Forms of Address

He had to tell her.

The moment wasn't right, but Danse was starting to realise it never would be. If he didn't say something to Quinn now, he doubted he'd pluck up the courage again. Danse paused, struggling how best to phrase it, before simply blurting out, "I'm leaving the Prydwen again tomorrow."

"What?" Quinn's tone was blunt and unguarded. Once again, he had proven his sheer incompetence with delicate situations, but what was said could not be taken back.

Danse decided to soldier on. "I have another assignment elsewhere in the Commonwealth. I leave first thing in the morning."

Quinn's reaction wasn't as bad as he had expected, but it was still unpleasant. Her anger radiated so strongly, he could feel it without looking at her. Danse didn't want to look at her. He was afraid he might relent if he did.

"I see. Throw me to the wolves and then abandon me when I need friends the most."

Now that was unfair. Despite himself, he rose to his feet, fixing her with a solid glare. "That is not-"

"Stop." She held up a hand, her shoulders rising and falling with her heavy breathing, and he felt his insides churn as she met his eye, her own blazing. "You have your duty. I understand. It would be wrong of me to berate you for something you can't change. Goodnight, sir."

Her clinical address stung, but before he could answer, she had wrenched open the door and left, closing it behind her with a curt click. In all honesty, he was glad to see the back of her. Not because he wanted her to go, but because he had come uncomfortably close to telling her the real reason he was leaving.

Her husband's funeral. Danse had thought long and hard about whether or not to tell Quinn before he approached the others in Sanctuary. Ultimately, he had decided no. There was no guarantee that it could be organised successfully at all, even with the help of Quinn's civilian friends. It would have been cruel to bring her hopes up and then promptly shatter them. Not only that, but if Quinn knew, there wouldn't be a chance she would stay behind.

And of course, none of this included the simple fact that Quinn had enough on her plate already. No, better for her to be angry at him than put her through a hell built on shaky foundations.

Sighing, Danse removed his uniform hood and tossed it onto his bed, feeling agitated. He knew he should rest before the trip tomorrow, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he crossed over to his desk, tugging open one of the drawers and removing the book he had stashed there. Turning around, his eyes fell on his armour, before he remembered what else lurked in the metal suit.

Of course…

Danse strode over and opened a compartment on the leg, lifting out a folded mess of blue and yellow fabric: Quinn's vault suit. The opportunity to take it had presented itself almost as soon as they had separated on the Prydwen; she had gone off with Knight Carson, leaving her power armour alone. No one had questioned him quickly rooting through its compartments, locating the vault suit, and storing it away in his own armour.

Danse put the book in the compartment that the suit had once resided in and closed it with a click, before diverting his attention back to the suit. The fabric flowed between his hands, dirty and bloody. Danse winced. It would need a good clean when he finished, that was for certain. He wandered over to the lockers on the back wall, opening the nearest one and locating a small, compact sewing kit, before returning to his desk. Sliding aside the pistol he had been tinkering with the last time he had been on the ship, he adjusted the light and then opened up the kit to select a needle.

Sewing was the sort of repetitive, meticulous work that Danse found relaxing; this time, however, he was too focused to settle. Normally, in the privacy of his quarters, he would hum tunelessly while he worked, but he felt so on edge, all he could concentrate on was the next stitch...and the next one...and the next…

He was just knotting the final stitch to stop it all from coming loose again, when there was a knock on his door. The needle stabbed into his hand, and Danse hissed with pain, pulling it out and sucking at his bleeding finger.

Wondering who wanted him now, Danse stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. The weathered face of Rachel Marguerie greeted him at the threshold.

"You look like shit, sir," she said, stepping in without invitation. "Any particular reason you've shut yourself away? Normally you're stomping around with the rest of us, looking for things to do."

Danse closed the door, frowning at her in annoyance. As much as he respected her as a soldier, he'd never approved of her disregard of rank and code. "I needed to get some rest before tomorrow. I'm heading back out again."

"Rest, sure," she said sarcastically, giving a little nod towards the vault suit. "I wasn't aware rest meant sewing for the vault dweller."

"She never asked me to," he said quickly, realising he was making himself sound defensive.

"Oh, I figured as much." Marguerie grinned at him. "So, made a new friend? Or something more?"

