The In-Between: Elder

Notes: I had a hard time getting into this at first as I'll admit I'm not Maxson's biggest fan. I hope the hard work I put into this paid off and you enjoy. :)

22 years with so much to learn -
Too young to crash, but not to get burned.
I may not know much, but this much I do:
Don't let what's between get the best of you

Sierra Hull, "The In-Between"

Maxson knew from the beginning that the only way he was going to find Danse was if he got someone else to lead him to the man. Synth. Thing.

Knight O'Sullivan had been the obvious choice; the two of them have been thick as thieves since she joined up. And with her connection to the Institute, it's no wonder – it all seems to clear now. She must be the abomination's handler, and that's why he – it – was so adamant about her signing up. She'd said she didn't know anything about it, but Maxson had no doubt that she was lying. He still doesn't. Why would she tell the truth when she could just collect her rogue synth and be on her way?

Still, following her was the most reasonable plan he could come up with, and Maxson has no doubt it'll pay out in spades. The best way to find the coward – the traitor – was through someone it trusted, and that clearly wasn't him.

He isn't sure if he feels more betrayed by the reality of who Danse is or by the fact that the thing didn't confide in him. It's a ridiculous feeling but there's no denying it, at least not to himself.

The whole ride from the Prydwen to the blinking spot on the map where O'Sullivan's tracking beacon leads, he has a burning feeling in his chest and a cramp in his gut, as though someone fed him sour Brahmin milk or undercooked chicken. His skin broils inside his heavy coat, but when he takes it off briefly, he shivers with nervous sweat. The stink of it rolls off him, so he puts it back on to mask the smell before the pilot notices.

Is this heartbreak?

Maxson has never been a nervous man, and he hates that he's apparently become one now. This must be what treachery does to you.

At the thought of the things he's been imagining – the feelings the abomination woke in him – the bile rises hot and sour in the back of his throat, and he swallows harshly, forcing it back down. He won't vomit over the open side of the vertibird like a nervous recruit. He won't.

Arthur won't think about that night at the forecastle of the Prydwen, some two weeks back. He won't think about the way Danse stepped close to him, and the way his own traitorous heart had beat faster at the thought of the other man's bulk against his own. The way the heat of Danse's body had rolled off him even in the February chill of the Commonwealth, even with the wind whipping around them and out to sea. He'd felt Danse's hand brush his own as he stepped past Arthur and made his way to bed, and it was electric and alluring and terrifying all at once.

He'd wanted to chase after Danse, to pursue that illicit sensation, to press his body against the steel wall of the ship and crush their lips together, but instead he'd watched him go, clenching the rail between his fingers.

The vertibird wavers in the air, making the final approach towards O'Sullivan's blinking light, and Maxson feels himself becoming the Elder again. He reaches into his coat and takes a nip from the flask of whiskey in there, then another. He debates having a third and decides in favor of it, and then stows the small steel bottle away as the vertibird sets down on the helipad up the hill.

Elder Maxson is unsteady on his feet when he descends from the bird to the cracked pavement below. If the pilot notices, she doesn't say anything; she just gives him a curt nod and starts fiddling idly with the controls in the center console. Arthur isn't sure if she's actually doing anything productive or not, and decides it doesn't matter.

At the top of the incline, he stops for a moment. Behind him the sun is setting, a brilliant display of gold and violet splayed across the sky. How easy it would be to go back, to pretend he'd never been here. He could go back to the Prydwen and wait for O'Sullivan to come back.

He could take whatever she says at face value and never have to know the truth.

Still, some part of him knows that he owes it to Danse and to the – the connection he feels to the man, hateful and twisted though it is now. He has to see this through, even if he knows deep in his heart that he could never be the one to pull the trigger.

Arthur stands at the crest of the hill, counting the second until he's calm and curling his fingers so far into his palms that the nails bite. He stares at the clouds, at the lavender outlines on the bottoms of them, at the salmon-pink ridges of the hills to the west. He counts, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, until he feels like he can take another step forward.

And another. Another.

He's debating with himself whether he can really go into the building – he should, he knows he should, he gave the order and given everything Danse has done, doesn't he owe the man that much? – when the elevator dings and there's the sound of footsteps.

One pair of feet, from the sound of it.

He swallows, and then O'Sullivan walks through the door.

Alone.

O'Sullivan stares at him, and he glares at her. A pair of dog tags dangle from one of her hands, and she takes one step forward, then another.

