"Where are the little terrors?"

Hearing Nate's noise of protest that his daughters would be called such, Nora lifts her head from the island counter. With a glance over her shoulder, she finds none other than Goodneighbor's wayward mayor himself. Hancock flashes her what she's learned to recognize as a cocky smirk, no matter how much it may resemble a lipless grimace.

Nate brushes a hand across her back as he passes, and she smiles into her morning coffee. His curiosity is immediately roused by what Hancock carries. "Little early for you. What's with the box?"

Hancock glances down at the wooden chest balanced on one bony hip. "This? Figured what could be better for your kids than their very first treasure stash?"

Nate smiles. "Then I'll grab the twins."

Downing the rest of her lukewarm coffee in the hopes it might clear the wool stuffed in her head, Nora pads on bare feet to the nursery behind Nate. Her eyes itch from the too-bright morning sunbeams pooling around the crib. Nate claims Delilah, so she carries Maeve—who has the luxury of falling asleep almost immediately with her head on Nora's breast—to meet Hancock In the meantime, he has set the box on the kitchen table and now stands with his hands behind his back, peering at a recently washed baby rattle with all the confusion of an archaeologist unearthing a previously undiscovered object.

Hancock glances up when they step into the living area. "Alright, hit me."

Maeve wakes at the unfamiliar voice, and the twins are captivated by a new face, holding none of the apprehension an adult might when under the intent blood-black gaze of a ghoul. Hancock looks between the twins, then gently wiggles Delilah's toe. "Double the trouble. I like it."

Delilah kicks her legs with a happy noise when he speaks, then reaches for the frill of his coat.

Hancock chuckles, the sound as dry as crunching through the woods in fall when it comes from his radiation-scorched throat. "Got good taste. This, my friend, is an important symbol of power. Say 'of the people, for the people'. No? How about 'Mayor Hancock'?"

Delilah burps and peers about with an open expression.

Mopping up the milky drool around her mouth, Nate says, "It's a work in progress."

Hancock drums his fingers on the edge of the wooden chest. It's of a decent size—large enough to be cumbersome in even Nate's arms—and constructed from dark cherry panels patterned with a silky grain. Any varnish has long since worn away, but the for all the scratches and scars in the lid, the timber held up under the rigors of time. The brass latch and rivets have been polished to reflect enough morning light that Nora's eyes water.

"Gather round, folks: this here is a genuine treasure chest from Mayor Hancock's personal storage. Greased hinges for sneaky use and a lockable latch in case there's something you need to hide. You can use it to store bottle caps, ammo, even toys liberated from other kids. And if you cry too much, you might get an up close and personal look inside." Hancock opens the creaking lid to show off its spacious, reinforced interior. Despite the musty smell that wafts out, there's no dust to accompany it.

Nora snorts, and Hancock closes the chest with a cheeky look.

Nate sits Delilah on the lid, keeping his hands around her torso so she can't overbalance or fall. "What do you think?"

Delilah feels around with uncoordinated hands, unused to sitting upright, and her expression scrunches. Sensing the oncoming tears, Nate lifts her back into his arms and smooths a hand across her back.

Hancock watches with an expression identifiable as anything but envy. "No need to cry. We're starting small here—one day, you're gonna have an entire warehouse to store your goods. And if you're lucky, you'll meet a close friend when he digs his way inside intending to clean you out."

With a wry smile, Nate drops a hand onto the smaller man's shoulder. "Just because you don't know how to make friends any other way."

Nate leans on one elbow over the twins, who lie on the living room floor, dangling his dog tags for them to play with. "Smile for me? You know you want to."

Delilah kicks her legs when he tickles her stomach, while Maeve is more easily distracted by the sound of greeting called outside and heavy footsteps.

Danse clears his throat from the front door, his body—bulky even in his bomber jacket instead of power armor—awkwardly poised on the threshold. "I can return later if this is a personal moment for you."

Nora glances up from the kitchen table, marking her place in her book. She has to wonder what kind of figure her husband cuts to a fellow career soldier, lying on the floor in a t-shirt and old sweats. If Danse's face is indication, he never expected to see a brother-in-arms who once took out a raider nest with only a pistol and a molotov cocktail to now be making noises to entertain babies.