"Friends." His scowl deepened. Whatever she was insinuating, he didn't like it. "Why are you here, Marguerie?"

"Oh, don't pull faces at me like that. I'm doing what I always do: making sure you actually take some time to yourself." She pulled out her zip lighter and two cigars, tossing him one.

"I don't…"

"Sir, I've seen you work your way through an entire carton of cigarettes in record time. Same with vodka." Marguerie looked pointedly at the bin full of empty bottles. "It's a good stress reliever, and as I've already said, you look like-"

"Fine," Danse interrupted, sighing. "But not in here. I don't want my quarters stinking of smoke."

Marguerie's grin widened. "Good man."

Five minutes later, he found himself on the outside deck of the Prydwen, staring out towards Fort Strong as he puffed on a cigar. He'd coughed at first, Marguerie's laughter filling his ears, but eventually he'd reaccustomed to it, the sensation of heat spreading through his throat and chest as familiar as the warmth of a laser rifle in his hands.

The knight-sergeant leaned on the railings as she blew out a thick stream of smoke, staring into the distance with a blank expression on her face.

"Why do you do this, Marguerie?" Danse said suddenly. "Why do you bother? We've butted heads more times than I care to count."

"Someone's in a strange mood today." She dragged on her cigar, letting the smoke drift out of her mouth as she talked. "Yeah, we don't always see eye to eye. But I remember what you did for me with George...with…"

"I know."

"Yeah." She nodded, her mouth thin and tight. "And the same goes with Cutler, doesn't it?"

Danse hesitated and then gave a slow nod. Marguerie had been there, ready to do what was right.

"We were on the same team for years," she went on. "Some of the most harrowing experiences of my life were at your side. I don't know if that makes us friends, or acquaintances, or somewhere in-between, but we've had each other's backs when it mattered most. I think that warrants sharing a smoke together every now and then, don't you?"

Danse shrugged, but then stepped forward, leaning on the railing next to Marguerie and drawing deeply on the cigar. She smiled at him and did the same, the two of them basking in the silence of the wasteland evening.

"So that vault suit…" Rachel said, turning to him and grinning slightly.

"What about it?" He coughed a little, avoiding her eye.

"Does she even know you have it?"

"No."

Marguerie raised an eyebrow. "Do you like her?"

Danse didn't answer, and her grin widened.

"Well, I like her. She gives me the impression that she doesn't take any shit."

"No," said Danse. "She prefers to give it to everyone else."

Marguerie laughed, and after a second, Danse joined in. He finished his cigar and flicked it over the side of the ship, watching it tumble in the air before it disappeared out of sight. Marguerie took one last, deep drag, and then stubbed her own out before throwing it away, releasing a long jet of smoke from her nose.

An idea occurred to him.

"Marguerie," he said, but then hesitated. No...that was too much to ask of her. Far too much. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"Spit it out, sir." Marguerie folded her arms, giving him a stubborn look.

"I might be stepping over my boundaries, and stop me if I am, but…" He tentatively explained the bare bones of Quinn's situation: the loss of her son and her husband, once again fuelling the lie that they were both dead. "She's struggling right now, but I think...well…"

"You want me to talk to her about my experiences, right?" Marguerie replied, saving him from his fumbling. "Help her by sharing?"

Danse nodded, noting the hard look on her face. He was already regretting mentioning it to her. "Forget it. It was wrong of me to even bring this up, let alone ask-"

"I'll do it."

"I...what?" He stared at her, momentarily taken aback.

"I'll do it. God knows I needed someone to talk to when…" Marguerie swallowed, briefly shutting her eyes, and then forced them open again. They burned with determination. "Maybe talking will do me some good, too." She glanced around the deck and then sighed. "Come on. Let's head back in. I'm freezing."

They walked back towards the interior of the ship, Marguerie shivering slightly as Danse led the way. He wasn't convinced this was entirely because of the cold, but decided to let her have her act. God knows he depended on his own mask these days.

As they reached the door, Danse stopped, turning to her, and gave her a small smile.

"Rachel...thank you."

"Alright, tin can. What's the plan?"

All eyes were on Danse. In any other situation, the attention would be as normal as walking, but in any other situation, he'd have an official rank to solidify his leadership. Amongst this ragtag band of civilians, ghouls, and synths, his authority only went as far as they allowed.

