Spoilers for Blind Betrayal

Sam had the Vertibird drop her off an empty field north of the Abernathy farm. The Brotherhood knew about Sanctuary, but she didn't want to invite them any closer than necessary. Her power armor raised up a small cloud of dust as she landed, and she strode away, ducking to avoid the blades. The lancer piloting the craft waved goodbye, but she pretended not to see, hooking the green duffle bag's strap over a hook at her back next to her shotgun. Her helmet she removed, inhaling the woodsy, earthy smells of tilled dirt and brewing hops wafting from the farm and scrubbed a hand through her hair. She could see the lookout from the roof of the homestead checking her out through a scope, so she waved a greeting, but turned her feet toward Sanctuary. She wasn't in the mood for visiting right now.

If she'd hoped the walk would make her less angry, she was mistaken. Her fury seemed to rise with each step until she was stomping her metal-clad feet down with enough force to startle birds fifty yards away. But with every step she imagined Elder Maxon's face, his cold detachment, and the absolutely lost expression on Danse's face when she'd found him in that bunker and bile burned at the back of her throat. She reached the river around Sanctuary an hour later, her anger less explosive, but still hot, simmering. Nick, who must have been alerted by the Vertibird flying overhead, was waiting for her by a tree as she trudged through the ankle-deep water and up the bank.

"Well, you're alive," Nick said, his glowing eyes darting up and down her armored figure. "But by your expression I take it Maxson wasn't as lenient as you'd hoped he'd be?"

Sam shook her head, gritting her teeth. "I've been promoted, Nick. Paladin Samantha Carter, at your service," she said, spitting the words. "He gave me Danse's rank, his armor... even his quarters. Danse hadn't even been exiled for three hours before Maxson cut him utterly out of the Brotherhood, as if he never existed."

Nick's hairless eyebrows shot up.

She looked away. "You were right, you know. A year ago, when we first walked into the Cambridge police station. Do you remember? You called Maxson a mad man. You were right. I... I closed my eyes to it, because I was so desperate to find Shaun... I'm a military brat, Nick," she said this last pleadingly, though she was really speaking to herself. "I wake up 200 years later to complete chaos. The Brotherhood felt familiar, like family. It was like a cast holding together the broken pieces of myself. I needed it then... I... still need their help, but the cost is getting higher and higher."

Nick didn't say anything for a moment, which she appreciated. She didn't need platitudes right now. There was no fixing her own mistakes.

"Sounds like you could use a drink," the synth said at last. "Come on. I'll buy."

Sam shook her head. "Thanks, but I want to check on Danse. How was the trip back from the bunker?" She hadn't trusted Maxson to keep the Brotherhood away from Danse. He'd been paranoid enough to follow her to the bunker. What was to keep him from having a team waiting in ambush when she was gone? She'd asked Nick to escort him to her place at the old Red Rocket station with a discreet escort of Minutemen. The Brotherhood rarely went that far north, and she knew the others would keep an eye on him while she was away.

"Quiet," Nick said, turning to walk with her as far as the bridge that led out of the neighborhood. As they passed the whirring turrets and guard atop the watch tower, he lit a cigarette, the flame from his lighter making his too-pale synthetic skin almost flesh-colored for a moment. "I don't think he was ready to be chummy with the only other synth he knows. Then again I'm some sort of Gen 2 model, and he's clearly a Gen 3. We're as different as a charcoal drawing is from an oil painting. Also, I've always known that I was a synth, but Danse found out, what, two days ago? I'll be here to answer any questions he has, but I'm not sure how helpful I'll be."

Sam paused at the apex of the bridge. They were far enough away from the watch tower that their words shouldn't be overheard.

"This is the first time I've encountered a Gen 3 model that wasn't a Courser," she said. "What do you know about them?"

Nick exhaled a cloud of smoke from his mouth and the cracks at the sides of his face. He looked at the setting sun, expression thoughtful.

"Hath not a synth eyes? Hath not a synth hands, organs,

dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with

the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject

to the same diseases, healed by the same means,

warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as

a human is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison

us, do we not die?"

"Shakespeare," Sam said after a pause. "Though slightly modified from the original. You do like your poetry, don't you, Nick?"