Nate glances over his shoulder. "Danse! Hi. No, it's fine. Come in and meet the twins."

Danse braves only as far as the couch. He sits down, ramrod straight, and peers down at the twins with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"Be careful. They can smell fear."

While Nate is distracted by Danse's scowl, Maeve grabs at the tags and manages to get her fingers caught in the chain. Nate frees her hand and kisses her fingers, but the damage is done. Her face crumples and she bursts into tears.

Rising from the table, Nora swoops in to take Maeve and retreats to the kitchen. Nate shoots her a grateful look—for soothing the crying baby or for being courteous to Danse, she isn't certain. Rocking Maeve in her arms, she murmurs, "Hush, little one, it's alright."

Maeve wails again, but soon cries herself out. With a sheepish look, Nate wipes his dog tags on his pant leg and tucks them under his shirt. Scooping up Delilah, Nate lowers himself onto the couch beside Danse. Delilah watches the new face behind half-lidded eyes, mouth working soundlessly. She then tugs on Nate's hand and starts sucking on his finger with soft pink gums.

Danse watches the baby back and clears his throat. "I see you're adjusting to your new responsibilities."

Nate shrugs one shoulder. "To be fair, I'm playing catch up here. My wonderful wife has nine months of childcare on me."

"And my wonderful husband needs to stop worrying so much," Nora calls from the kitchen, "because he's doing fine, as always."

Humming a quick tune, Nate raises an eyebrow in Danse's direction. "That bush is looking awfully beaten today, buddy."

Danse shoots him a sideways look. "You know I've never been good at these things. I'd appreciate it if you bear with me. I told you once that having a bond with someone and then losing them changes you... but I never considered how the opposite might also be true."

Nate considers this as his daughter slobbers all over his fingers. "You'd think that I'd be an expert at this, but there's always more to learn. I hope I'll change for the better. To be the father they need."

Danse nods, slow and considered, his dark eyes distant. Then his gaze snaps back into focus. "What are their names?"

"This one's Delilah and Nora's got Maeve."

Danse withdraws a set of holotags from his jacket pocket and programs their names in, then removes the second tag. After reaching up to pull his own holotags free, he unstrings his holotags and threads the second tag onto the chain. "Here. It's not much of a present, I admit."

"Wonderful—you see this, Lilah? You can stop drooling over mine now." Nate swings Delilah's holotag, its tiny display panel a blurred arc of blue, but this time he keeps it out of baby reach.

Danse approaches Nora and Maeve with the caution usually reserved for a live mine field, but when no more tears are forthcoming, he holds out the other holotag.

Keeping the chain wrapped around her hand, Nora shows the gift to Maeve. The baby gurgles and reaches for the blue light with half-curled fingers. "Thank you."

Danse can always be counted on to be earnest, so no matter the uncertainty pinching his face, he's honest when he says, "My congratulations. You both must be very proud."

Nora sits in one of the old patio chairs they'd dragged from the back yard, the brittle plastic hard against her sore back. Nate has claimed the chair's partner and sits beside her; they each hold one baby. Dogmeat rests his chin on her knee and when he nudges Delilah's leg, she kicks back. Shaun is just visible at the base of the tree at the end of the street, drawing on the sidewalk with chalks. Tipping her head back, Nora closes her eyes and enjoys the feel of sunlight on her face. Nate's hand slides along her armrest to find her and he links their fingers together.

The street goes quiet. Sturges' clanking in Rosa's carport ceases, as does the laughter next door.

Cracking open an eye, Nora's vision resolves itself to find the dark silhouette striding up the street. His gait is even, methodical, with barely a ripple in his black coat.

She's on her feet in a heartbeat.

Nate stands beside her, with Maeve wriggling in his arm from being jostled.

X6-88 halts in front of them and stares down at the twins for a long moment. Then: "Holy shit."

Without missing a beat, Nate mutters, "There is nothing holy about what they've been pooping, believe me."

Delilah yawns and watches the newcomer with her dark, unblinking gaze.

