Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

She stared out into the Fog for a time, her face downcast and eyes glimmering. To admit that she had been happy, when she should not have been... in her own way, he supposed that she felt guilty. Ashamed of her behavior. She acted so, and he could understand why.

He recalled when they were in the recon bunker, and she confronted him about being a synth. She'd that said his feelings were human. That there was no way his reacting like he had, didn't make him human. It was the same, she'd said, as any human being would react.

He'd wanted to believe her. He'd desperately wanted to believe her, that his condemnation by the Brotherhood had been a mistake, that he was not a synth. He simply did not accept the designation M7-97, and could not bring himself to admit―

Until Maxson had shown, and his confidence in her and himself fell to the wayside. It was all for naught. She'd talked him into accepting that he could and would survive the revelation, and he had immediately lost faith in her words.

Running away. He'd run away when he was discovered. He'd run from the truth of being a synth, and he'd tried to run from her when she saved him. Told her he would leave the Commonwealth―something he didn't wish to do, but felt necessary.

He was a coward. Cutler had known, even back in Rivet City―he felt ashamed of himself, the horrible feeling washing over him and causing him extreme discomfort.

That feeling was why... why he felt the need to press Johnson for openness. To speak his mind, to rid himself of the shame. She was eliciting a response from him that he hadn't thought possible, forcing him to confront his own actions in the past. If those were his own actions. If he could believe―

Was the Danse who'd befriended Cutler, the one who led Gladius into the Commonwealth, the same synth who was confused, now? The same creation that had been unsure how to justify her saving him from death? Was he really the man who had begged of Maxson to track down Cutler? Or was he the monster who had taken that man's place, robbing him of not only the rest of his life, but every fiber of his being?

He feared would never know. And it tore him apart, inside.

Danse pushed the terrible emotions away, staring down at Johnson as she wiped her hand absentmindedly on her leg. She was afraid to be human, to embrace her memories. Where she would have done anything to lose her past, he would have done the same to reclaim his own.

Danse considered her for a moment. Were his feelings, in this moment, equatable to pity or empathy?

...He aimed for the latter. She deserved that much from him.

"I suppose the question to ask would be why you felt embarrassed?" he asked, attempting to sound empathetic.

"That is a very long, boring story," Johnson said, sounding sore. "But it was my mother's fault. Her and her etiquette―" She breathed out, nervously, her words rushing to leave her mouth. "I was made a fool. I couldn't be―I had to smile and laugh. Show everything was okay. I wasn't allowed to be sad, Mother wasn't ever sad―I had to―"

Johnson growled under her breath, and clenched her hand into a fist. She hit her thigh, once, then released her fist and breathed out. "Ça ne fait rien."

He watched her for a moment, her words sitting on the surface of his mind. It would, like most matters that he attempted to understand, take some time for them to fully sink in.

"I gave my concern. It's your turn, Danse." She jammed her cheek into her hand, leaning forward and smearing her face with dark globs of drying blood, and stared into the darkness with a strange expression on her face.

Danse blinked, unsure of how to reply. He thought, for a moment, that she was joking again. But her attitude didn't swing back from the shadow that she had just laid on herself. He glanced away, out into the Fog.

"Since I learned who I really am, I've had many questions," he said, slowly. "I do not feel that I will ever know if there was a Paladin Danse. If what I am, has been a synth since... since I can even remember. I don't know if my memories of being a scavenger in D.C. are real, or if I did live in Rivet City―" he stopped himself, a sickening sensation rising in his stomach. "If I was made to replace a real person, with real memories. It's infuriating, to imagine that I was. I―"

Danse closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to make the words work better. "I ran away from the truth, when I first heard. And I ran away from your assertion that I was truly human, in acting like I had. I tried to place faith in your words, but I―I couldn't trust them. I am sorry for acting like a coward, and giving into Maxson's admonition that I must be executed."