Nick grinned. "Always had a soft spot for the Bard. Nice job. I'll stump you yet, kid. Just you wait." He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, smile fading into a look of thoughtful concern. "Poetic truth aside, I don't know much more than you," he admitted. "The most experience I've had has been with the few infiltrators that have shown up in Diamond City and Goodneighbor. The ones that replace real people and you don't know it until they flip their wigs and start killin' folks. But those are Institute plants, programmed for imitation and destruction. Danse appears to be an original model and has likely been in the care of the Railroad and Dr. Amari-or another organization like them if his memories of Rivet City are real. He has implanted memories of a childhood that didn't exist, of growing up. And that is one of the key differences for Gen 3s. They can grow hair, produce bodily fluids-blood, piss, take your pick. Cut open a Gen 2 and you get this." He pointed to the rips on the side of his face revealing the metal skeleton beneath. "Cut open a Gen 3 and you'll find muscle and bone. They also," he said, shifting, "have certain other, ah, accessories that Gen 2s don't. No one's ever going to mistake a chrome-dome like me for a human, even if I had all of my skin, but Gen 3s look the part. I heard a rumor of a story once, about a human man who married a synth woman, only she didn't know she was a synth. Only found out years later, when they were trying to figure out why they couldn't have kids. Sterility aside, Gen 3s appear human in every way." He darted a glance at her. "I would think that your time in the Institute had informed you of that much, though."

She shook her head. "They're different there. More... I don't know. Robotic? It's hard to tell if they're programmed that way or if they're too scared to be... real. At least once, I overheard a Courser asking a maintenance synth a few questions. I thought she sounded flustered, but when I looked up at her, she appeared perfectly calm, no expression, same as the Courser. But none of the synths there are anything like you, Nick. Or Danse, for that matter." Her mouth twisted. "The place makes my skin crawl." She glanced over the bridge to where she could see the red rocket sign above a rocky outcropping. "I should go. Let me know when you head back to Diamond City to check in on your caseload. I might tag along. I could use a break from… my life."

Nick nodded, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his heel. "Well good luck, kid." He paused, then reached up and patted her armored shoulder. "Remember, he's still Danse."

Her expression softened into a smile. "I know. Why do you think I saved his life, Nick?" She turned and stomped away across the bridge.

The Red Rocket Truck stop came into few a few minutes later. Dogmeat rushed out of the open garage, barking happily, running circles around her armored legs. She laughed, despite her tiredness and roiling emotions. "Good to see you too, buddy." She leaned down, armor creaking, and patted his side.

"Good evening, Miss Sam!" Codsworth sang out, zooming over from where he was tending the mutfruit trees in the little orchard she'd started.

"Hello, Codsworth. Everything alright here?"

"Indeed, mum! I believe the fruit will be ripe for harvesting in a few days. I have also cleaned the tiled floors—and oh mum, can I say how nice it is to have someone to clean for again?-and the bathhouse, there are two Brahmin steaks sizzling on the grill, ice cold Nuka Cola cooling in the 'fridge, and I also got an obnoxious stain out of that beautiful dress you brought back last time and—"

"Thank you, Codsworth," Sam interrupted. "Danse. Is he here?" She had a sudden worry that instead of staying put that he would run off again.

The Mr. Handy's arms seemed to wilt slightly. "Oh. Yes, Miss Sam. He's working in the garage. Shall I fetch him?"

"No, Codsworth, thank you."

"Very good, mum. I... I shall be on patrol this evening, then, shall I?"

Sam hesitated. The robot sounded so forlorn that she felt a stab of guilt. She needed to spend more time at home. Maybe she could take him on another expedition to find more Mr. Handy fuel together, but despite his ability to switch into combat mode, she could tell that he was happiest when fulfilling his primary directive as domestic robot. But there was also his attachment to her former life, his belief, nearly as strong as hers used to be, that Shaun would come home and they would be a family again. Her stomach clenched. Shaun. She would have to find a moment to update the robot on just what the laughing little baby from his memory banks had become. But that was for later.