"You followed me," she says, and the disgust in her voice hits Maxson as hard as a ton of bricks.

"I couldn't be sure you would follow orders," he says, but they both know it's weak. Her stare is impassive, both blank and accusatory, as if she's stripped him down to the essentials, can see deep inside the pit of him and isn't particularly impressed.

Knowing what's in his heart, Maxson isn't sure how impressed he is with himself, either.

"Here," she says, thrusting out the hand that holds the dog tags, and the pain that cuts through him is as startling as it is visceral; some part of him genuinely didn't think she'd go through with it, and despite the fact that he gave the order he hates her for going through with it.

He doesn't know what else he could have done, and yet – this is not what he wanted.

The edges of the holotags are sharp as Maxson wraps his fingers around them, and he wonders if anyone will notice if he wears Danse's tags with his own, next to his heart. It's probably not fair to the Paladin, probably not what the machine would have wanted, but –

The elevator dings again, and there's the sound of the doors sliding open, the rusty screech of one of them. Maxson looks over at O'Sullivan, who's frozen in place. He doesn't know her well, but he knows the look of guilt that she wears well; it's the same expression Squire Brant wore when Arthur caught him stealing sweet rolls from the kitchen. It's the look Scribe Marquette wore when it came out she'd been fucking a ghoul. It's the look people wear when they've been caught doing something wrong.

Or in this case, when they've been caught not doing right.

It's confirmed for him when Danse comes around the corner and O'Sullivan doesn't move, just stands straighter, setting her jaw in a determined way and meeting Maxson's eyes in an unspoken challenge.

He's not sure what's stronger – the relief he feels at seeing Danse come around the corner, or the sick feeling in his gut when he thinks of the way he'd smelled that night, of grease and sweat and salt from the sea air.

"How dare you betray the Brotherhood?" How dare you betray me, is what he wants to ask, but he doesn't. Instead of looking at O'Sullivan's mutinous glare he turns back to Danse, to the abomination behind her. He tries not to focus on the quirk of Danse's eyebrow when he speaks and instead think of the mechanical heart that beats within his flesh.

"It's not her fault, it's mine." Danse, ever the perfect soldier, tries to step in front of O'Sullivan. She, in turn, steps in front of him, and as they come closer to him – the abomination and his foolhardy protector – Maxson can feel the torment of it all building up inside him, tight and coiling as a spring ready to pop, and he practically bursts in his frustration and the duplicity of it all.

"I'll deal with you in a moment," he barks at Danse, and nearly flinches with the synth stands down. But of course he did, the hateful and nagging voice inside him says, he's meant to be controlled. He'll do whatever you say. No matter how you feel about him, he's still just a machine.

"Knight," he addresses O'Sullivan, desperate to quiet the voice in his head that demands blood. "Why has this…this thing not been destroyed?"

The look Danse gives him over O'Sullivan's shoulder makes his gut turn into knots again, cramping and aching, and Maxson longs to leave, to fly up in the vertibird and look down on the Commonwealth. The people would be the size of ants, he thinks, and he could take another drink from his flask, and another and another and another until he could forget this whole thing.

But like a grotesque, predestined event, this whole thing has already been put into motion. The scene must play out.

He knows synths have no free will – or at least they shouldn't – but for the first time he wonders at himself. If he wants to, he should be able to turn around, climb into the vertibird, and fly back to the Prydwen, where he would drink himself into a blackout.

So why is he still standing here, with O'Sullivan staring at him so viciously? If he can do whatever he wants, if he's in charge of his own destiny, why hasn't he closed the distance and pressed Danse's lips against his own, as he dreamed of?

O'Sullivan is the one who pulls him out of the spiral of his own thoughts. "He's not a 'thing,'" she says simply, and just like that the light goes on for him. Maxson looks past her again, at the way Danse nods slightly, at the grateful look in his eyes. He. His. He is a person, however he was made, and for a glimmering second Arthur can see that, can feel the certainty the knight before him exudes, can understand why his orders were wrong.

It's dizzying; it's freeing. He's liberated; he's petrified.

"He's one of your best men." She's right. She's right, and it's so simple – why didn't he see it before?

Then just like that, it's gone. The memory comes to him again, the one that keeps him up at night; Sarah Lyons lying dead on the ground and the synth above her, its smile never reaching its dark eyes. The whispers of the Railroad, and how they brought the abominations down to the Capital wasteland to free them from bondage, as if machines had any business taking care of themselves. The knowledge that he needed to free them all from the threat of synthetic humans, of the horror that mankind had wrought, was still turning loose upon itself.