Johnson swiveled her head to look at him, an incredulous expression on her face. Danse grimaced behind the helmet, thankful the increasing darkness had necessitated use. "I haven't been able to understand," he said. "Why you would have saved me, when your goals in the Brotherhood were against those of the people who created me. I... I almost wished you had killed me."

Johnson was staring at him. Her could barely see her while wearing the helmet. He was thankful for that, as well. There was no guarantee she would accept that his concerns were worth having. He felt a fool for even having said them aloud.

Johnson spoke, her voice a bullet that ripped through his head in his heightened emotional state. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. She lowered her hand from her face and pushed herself up from the rock she'd been sitting on. "I... I really didn't understand, before. What you meant."

He didn't want to look at her. He'd not expected her to know what he'd meant. Not knowing where she came from wasn't comparable to his knowing, yet having no memory of the place. To his knowing that he was not born but created.

"I see why you wanted to talk about it," she added, moving across the leaf litter toward him. "I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt yourself, Danse. I don't want you to think that I'm―"

"I doubted you," he interrupted, the anger and acid creeping into his voice. "The only reason I've tolerated your odd behavior, to this point, is due to a combination of obligation and memory. The only memories I can trust are those that can be confirmed by you." He turned his head sharply, staring at her. "You, an admitted liar."

Johnson swallowed and nodded, slowly. She looked down at her hands, examining her fingernails. "I deserved that," she said, solemnly.

"I do not know if―" Danse looked away from her again. "If these feelings are being exacerbated by the Fog, even. Nothing can be trusted."

"I don't think it's the Fog," Johnson said, quietly. He glanced at her, saw her jaw working and her face the same tired person that she'd shown before. "I think... that this mission is stressful, and that we are acting out in our own respective ways," she added. She met his eyes, hers full of tears and a slightly alarming amount of distress. "I'm sorry, Danse, I really am. If I ever... if I..."

"I accept your apology," he replied, loosing the awfulness from his voice. "You are taking to heart, my suggestion. I appreciate that you are willing to work with me, instead of pursuing the farce you have been."

"Thank you," Johnson said, her voice barely audible.

"And..." He nodded at her. "I believe I understand why you act as you do, based on what you've said."

She stared off into the trees. "I grew up here," she said, her voice strained. "My brothers and I played in these woods as children. I met... Nate, here." She was fighting emotion in her voice, and looked down at her hands again. "But as soon as I could leave, I did. I married Nate even though I didn't love him, and I left."

"Because of your mother?"

Jeanne shrugged one shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. "Everything I did was a reflection on her," she muttered, sounding bitter.

Danse understood the expectations of others could sometimes be unbearable, or too constricting. Many a recruit had joined during his time in the Brotherhood, and a fraction of that number had not been prepared for the demanding lifestyle. He hadn't expected that Johnson would be of that sort, but learning that she had fled her family home to get away from her mother was... unsettling.

Johnson sighed, turning back to him. "I appreciate you listening to me, Danse."

"And I, you," he replied.

Johnson's eyes moved to his chest. "I know that I seem impossible," she murmured. "Hard to deal with."

He stared down at the top of Johnson's head. "That seems a fair assessment," he said, his heart finally settling itself onto the black sludge of emotion that was taking its time in draining from his chest.

"You know," she said, thoughtfully, looking up at him, "that you come across as critical?"

He hesitated. "I've admitted that my knowledge of social grace is lacking," he reminded her.

"It's fine, Danse." Johnson said, dismissively. "I think we should head back now. I need to... think on some things."

"We are in an extremely open area with unknown hostiles," Danse agreed.

She smiled, nodded, and began to walk away. He followed, aware that their conversation had not gone easily. A strike had been made. Johnson had told him more about herself than the reporter or the detective had been able to elicit, in one sitting. It felt, to him, some progress.

Danse frowned, keeping his eyes to the woods as they left the ruined farm.