"Codsworth," she said, reaching into the little side compartment on the inside of her armor next to her ribs. It released with a hiss, revealing a pair of wedding rings. She'd taken hers off three months ago and it had been in the little compartment with Nate's ever since. They'd been around her neck on a chain at one point, but now... She rubbed an armored finger over the bands, feeling an echo of sadness that could readily blossom into something worse if she let it. She held out her hand to the Mr. Handy unit. "I have to ask you something very important."

The 'bot's eyestalks focused in on her hand. "Are those...?"

She nodded. "These are our wedding rings. Mine and Nate's. I want you to keep them safe. I don't trust them with anyone else."

Codsworth unfolded one of his delicate tool arms, the one gentle enough to change a baby's diaper with, and picked up the two rings, tucking them into an inner storage area that sealed seamlessly into his bulb-like body. "I shall guard these with my life, Miss Sam. Thank you." He bobbed in place for a moment, his eyestalks going in and out of focus in a way she recognized as his way of showing hesitation.

"Is there something else, Codsworth?" she prompted gently.

"Is Mister Danse to be my new master, then?"

Heat rose into her cheeks. The Mr. Handy unit was far more perceptive than he should be. "I don't know," she said honestly. "But whatever happens, I will never forget Nate. But... he... he wouldn't have wanted me to mourn him forever." She felt her throat going tight. "We buried him the day I got out. Remember Codsworth?"

"Yes, mum. By the river under the oak tree. That day was... burned into my memory banks."

"It's time to let him go," she said, swallowing hard. Dogmeat pressed his nose into her hands, offering what comfort he could.

They stood in silence for a moment, Sam trying not to cry, wishing she was out of her armor so she could bury her face in Dogmeat's fur. Then Codsworth seemed to bob with a slightly more upbeat motion.

"Well, then. This home won't patrol itself," he said in a jaunty tone. "Come, Dogmeat. Want to go for a walk? We shall do the rounds and check in on Mr. Garvey in Sanctuary Hills. He always has a treat for you."

The dog barked excitedly and took off after the robot. Sam watched them go, realizing that the light was growing dimmer and her stomach was growling. Now that the barking dog and humming Mr. Handy were gone, she could hear the clang of machinery with a backdrop of mournful bluegrass radio music. Danse. Nerves she hadn't felt since the day she'd seen Nate across the mess hall at the army base when she was seventeen fluttered, and she tried to mentally squash them out. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

"Kill me," he said, his voice empty of inflection. He sat down on the chair, bowing his head into his hands. A lone lightbulb above their heads flickered. "It's the only way and you know it."

Sam drew her favorite .44, cracked open the cylinder, and ejected all six bullets. Danse looked up, startled at the sound of them dropping to the floor. Holding his gaze, she dissembled the gun, throwing the pieces across the littered remains of the bunker.

"Carter—"

"No," she said, dropping to her knees in front of him, so they were eye level. "You listen to me. Maxson is dead wrong. You are more human to me now than you've ever been. These emotions you're feeling—despair, anger, hurt—that proves it. They are as real as my own feelings. And more than that, I will not lose you. Not like this. Never like this."

She grabbed one of his hands, guiding it to where her pulse thundered in her neck. His eyes locked on hers, and something flickered there, the deadness retreating like a veil. Slowly, she guided his hand back to his own neck, to his own pulse. "What beats there so strongly is not the heart of a machine," she said.

"Sam," he said, but his voice broke, and he leaned against her, burying his face in her neck. She wasn't sure if he cried—he was so still—but his breath warmed her throat, and she reached up awkwardly around the breadth of his shoulders, trying to hold as much of him as she could. It was important, she knew, that he feel her acceptance, her refusal to treat him as anything other. And there was something else, too, something she had been refusing to admit to herself for a couple of months. But it was harder to ignore when his life was on the line, when the threat of going without seeing him everyday made her want to curl up in a ball and weep. When had that happened?

She walked into the garage as the memory faded. Danse was bent behind her old T-45 power armor suit: the one that had saved her life when a deathclaw appeared in the ruins of Concord after rescuing Preston Garvey and his group of survivors from Quincy. She was glad to see him working on it, certain that keeping his mind and hands occupied would be more beneficial than sitting and brooding in her home with only a Mr. Handy and a dog for company.