"That's… unsettling." X6-88 hasn't returned to that old monotone, which is something. "I've heard childbirth can be extraordinarily painful. While inefficient, it seems a good way to increase one's pain threshold."

"One of the beneficial side effects," Nora drawls. She looks him over, wondering how he's been adapting to permanent topside living. No matter the six inches of mud hemming his coat and the deeper grooves around his mouth, X6-88 has retained his relentless determination and impeccable taste in sunglasses. An unfamiliar matte black bag with straining seams sits on his back, and Nora can count an excessive number of guns on his person. He doesn't seem to have lost any weight, so they won't need to cook him a meal or three.

Nate shifts Maeve in his arms. "You could hold one of the twins, if you wanted."

Sometimes, a raised eyebrow from X6-88 can eloquently convey his incredulity. "Very funny, sir." He's leery when Delilah reaches for his coat, stepping back out of reach, and watches Nora tuck the baby's arm back into her shawl with an unreadable expression. "Do you think this is a better legacy than your son's?"

Despite everything, it's still a knife to the heart. Nora draws in a quick, hissing breath. "It's not about who's better than who. I wasn't thinking about legacies at all—I just want my children to be safe and happy."

X6-88 cocks his head. "And you think they can have safety or happiness here? To my limited understanding, infant humans require extensive care."

She's quiet a moment. "We're going to find out. But at least this time, we'll be a family."

He watches her with nary a twitch in his expression, but Nora senses that he's searching her face. Whatever he finds, it leads him to say, "If anyone has the will to keep their children secure in the filth of the Commonwealth, it would be you. For whatever future you hope to have with these infants." With a brisk efficiency, X6-88 unslings one of the plasma rifles off his back. "If you expect them to remain safe, they'll require proper equipment."

While the copper coils and glowing green plasma cells are familiar enough, the weapon has been heavily modified, sporting an automatic barrel and an oversized capacitor Nora doesn't recognize. Engraved on the side are the words: For the future.

Nate whistles. "The twins are going to fight over that. I can see it now."

X6-88 doesn't immediately respond, his gaze lowered again to the babies Nora and Nate hold. Clearing his throat, X6-88 says, "I'm not good with infants but, for whatever it's worth, congratulations. Just don't expect me to change their diapers."

"X6?" Nora steps forward to catch his elbow before he can turn away. "Thank you."

He gives her a nod. "You're welcome, ma'am."

In the late-night quiet, Nora watches the twins sleep. Cloaked in their baby blanket to ward off the biting chill, the sisters lie side by side in the crib. The mobile above them drifts in a lazy circle, spurred by a wandering breeze. The plasma cartridge from Experiment 18-A sits on the dresser as a makeshift nightlight, bathing the room in dim green luminescence. Hancock's treasure chest sits against the wall, already half-full with boots and helmets and toy robots.

Perched on the lid is the oversized bear that holds a copy of Shakespeare's plays in its arms, while two holotags glow softly in the dark from around the bear's broken neck. Cyclops the alien has fallen to the floor—and while it's too dark to be sure, Nora suspects the toy sports fresh teeth marks. Hanging in the open cupboard is a worn travel sling, while an exclusive edition of Publick Occurrences is pinned to the door.

It's all too good to be true.

Nate slips into the room and comes to a halt beside her, one hand settling on the small of her back. Nora leans into his warm bulk and closes her eyes. She feels the whisper of movement when he drops a kiss to the top of her head.

Nate takes her hand and leads her out of the nursery. There's no light peeping under Shaun's door, so they can go straight to their own bedroom and half-shut the door. For once, Dogmeat sleeps on his own pile of old shirts rather than on Nora's pillow, so she flops down on the bed and sinks into the mattress.

Settling beside her, Nate prods her shoulder, murmurs in her ear, "Roll over, hon."

Nora makes an inelegant noise and shifts until they're both settled against each other, with her leg flung over his thigh and his arm curled around her waist.

She lets out a long exhale, feeling the tension leave her muscles, and runs her fingers along his arm. "We have the best friends in the Commonwealth."

"That we do."

"One thing's for sure."

"Don't keep me in suspense." Nate nuzzles her neck.

"I love you, honey, but I am never going alone with you to the park again."