Jeanne peered into the truck interior, staring at the power armor inside. "I really can't believe it," she said, chuckling. "I mean, I'd heard about the Vim! ambassador, but..." She pulled her head away from the trailer, looking back at Danse. "Danse?"

"What do you need?" he asked, glancing at her from the road.

"You think green is in this season?"

Danse didn't reply immediately. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," he said, sounding mildly confused.

Jeanne turned back to the truck, smiling at herself. "It was a joke," she murmured, then cringed. Danse had told her he didn't like being included in her jokes. She turned to apologize, but he'd walked away and was staring at the distance.

Pensées, quoi? She'd gone and embarrassed herself again. Admitted to him her shame, told him about her past where she hadn't told others. Danse was... surprisingly accepting of the matter. She hoped it would stay at that, but―

Also surprisingly, she felt as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The easy smile she put on felt more... genuine. Funnily enough, she liked it. He was right. Talking about it had helped.

Jeanne pulled herself into the truck, grabbing a fusion core as she approached the power armor. After some finagling, she stepped into the armor and jumped down to the road, lifting her rifle. Power armor always felt so... restricting. If she didn't grab this armor, though, it would sit and rot, or be picked up by someone who would possibly misuse it.

Everything she'd been instructed in, on the Prydwen, told her that wasn't acceptable. Of course, she was still traveling with Danse, which was also unacceptable.

She rolled her head around the top of the armor, and moved to find him. No matter what reason she gave for saving him, no matter what the Brotherhood thought, she felt it was wrong to execute him. As she'd explained to Maxson―even if he was a synth, his actions until his discovery had been fully in the interest of the Brotherhood. Coupled with the declaration that he'd never work against them... Jeanne chuckled. Imagining Danse working against the Brotherhood was impossible.

Where did he go, anyway? She looked around, a little annoyed at the HUD blocking parts of her vision. "Danse!" she called, frowning. Wasn't like him to vanish.

The familiar sound of his armor approaching sounded from behind her. She spun and nodded at him. He nodded back. "Locked and loaded," he said, sounding pleased.

"I'll take it back to the Harbor," she said, "but I'm not going to wear it again."

"Why not?" Now he sounded slightly disappointed and suspicious.

"Well," she answered, blithely, "I don't really think green is my color." She moved past him, down the road toward the Harbor.

Danse snorted. "That paint job is atrocious," he admitted, stomping along behind her. "...But for the record, you're more than worthy to wear the armor. Be proud."

She snorted back. "I still haven't gotten used to wearing it," she said, lifting her rifle and watching their surroundings. "Don't know how you do it, Danse."

"I've been wearing power armor for so long, I don't remember if―"

Jeanne snapped her head to look at him. Danse had stopped mid-sentence, still moving but curiously quiet. "Everything... alright?" she asked, feeling her heart sinking inside the huge suit.

"No. I'm not very good at this. Speaking freely." He sighed, the sound echoing inside his armor. "I know I said that we could share our issues... but you're going to have to be patient with me."

"Not a problem," she said, facing the road again. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"Is that a concern?" he asked. Jeanne's heart sank deeper. "Being left alone, I mean."

"I'd prefer not to answer that question," she shot back, letting her anger show.

"Fair. I've been alone most of my life." Danse stepped on a branch and it snapped loudly, sending a few crows fleeing into the sky. "If I can truly trust my memories to be real." He sounded sour about the matter.

"I don't think you've told me much about yourself. I didn't ask," Jeanne mentioned, moving over a pile of debris. "You are a private person."

"It seems appropriate to not speak," he replied, unpleasantly.

"I thought about what you said, before." She turned slightly, to look at him. "About your memories. About... look, I'm sorry that I called you a toy. That was uncalled for."

"I have no doubt that you spoke truthfully, even if I am unaware of what a Velveteen Rabbit is," he said, turning his helmet to her. "After I examined the nature of you comment, I believe it to be an apt description of myself."