He poked his head out from behind the armor, a streak of grease across his forehead and a wrench in his hand. "Hey."

"Hey," she said.

His eyebrows knitted and she fought the ridiculous urge to grin at the familiar expression. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, reaching behind to unhook her shotgun and placed it in its rack on the wall. She put the duffle bag on the ground and walked over to the other empty power armor rack, initiating the manual release, and climbing out of the suit with a huff of relief as the pistons released.

Danse looked at her as the armor folded back up, his eyes falling to the dog tags at her neck. "You... kept them? Maxson didn't want them?"

At the name, Sam stilled. "I didn't ask," she said after a careful pause. "I probably would have shot him if he'd asked for them."

"Carter!" Danse sounded shocked. She didn't reply, going to the duffel and crouching to unzip it. It was easy to assume that after what Maxson had done Danse would be free of him, free of the Brotherhood's more… objectionable beliefs. But it wasn't that easy. People were complicated knots of habit and passion and belief and disbelief. Danse had taken to the Brotherhood like a fish to water. He would have to unlearn a lot of things. He would have to be aware that he needed to unlearn a lot of things. He was still wearing his orange BOS uniform, for crying out loud, and he had been exiled a little over two days ago.

She inhaled a breath. Small steps. One thing at a time.

Danse came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. "Did you... go scavving?"

"No," she said, pulling open the flap of the bag. She tugged out the top item, a bundle wrapped in a plain white undershirt, and handed it to him. He unwound the shirt, revealing a small glass-framed photograph of Danse with a shorter, more military haircut standing beside a taller, dark-skinned man with a wide grin.

"Is that Cutler?" she asked, watching his expression.

"Yeah," he said, fingers curling around the frame. "How did you...?" He trailed off as he saw the rest of his belongings in the bag. "Maxson gave you my quarters, didn't he."

"'To the victor go the spoils' were his exact words," Sam said, unable to hide the bitter anger in her voice.

Danse nodded slowly. "Congratulations... Paladin. You've earned it. I only wish I could have been there for the ceremony."

"Danse," she said, standing, but then she paused. He was smiling. He was genuinely happy for her.

"You should hate him," she said at last. Then, though she knew she should reign herself in, the words spilled out. "I do. He represents everything that's horrible about the Brotherhood: he's a cruel, selfish bigot that—"

Danse took a step back, shaking his head. "He wants what's best for the Commonwealth. He's right to distrust me. I... may not be like the others—the ones that kill indiscriminately— but synths are dangerous. They... rip families apart. They kill and destroy and... they're unnatural." His voice cracked. "I'm... unnatural."

She took a step closer until they were only inches apart and put a hand on his chest over his heart. "Do I need to remind you of what you are?" And what you mean to me? The words hovered on her tongue, but she held them in. This wasn't about her.

He locked gazes with her and shook his head, though he still looked troubled. "What do you want, Sam? I can't... I won't speak against the Brotherhood. I still believe in their mission."

Sam turned back to the duffel. Small steps. She reached in with both hands and withdrew the bottle of whisky she'd found in his footlocker. "I want to get staggeringly drunk, Danse. It's been a hell of a few days, and I think we've earned some shore leave."

#

Danse blearily contemplated the whiskey bottle. "Don't worry," he said, catching her grin. "I'm only here to get slightly intoxicated."

She nodded in mock seriousness, but her lips quivered with suppressed giggles as Danse—concentrating with unusual ferocity—leaned forward to tip the last of the bottle into her glass. They sat outdoors on a patio behind the garage that she'd built. Their plates held the remains of the Brahmin steaks Codworth had left for them, a laser turret at the end of the overhang was happily zapping bloodbugs out of the night sky, and the evening was pleasantly cool with the onset of autumn. Sam couldn't remember feeling so content since she'd woken up. There were still problems, still the Institute and Not-Shaun, but the alcohol had made it easier to tuck those things away for the next day when she was sober. Now, the buzz of whiskey was humming through her veins, making the stars brighter, the shadows longer, and Danse's face somehow clearer. She found herself noticing scars she hadn't seen before. She also had to sit on her hands to keep from running her fingers along them, biting her tongue to stop from asking about them.

