hell, he WAS panicking.
She sighed and murmured his name contentedly. Another lingering kiss was placed on his cheek, then one on his jaw. Sinclair dipped her head and rested her forehead against his chin briefly. She withdrew too soon for his liking. Too soon for the liking he shouldn't even have been entertaining, let alone allowing. Damn it.
Damn, damn, damn.
Her eyes were wide, wondering, and a little cautious as she canted her head backwards and studied his face. Perhaps she was picking up on the conflicted emotions he was feeling. Maybe, just maybe, she was sensing that he didn't ever want her to stop.
Ever.
Prior to this, she had dropped occasional hints of having … stronger feelings for him. Hints which he dutifully tried to ignore. There had been unexpected moments of long, searching looks and saucy flirtation from her that flustered him for days afterward. Soft, restrained touches that made him ache for days afterward, as well.
But this… This was brand new territory for the both of them.
Her voice was low and husky when she finally spoke; a warm, intimate reminder of what they had just shared. It hinted at more. So much more.
"You are a good man, Danse. Having you by my side makes me feel as safe as I've ever felt, even before the world went to shit. If I'm the only other woman in this damn wasteland who can see you for who you really are, this world is farther gone than I thought."
She brushed a fingertip over the side of his face, gently tracing the pitted scar on his right cheek. "God, I'd be so lost without you. My knight in shining power armor."
The way her voice cracked at the end caught him like a blow to the solar plexus. She was so... absolute in her faith. Never before had anyone made such a sincere declaration to him. It … stunned him. Branded him. The rolling fire in his stomach leapt up into his chest, into his brain.
Danse wasn't thinking of decorum when he captured her small face in his large hands. He certainly wasn't mindful of protocol when he lightly bumped his forehead and nose against hers, allowing their breath to blend together.
He definitely wasn't considering propriety as he watched her pupils dilate with unmistakable desire when he skimmed the cool pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. Desire for him.
God help him, the Brotherhood was the farthest thing from his mind as he took his turn to taste the corner of her mouth, greedily inhaling the fervent "Danse, YES" she uttered.
He proceeded to fully cover her mouth with his own, reveling in the way she cradled his head in her arms and twined her fingers tightly in his hair. Her lips were soft and welcoming, just as he had speculated they would be. Her tongue? Just as slick and hot and ardent as he had imagined. No, fantasized, if he was going to be honest with himself. He had fantasized about this very moment, never thinking it would become reality.
She drank him in deeply as he slid his tongue against hers, vocalizing her pleasure with tiny purrs. It only made the fire burn higher and brighter. It consumed him. Jesus, the way she was responding… The way she made him feel...
Alive. Electric. Bulletproof.
The timing was shit-poor, the location could have been worlds better, but none of that mattered. The only thing that did was the woman he was doing his damned best to devour. To be fair, she was doing her best to return the favor.
The softness of her figure swayed and yielded itself against his power armor, held gently but firmly in place by gauntleted hands that could easily crush her. The hands inside those gauntlets trembled with the sudden overwhelming need to touch. He desperately wanted to find out what the soft, rounded curve of her belly felt like. The goosebumps that would rise at the nape of her neck as he trailed his fingers up and down her spine.
The way she slid a thigh up and fully molded herself to him… Had he not been wearing the suit, he would have felt all of her. She, in turn, would have felt all of him. There would be no hiding his response to her.
Had she not rocked against him slowly and gasped into his mouth, he might have been well on his way towards satisfying her with his hands, mouth, body - one or all of the above.
Very reluctantly, he allowed reality to intrude. Had he not been wearing the suit of armor… well, there was a very good possibility they would be found in a very compromising position when the Echo team arrived. Unnecessarily awkward reports would ensue. They would quite possibly be written up for dereliction of duty.
Worse yet, Elder Maxson might decide to reassign them to separate teams. He couldn't allow that to happen Not now, not after… this.