Danse hesitated.

"You do have a plan, don't you?" Preston asked, frowning.

Get a hold of yourself, Danse thought, before clearing his throat. "Yes, I do."

He half expected a sarcastic remark from the ghoul or the synth, but they waited in silence for him to continue. Their lack of insubordination was unsettling.

"The Brotherhood had this in its archives." He laid down a thick book onto the table, sporting a peeling cover that may have once been glossy, but was now scratched and scuffed into a dull sheen. "It describes many of the military practices from before the war, including funerals."

Danse opened it carefully, pawing the pages as he searched for the right section, and then pointed, reading out the details of the funeral traditions. The whole thing looked extremely complicated, with flag folding, gun salutes, and music...and that was before they even touched the added problem of religious preferences. Nick had said that Quinn had told him once that Nate had been a 'non-practicing Catholic.' Danse wasn't entirely sure what that was, but he did know the word 'Catholic' would mean they'd need a pre-war religious tome called a 'Bible.'

"We will be able to complete this mission more efficiently if we split up and search for each component independently." Danse glanced up at Sturges. "As we discussed earlier, you're more than capable of building a coffin."

"I already took some estimated measurements and drew up the plans," said Sturges. "You just leave it to me."

"Good." Danse directed his gaze towards Piper, who fixed him with a determined look. "And you said there's a preacher in Diamond City who could lead the ceremony?"

"Yeah," said Piper. "He's a good man - believes in accommodating all kinds of faith. If we can find him that 'cathalit' Bible book-"

"Catholic," interjected Nick.

"Catholic," Piper corrected. "If we find that, I think he'll help us. I mean, he'd help us anyway because he's nice, but…"

"We can probably find a Bible in Boston library," Nick said. "I say I go and look for one there and then meet Piper in Diamond City to escort the preacher back here. Commonwealth is a dangerous place for a man like him."

"Then I'll go with you," Preston said. "That place is crawling with super mutants."

"Was crawling with super mutants." Hancock gave Preston a sly grin. "Quinn and I cleared the place out a few months ago for dear old Daisy."

"Yeah, but who knows what's in there now?" Piper said, shaking her head. "If there are super mutants, it should be three of us going."

Danse frowned. The idea of two civilians going up against super mutants bothered him, and the fact they'd be relying on a synth if something went wrong... What happened if they were hurt? Perhaps he should have asked some of his fellow soldiers to help him with this instead.

"Paladin Danse?" said Piper. She was looking at him carefully, her mouth twisting into something that looked halfway between amusement and exasperation.

"Yes?" he replied, her respectful tone catching him off guard.

"You don't need to worry about us. And don't deny it. I can see it in your face," she said as he opened his mouth to argue. "We wastelanders are hardier than you'd think. We know how to handle ourselves in a fight."

Danse paused and then nodded. "Alright."

Piper smiled at him.

"Which just leaves the flag and the music," said Hancock, cutting through the moment like a knife.

"I...I haven't thought of a way to locate an intact flag," Danse admitted, flushing slightly. "All the military bases I've been through during my patrols have fallen into great disrepair."

He was greeted by a series of blank looks and his heart sank. A damaged flag would suffice, but he had never been the type of person to settle for 'sufficient.' A job had to be done right or not at all.

"I think I know just the place," Hancock said suddenly, folding his arms as his brow furrowed with concentration.

Danse stared at the shabby ghoul. His very appearance disgusted him, and he found himself doubting that such an unkempt creature would know what the word 'pristine' even meant, let alone what something pristine would look like. His distrust must have shown, though, because the ghoul rolled his eyes.

"Not far from Goodneighbor, there's a placed called the Cabot House," said Hancock as he gave Danse an ugly look. "Went there with Quinn, helped the family with a little...personal problem they were having."

"Personal problem?" asked Piper.

"Yeah, the old man of the house had an ancient artifact glued to his head and could kill people with his mind, so they shut him away in an old asylum for four-hundred years, while using his blood to achieve eternal life."

A ringing silence greeted this statement.

Hancock grinned sheepishly. "I...may have been high at the time."

"What a surprise," snapped Danse, but before Hancock could retort, the synth cleared his throat loudly and pointedly.