"The Rabbit loved the boy," Jeanne murmured, thinking to herself. "But he so desperately wanted to be Real..." She sighed. "It was still a rotten thing to say. I am sorry."

Danse was quiet for a long time, as they made their way along the road. Finally, he spoke. "What is Real, to the Rabbit?" he asked, his voice pensive.

She was startled for a moment. The book was vague in her mind―even having read it to Sh―she couldn't precisely recall the contents. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes again. She'd read it so many times...

"It... hurts," she said. "Being Real hurts. But when you are Real, you don't mind it very much." Her throat constricted at the end, the words strangled in her mouth.

"Very apt, then," Danse agreed.

"I'm no skin horse," she muttered, thinking about truthfulness. "But that is the truth. Real isn't how you are made. It's... a thing that happens to you. It doesn't happen all at once. You..." she sighed, painfully. "You become."

He was quiet again. She choked back the emotion that had risen in her throat. Thinking of the story, of everything that had happened with Danse... and Shaun, Dieu, how could she ever have wanted to forget her memories? She felt so ashamed of herself, so terribly guilty for pushing away everything that had made her Real.

Jeanne stopped on the road, taking a deep breath. Danse moved past her, then abruptly put his feet down and turned to her, his light aimed on her. "To become Real, someone has to love you Really hard," she said, her voice cracking. The tears she'd tried to stem stormed her eyes, blurring her vision and making the light sparkle in their dreary surroundings. Her breath caught in her throat, a half-made sob easing past the tightness and escaping.

Danse made a sharp noise, the sound loud in the eerie silence of the Fog. "I didn't intend to upset you, Johnson," he said, ruefully. "I... merely wanted to understand the reference better."

"It's―it's alright," she said, sucking snot up into her head and forcing down the sobs. If she kept that up, her ribs would be sore in the morning from jarring against the seal of her armor. Another reason she wasn't fond of power armor...

"I feel compelled to ask if this is the same 'alright' as before," Danse remarked, wryly.

Jeanne sputtered a laugh. "N-no," she answered "I think this is different."

"...Is it, at least, a better kind?" he asked, curiously.

She reached up, pulled the helmet from her head and tried to wipe her face with the rubber gloves attached to the suit. All she managed was to smear the mucus around, though. Jeanne gurgled out a thick laugh, dropping her hand to the side. "I'm not sure," she strained out, "but... it's not... it's not as hard."

"That is good to know." Danse jerked to the side, his laser rifle tracking motion in the Fog. "Look alive, we've got company."

Jeanne swiftly reattached her helmet, raising her rifle to face whatever was coming. The softly whirring jets of a Mister Handy―a sound that naturally brought to mind her childhood―caught her attention.

"It's a robot," she told Danse. He nodded, keeping watch.

"Ah, you there!" it said, speaking in a familiar, insufferable voice. "Are you that detective I've heard about?"

Ah, Dieu, non!―Jeanne's heart finally sank to the very bottom of her chest, hitting her boiling stomach and sizzling with pain. That voice―the one that had tormented her throughout her childhood―

"Y-yes," Jeanne stuttered.

"Oh, wonderful! I wasn't sure how I was ever going to find you. I haven't been able to find any of the local police here, the louts!" The Miss Nanny hovered in front of them, now.

Danse made a curious noise, turning to look at her. She fought her stomach, the urge to throw up.

"I don't want to start a panic, but we may have a murder on out hands. Will you help us?"

Jeanne held her breath and counted to ten. She had to. Even if she didn't want to be anywhere near―her father had told her that Miss Nou was re-purposed after she wasn't needed as a tutor.

Plus ça change. She couldn't even believe that the thing was still floating about the world, given a new name but still retaining the mannerisms and voice of―

Her stomach was a stew pot of the most unimaginable horror, as she agreed to help. How could she not...?

Miss Nou had been programmed with her mother's personality.