Arthur can feel the situation slipping out of his control, and it scares him. He's not used to not being in charge.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" The voice that comes out of him is even more savage than his usual growl; it's a hiss, an accusation. "'Danse' isn't a man. It's a machine, an automaton created by the Institute."

He digs in, he forces himself to dredge up the way he felt when Quinlan broke the news to him.

You can't trust a machine.

"It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother, it was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory." Again, instead of seeing Danse he sees the synth that killed Sarah Lyons again; he sees the way her head looked, ripped off her shoulders and eyes staring blankly at nothing. The stain the blood made on the concrete floor. The howl that came out of his as he watched her die, as he launched himself on the synth in a flurry of fists, despite the fact that he was unarmed.

Arthur blinks and looks at Danse, meeting the synth's eyes. For a glittering moment he thinks he sees understanding in Danse's eyes, and not the sympathy that comes with knowing why someone has done something. No, what he thinks he sees is something more, some greater compassion. He thinks he sees the memory of that night in the forecastle, of the spark that passed from Danse's skin to his own when their hands brushed.

It thrills him; it makes him sick.

"Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine." He supposes he's technically talking to O'Sullivan, but he can't take his eyes off Danse. There's an understanding here, too; the Paladin's eyebrows wilt and even his shoulders slump a little, ruining his usually perfect posture. "The two were never meant to intertwine."

The lump in Maxson's throat is the size and consistency of a Corvega. When he tries to swallow it seems impossible, and yet Danse still seems…resigned.

Somehow, Arthur thought he'd fight more for his own life.

"How can you say this about me?" Danse pulls himself together, his shoulders broadening as he stands straighter, and he's right. Arthur knows he's right, and yet –

O'Sullivan seems to fade into the background; around them, twilight has fallen and the night is silent. Maxson wonders briefly how loud they're being, wonders if the vertibird pilot can hear them. He wonders if she'll be gossiping the moment they're back on the ship.

"You're the physical embodiment of what we hate most: technology that's gone too far." He wants to sound apologetic, to help Danse understand, but somehow his voice has become more strident, more angry, more vengeful. He knows he should be trying harder to explain, to be empathetic even, but the longer this goes on the more he doubts himself and his orders. The more he wants to cross the distance between him and the synth with long strides and find out what he – it – feels like under its uniform.

And this feeling cannot stand. Not now that he knows what Danse is.

He's ranting now, barely aware of what he's saying, of anything more than the feeling that he's spiraling out of control; he's spinning above the earth, watching the three of them stuck in this disgusting little drama, and more than anything he wants to go back to three days ago, when he found out the truth and do something – anything – differently.

He want to go back and give Danse time to explain. He wants to be the one to set out and find him.

But now here they are, and there's no going back; there's no starting over, no matter the flutter in his chest when Danse looks at him.

"You're comparing Danse to a nuclear bomb?" The amusement on O'Sullivan's face is blatant, insulting. He's never wanted to punch a woman so much as he wants to right now, and all for the slight arch of her eyebrow, the way she taunts him with her crooked smirk.

It enrages him.

"This machine might not be a nuclear bomb," he admits, digging his heels in anyway, "but its goal is exactly the same."

He doesn't believe it, not entirely. It's hard to imagine Danse of all people trying to destroy humanity. The synth was right about one thing – he can't really picture Danse trying to lay waste to everything before him, not after all he's done. Not after the way he's upheld the Brotherhood's ideals.

Yet there's still the betrayal eating him alive; how would Danse have made it to the Capital wasteland and into the Brotherhood if he hadn't been sent? If he wasn't doing the bidding of the Institute, infiltrating their ranks to discover their secrets, their purpose – he wouldn't be here. Maxson is sure of it, and so he has to double-down. He has to insist; the thing must be destroyed before whatever it knows goes too far.

"How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it's alive?" He directs this question to O'Sullivan, but he can see Danse nod out of the corner of his eye, and part of him aches to know that all this is happening to him, synth or no.

If only it had been someone else. Anyone else.

"It's true," Danse says, cutting into Maxson's rant, and he shuts his own mouth in surprise. "'I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren't my own. But when I saw my brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow."

The ache in his chest expands into a heaviness down Maxson's arms, tingling in his fingers.