"Alright, alright," Hancock muttered, still glaring at Danse. "Point is, whatever actually happened, we did something right, because the family gave us the run of their house afterwards. Everything inside looks like it's not been touched since the war. If there's anywhere we can find a clean flag, it's there."

Danse nodded. "I'll head over there then and collect it."

Hancock frowned. "You really think they'll just let a stranger go into their home and take their things? Not to mention you're Brotherhood. This one's mine; I'll get it."

"I see. So you'll take the flag and somehow get it across Boston Ruins - an area that's practically a war zone - without damaging it in the slightest?" Danse shook his head. "No. Impossible. At the very least, I can put it in my armour where it will be safe."

"Tell you what, tin can: give me your fancy power armour and I'll bring it back in one piece for you."

"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let you near my equipment, you filthy-"

"Can the two of you not go five damn minutes without arguing?" Piper cut in sharply, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it in a jerky, agitated manner. "We're supposed to be talking about Quinn here, not your egos."

Both Danse and Hancock went quiet, avoiding each other's eyes and the irritated glares of everyone else. A slow awkwardness swept over the gathering as Piper puffed away, clouding Danse's senses with the thick, acrid smoke.

Preston stood with his arms folded, twisting his mouth from side to side as the smoke cloud grew, before looking up with an uncertain expression on his face. "Why don't you go together?"

"No," said Danse at once, and he was surprised to find that a chorus of loud disapproval joined with his own - directed not at him, but at Preston.

"That is asking for trouble," said Nick, shaking his head. "They'd both kill each other before the flag got anywhere near Sanctuary."

Preston gave a little shrug, but Danse's attention was suddenly drawn to the ghoul. Unlike the synth and Piper, he had not argued against Preston's suggestion, but was instead stood still, a little scowl on his face as he scratched his chin in contemplation.

"Hancock, please don't say you're considering this?" Piper groaned, rubbing her forehead in frustration.

"Do I look fucking happy about it?" snapped Hancock, and he let his gaze linger on Danse for a moment before continuing. "But I'm not seeing any other way around the problem."

"No," Danse said again, more forcefully this time.

"You got a better idea, tin can? Because I'd love to hear it. Seriously. A road trip with you sounds like hell."

Danse gritted his teeth, but didn't answer. He couldn't answer. What else was there to do? Risk the flag being damaged or raid someone's home and steal it? Both were extremely undesirable; almost as undesirable as using a ruined flag. He sighed heavily.

A job had to be done right or not at all.

"Fine." Danse's voice was like a whip crack, making Piper jump. "Ghoul, you're with me until we get the flag. After that, I don't care what you do." He turned to the others, ignoring their glares at his tone. "Piper, Preston, and…"

His eyes drifted over to the synth as his voice trailed off, before he cleared his throat and continued. "Boston Library for the book. If things get too heated, retreat and return to Sanctuary. We can regroup and attack in full force. No point adding another body to this funeral."

Their expressions changed from annoyance to shock, and Danse scolded himself for forgetting that civilians tended to not be so cold over death.

"Don't be so damn cheerful about it," Piper muttered into her cigarette.

Danse ignored her, leaning over and shutting the book he had taken from the Brotherhood archives, trying not to think that soon he was going to be stuck on the road with a ghoul. If anyone saw him with that thing…

"The only problem now is numbers," he said, trying to push out images of exile, the ghoul laughing as he was stripped of his rank and power armour. "We need a set amount of people to do this successfully."

"Leave that to me," Preston said with a nod. "I'll get the people we need."

"Settlers?"

"No, the Minutemen."

Danse made a low grumbling noise. The Minutemen were, at best, a disorganised rabble with guns and impractical uniforms. But it would be selfish of him to pull his brothers and sisters from his duties to assist, and was not something he was prepared to do, even for Quinn.

"Fine. Are they trained for military salutes?"

Preston shook his head. "No. I was hoping you would be able to show them."

Danse nodded. "Nothing I haven't done before. Are they in the area?"

"I can send a message to the Castle and have them sent to us."

"Excellent. That solves that problem." Danse looked over towards the bridge that led out of Sanctuary. "I need to go speak with Quinn's robot over at Red Rocket. I have a job for him."