"No more of that, please," Sam said, pushing the glass away and opting for a drink of water instead, swishing it around her mouth to get the taste of the whisky out.

Danse grinned and her heart gave a flop. "Hit a wall already, soldier?" He raised a glass to himself. "Mission accomplished!"

"Not nearly, you smug bastard," she said, smiling to take away the bite of the words. She was feeling pleasantly tipsy from the 200-year-old whisky, but whiskey—even good whiskey—had never been her favorite drink. Whiskey reminded her of her father, of his office on the military base, and the careless laughter of law students drinking on the quad while she stayed at the library studying. She wanted something fun. "Here," she said, pulling out the cooler she'd tucked under the table. "You youngsters hardly ever get good stuff. You're all drinking booze that should have been drunk 200 years ago. But this stuff is the real deal. Paid that one guy at the Rexford to brew some for me three years ago. 'S prolly still too young, but what the hell."

She pulled the cork on the bottle and poured some into their glasses. Danse lifted his glass, sniffing and his eyebrows shot up into his hair. "What is this?"

"Gin," she crooned, kissing the side of the bottle fondly. "I used to have it with soda water and a twist of lime with sugar rimming the glass."

"Lime?"

"Fruit. Tart. Green. Not native to Massachusetts. Too cold to grow here."

Danse peered at his glass, swirling it around. "What's soda water?"

"The stuff that makes—well, that used to make Nuka-Cola fizzy." She scowled. Two-hundred year old Nuka-Cola was a flat, viscous liquid, not at all the refreshing fizzy drink she remembered enjoying on a hot summer day.

He wrinkled his nose and she had to physically fight the urge to reach out and smooth out the wrinkle with her fingers. "Gin and Nuka-Cola?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds," she protested. "But no, there's this other stuff, the fizzy stuff, none of the cola stuff. It's clear, like water, but bubbly. Maybe that brewing buddy thing can make some..." She trailed off, looking at her glass with trepidation. "I don't know how good it'll be. Real gin is made with juniper. There's this strand of mutfruit that Abernathy was growing that's sort of similar to juniper..." She frowned. "I hope it's good."

Danse slammed his cup down on the table, smacking his lips. "Ad victoriam!"

Sam jumped, startled into laughing. "Did you just shotgun that? The hell, Danse! This bottle cost me two-hundred caps! At least pretend to taste it!"

"Then pour me another glass, Sam," he said, and his voice was liquid velvet for a moment, his eyes, always an amber brown, seemed darker, and she suddenly forgot what her hands were doing, feeling a flush of heat rise up her neck.

"Saaaammy," he called, resting his arms on the table. "Wake up, soldier."

"You almost never call me Sam," she noted, using both hands to carefully pour into his glass. "Called me 'Carter' ever since I met you in Cambridge."

"'S not proper," he muttered. "Superior officers are to maintain a professional distance from their inferiors." He rattled off the words as if they were memorized from a book. Knowing Danse, he probably had.

"So calling me 'Carter' prevented you from breaking the fraternization regs?" The words slipped out before she could pull them back. He leaned back a bit, as if trying to focus on her better, and she held her breath. The confusion on his face was almost comical.

"Wanted to—" he said, but stopped himself, frowning and blushing crimson up to his eyebrows.

"Call me 'Sam' all the time now," she said in a rush, suddenly worried that he was going to call it a night.

Danse snickered. "All right, Sam All the Time Now."

Sam snorted into her gin and they both burst out laughing.

Once the gigglefit had passed, she lifted her own glass to her lips, shivering as the alcohol passed her lips. It wasn't her drink, with the lime and sugar, but it was damn close. Maybe...? "Oh damn," she said, and stood, swaying for a moment as all the alcohol she'd already drunk rushed into her head at once.

"What?" Danse looked startled. "Where you goin'?"

"Idea. Fridge. Come on. Wanna try something." She yanked on his hand, and he wobbled to his feet, stumbling against her. Scooping up the bottle and her glass with her hand, she scurried around the corner to the garage, where the radio was still playing a jaunty tune. She passed into the diner area and pulled out a Nuka-Cola Quantum from the fridge. She popped the cap and carefully poured the luminescent stuff into her gin, stirring it with her finger.