"When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride." Maxson feels it too, just from the sound of Danse's voice, the residual emotion in it, and with it comes a twist in his intestines. "And when I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth, I felt hope."

Arthur closes his eyes, bites the inside of one of his lips. There's pain, and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, but none of this is enough to distract him from the wrenching misery in his chest, the feeling that he's fucked up something so completely he may never recover. He wonders idly if Sarah ever felt this way.

"I thought I was human, Arthur."

It's the use of his name – his birth name, not his family name, not his rank – that breaks him down completely. If he was being honest with himself, he'd admit he's dreamed of Danse calling that for so long – months, or maybe years, or maybe forever – but instead all he can manage is to admit the yearning that pulls at him, the desire to step forward and wrap his arms around the synth. He wants so much – he sees the goodness in the man, whatever his origin – and yet it feels like the script has already been written.

The story has been told, and they're just playing it out.

Maxson swallows again, lets out of a puff of air and looks up at Danse. He keeps thinking if he looks at the man hard enough he'll see metal and plastic, but all he finds is skin and hair and the shape of bone in flesh. He's giddy, trying to wrap his head around this whole thing, and not in a good way.

"I've done absolutely nothing to betray your trust," Danse says, and Maxson knows it's true. "And I never will."

Maxson wants to walk over, take the synth's hand in his own, forgive him for the reality of his existence. But somehow he can't move. Somehow, he's stuck to the ground, his legs like tree limbs, stiff and unyielding.

"It's too late for that now," the words come spilling from his mouth, even though part of him wants to take them back. Again he has the feeling of things happening because they've been decided; he doesn't want to do this, and yet he does. "The Institute has foolishly chosen to grant you life."

He looks at Danse carefully, at the way the man's legs look inside his uniform. The orange and gray jumpsuit clings to the muscles, and Arthur imagines he can see ripples where the curls of hair form against the taut flesh, although that's likely just fantasy.

"You simply should not exist." He doesn't mean it, or maybe he does. No matter how he feels about it, it breaks his heart to see Danse's crestfallen face at the words.

"It's alright," Danse says to O'Sullivan, and Maxson starts; he's forgotten she's there. "We…we did our best."

"I won't do it," O'Sullivan says, and she steps between Danse and Maxson, all four-foot and ten inches of her. Even with the combat armor she's narrow as a reed and offers no actual protection, but the meaning of her gesture is clear, and Arthur finds that some small part of him is relieved.

She may not realize it, but she's given him an out. He can hardly kill both of them.

"Whether he's human or not," the woman says, meeting his eyes and holding him with the force of her dark, strident gaze. "Danse saved the lives of countless Brotherhood soldiers. Now it's time you saved his."

He doesn't disagree; inside – deep, deep inside – some part of Maxson is ready to kiss her for what she's saying. She's right, and he knows it, and he's immeasurably grateful for the chance to back out of this.

He's so glad that it was her that he sent for this mission. Rhys would have killed him despite any misgivings; Rodriguez wouldn't have even felt any.

There's a smile that plays across his face as he looks from Danse to O'Sullivan. Not very professional, but the relief he feels is so genuine, so palpable, that Maxson doesn't dare fight it any more. All he wants now – the most he can possibly deserve, and really he should be facing much worse – is to go back to his quarters and drink until he doesn't remember this anymore.

"Allowing Danse to live undermines everything the Brotherhood stands for," he says, and O'Sullivan nods with a sick smile. "Yet you insist he stays alive."

"What can I say?" She slides the holotags from under her uniform, over her head, and tosses them into the dirt at his feet. Maxson looks at them dispassionately; they glow blue and white on the ground. Effective as she is, he finds he won't miss her. "I'm done with the Brotherhood."

"As far as I'm concerned, you're dead," he says to her, and turns to meet Danse's eyes. For a moment, the synth's steady gaze makes him waver, but he crushes his fingers into a bruising fist and counts again.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

"You both are."

He's gone in a moment, unwilling – unable? – to finish the conversation with them. It isn't until he's in the bird, high above the ground and looking down at trees the size of broccoli that he realizes he's still holding Danse's holotags in one hand. There's a snag on one side of one that catches his hand, and Maxson can feel a rip in the skin there, the wet prickle of blood. He should check it, but he's shaking too hard and he keeps hearing Danse call him Arthur, so instead he instructs the pilot to run them back to the Prydwen. He takes a sip from his flask, and wishes things were different.