With that sobering thought, Danse abruptly broke the kiss off but allowed his fingertips to seek out and stroke the rapid, thready pulse of her carotid artery. He could just feel the leaping of her pulse through the thin tactical webbing of the fingerpads.
Insistent lips still actively sought his, a fact that didn't make it any easier to disengage himself from her. As he drew back, Sinclair looked at him with such a dazed, wanton look in her eyes that he felt like …
He felt like the barbarian character Grognak. Purely masculine, invincible, predatory.
She was clinging to his armor, bringing to mind a new fantasy that he ruthlessly suppressed. For now.
"Fuck, Danse," she breathed.
Precisely.
Sinclair took in a gulping breath and expelled it in a burbling, delighted laugh. "Here I was, giving you a nice, respectable thank you kiss and you had to go and try to eat me alive. Unbelievably bad manners, Danse."
She stroked his bottom lip with her thumb and hoisted herself up against his armor again. "More. Now."
"Hold up a second." His voice was a mere whisper. She had sucked all the breath out of his body. He might never get it back.
Solemnly, he brushed a wave of dark hair back from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. He cleared his throat twice before attempting to speak. "I… I should apologize. As your commanding officer-"
The transition from hot to cold in her eyes was fascinating. "Don't you dare go there. That's a bullshit excuse and you know it."
Danse captured her hand in his before she thumped it against his suit and injured herself even further.
"Sinclair… Nora. We can't allow… whatever this is… to interfere with our mission."
"What is this, Danse?" It was a fair question, plaintively asked. The fact that he had to avert his eyes from a mouth swollen and rosy from his very personal attention spoke volumes.
What had they just shared? Something that had been a long time coming, maybe. Something he had been previously been blind to, certainly. This tiny, ferocious woman had crept under his armor and under his skin. Perhaps farther than that.
"That… exploration will have to wait. Once Prime is operational and the Institute has been dealt with, we can-"
"We will pick up where we left off. Minus this." She flicked a finger against his chest plate.
"And this." She circled a finger around the room.
"And this." Sinclair tugged forcefully at the neck tab of her uniform.
He could feel the blood rising in his face at the sensual note clearly evident in her voice. Blood that was just returning from … other locations, now that he had himself back under firm control. He closed his eyes briefly in defeat at the unintended but wholly accurate description of his so-called "control."
Yet… why did it matter? They were both adults. Once their final mission was complete, why should he deny himself a moment of pleasure, shared with someone he was close to? There were no hard and fast rules in the Brotherhood regarding fraternization between consenting individuals, as long as a mission or individual wasn't compromised.
Perhaps, in the not-too distant future, they could spend an evening at her favored off-duty location of Nordhagen Beach. A bonfire, a bottle of some alcoholic beverage. Soft music in the background. Lowering Sinclair onto a blanket in the sand...
Get a hold of yourself, soldier.
"Ah, roger that." He had to forcefully clear a sudden constriction of his throat before continuing. "Go suit up. The first of the vertibirds should be arriving soon. You'll be able to hitch a ride back to the airport. Dismissed, Knight."
As if on cue, the grinding metal sound of the freight elevator being activated rumbled through the air. She deepened her voice into an approximation of his baritone. "Dismissed, Knight. Just like that, huh?"
"Go. Keep yourself safe, soldier. I expect to see you back at the airport."
Danse leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss against her forehead. "When this is over… Our day will come. I promise. Now go," he said hoarsely.
Deliberately he turned and forced his attention back to the stockpile. Unseeing eyes surveyed the rows of Mark-28 bombs. Shockingly empty hands twitched and flexed inside their gauntlets.
"Sir, yes, sir." There was no mocking note in 'sir' this time, only affection.
"They'd even offer to clone a dead man to suit their purposes. Your murdered husband, Nora." refers to a cut quest titled The Replacement.
This mission would have been unlocked, along with A House Divided, if the quest The Battle of Bunker Hill was completed. The icon implies that the Sole Survivor's dead spouse would have been cloned and turned into a Synth.
Link: /Fallout_4#The_Replacement