"What are you doing?" Danse said, watching the Quantum glow in the glass with furrowed brow.

"Taste test. Quantum tastes like furniture polish usually, but..." She tipped the gin and Quantum into her mouth and nearly groaned. It was good. It didn't even need lime and sugar.

"Try this," she said, shoving the glass under his nose. His eyes crossed trying to follow it, but he grabbed the glass and took a sip.

"Outstanding," he said, eyes wide.

Somehow, they both ended up sitting on the floor of the diner area, gin and quantum severely depleted as they passed the glass back and forth.

"Thank you," Danse said, arm resting on one knee. "I needed this." His voice had lost that earnest sound of concentration. He sounded sad and tired.

Uh oh, Sam thought. Maudlin drunk is bad drunk. She carefully slid the bottle aside.

"I don't know who or what I am anymore, but… when I'm with you, it doesn't seem to matter too much." His cheeks darkened and he fiddled with a loose thread on his uniform. "You might be the closest friend I've ever had."

She slipped her hand into his. "That's a good start."

"A good… start?"

She couldn't take it any longer. The buzz was fading and the world felt like it was tilting all around her, but Danse was solid and still. She kept her eyes on him, lifting her free hand to cup his cheek, feeling the crinkle of his beard against her palm.

"Kiss me," she said.

He shook his head. "You… don't know what you're saying. You're drunk, Carter."

She almost sobbed. "Sam," she insisted. "Kiss me and call me 'Sam.' I do know what I'm saying, damn it. I've had feelings for you for a long time, and I have to know if you feel the same way. You almost said it earlier."

His eyes searched hers, and the depth of despair in them brought a lump to her throat. "You can't be in love with me," he said in a hoarse voice. "You're a Paladin now. How could you possibly think of… of a thing like me in that way."

She did cry then, tears welling up and spilling out down her cheeks as she grabbed the front of his uniform. "How many times do I have to tell you how human you are?" He didn't reply, merely looked away, as if her insistence was making him uncomfortable.

"Damn it, Danse," she muttered. "Guess I'll have to show you." With that, she yanked him closer and brought her lips to his.

It was a sloppy, drunk kiss, made even more awkward by the fact that Danse didn't respond at first, so she felt as if she were just mashing their faces together like she had with her dolls as a child. She could feel the tension in him, the desire held in check somehow with ironclad control that had even held through all the alcohol. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he began to kiss her back, his lips gliding over hers, his beard rough against her face.

Sam was distantly aware that this wasn't the best kiss she'd ever had: they were too drunk for one thing, but her senses were full of him: the taste of gin-and-quantum on his tongue, and his smell of machine oil, sweat, and hubflower soap were intoxicating her on a level somewhere beyond the alcohol. He didn't seem to know where to put his hands—he was patting around blindly on her arm—so she guided them to her waist. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat, pulling her against him tighter, one of her legs slung over his.

She wasn't aware when they came up for air. One minute all she could think was Danse then the next he was murmuring her name as she cradled his head against her chest, running her hands through his thick hair.

"Never doubt who you are," she said, kissing the top of his head, her lips felt numb, though whether that was from the alcohol or the making out, she wasn't sure. Her lucidity was rapidly fading now, but there was one thing she wanted to say before she lost it.

"Rivet City," she said, twirling her fingers in the hair above his ears. It was getting just a shade longer than regulation.

"What?" His voice sounded thick.

"When… when this thing when Shaun is done. We can go to Rivet City. Figure out which parts of your memory are real. I know you're worried about that. You've been helpin' me out. 'S my turn to help you."

He didn't reply.

"Danse?"

A snore rumbled through her shoulder where his head was laying. Sam sighed and leaned against him. She'd close her eyes for a few minutes. Just until the room stopped spinning.

#

Codsworth returned with Dogmeat to the quiet truckstop. Codsworth thought, at first, that Miss Sam had left, but then he found her and Mr. Danse leaning against each other, fast asleep.

Codsworth bobbed over them a few seconds, then floated into the bedroom, retrieved a blanket, and returned, tucking the blanket over the sleeping duo with a gentle hum of contentment.