"Codsworth?" Nick asked, frowning. "Why do you need him?"

"Music, sir?"

Codsworth bobbed up and down in front of Danse, swivelling on the spot as he looked from Danse to Hancock. Danse quickly explained the pre-war tradition of music at funerals.

"The manual mentions something called 'Taps.' Do you know what that is?" Danse paused, wondering if he was simply wasting his time. It was just a robot after all.

"Ah, yes, sir, I believe I can help with that! Follow me!" The robot floated past him, and Danse blinked, perplexed.

"What are you waiting for?" Hancock asked, shrugging. "Let's see what he's got to offer."

The two of them trailed after the Mr. Handy as it drifted merrily over to Sanctuary, humming a cheerful little tune as he went. Preston raised an eyebrow as they made their way back into the settlement, an odd and mismatched trio.

Codsworth floated inside Quinn's old house, and Danse felt his stomach flip. The last time he had been in there, Quinn had been in his arms. Danse's face grew red at the memory and he quickly stomped inside so that Hancock wouldn't see.

Still humming to itself, Codsworth bobbed about the room, and then stopped in the corner. If he - no, it - had a mouth, Danse was sure it would be smiling.

"Here, sir! Just under the carpet."

Hancock stepped forward and pulled back the fraying carpet, revealing a safe built into the floor. He fiddled with it, and then produced a screwdriver and a bobby pin from his pocket.

"Locked," he muttered. "My 'picking skills ain't as good as Cait's, but…" The ghoul bent over the safe and began to work on it, occasionally cursing as he fumbled with the lock.

Several bobby pins and a lot of swearing later, and they were still no further in opening the safe. However, just Danse was just about to tell him to give up, there was a click and the metal door opened.

"Ha!" cried Hancock in triumph, and he reached in, pulling out a collection of holotapes. "Jackpot." He set aside the tapes and peered inside the safe, frowning, and then let out a low whistle as he reached in again, removing something completely different. "Look at this."

In the ghoul's hands was a dirty glass bottle, the worn label stained brown and peeling at the edges. Despite the wear and tear, the word 'Bowmore' written in bold, black letters could still clearly be read.

Danse's eyes widened, and he looked at Codsworth quizzically. "Why is that in there?"

"Ah, well, sir," said Codsworth, suddenly sounding mildly embarrassed. "A humorous story behind that one. A most humorous story indeed." The robot gave a blatantly forced laugh which trailed off into a grumbled sigh.

Both Hancock and Danse stared at Codsworth, bemused, and after a long silence, he relented.

"Oh, very well." Codsworth bobbed faster on the spot. "When I was first purchased by Mister Nate and Miss Quinn, Miss Quinn was responsible with setting me up, and in her, ah, infinite wisdom...she...she programmed a colourful form of address for Mister Nate, in vengeance for-"

"What did you have to call him?" Hancock cut across, grinning from ear to ear as Danse frowned.

There was a pause.

"...Mister Fuckface," said Codsworth, with an air of eternal suffering.

Hancock exploded with laughter, his body shaking so hard he had to lean against the nearby wall to stop himself from falling over. Danse rolled his eyes. What an utterly childish thing to…

Despite himself, he felt his lips twitch into a small smile. Thankfully, Hancock was laughing too hard to notice, and by the time he had calmed down, Danse had managed to gain control of himself again.

"I think Quinn will appreciate the find," said Danse with a nod.

Hancock placed the items back in the safe, and then picked up the tapes, showing them to Codsworth. "So which one of these is the one we need?" He turned them over in his hands and then held one up, which was marked 'E.J.: At Last.' "What's this one, Cods?"

Codsworth spluttered, ruffled at his new nickname, but then quickly returned to his dignified manner. "According to Miss Quinn, they played it at their wedding for their first dance. Or as Mister Nate liked to joke, 'their second.'"

"Their second?" asked Danse.

"I don't know, sir. The joke was never explained to me." Codsworth spun around on the spot, and a little hatch popped open in his back for the holotape. "Would you care to listen?"

Hancock set the tapes down on the kitchen unit and picked up the one marked 'E.J.', placing it in the port and closing it with a click. There was a whirring sound as it loaded, and suddenly the room was filled with music.

"At last, my love has come along."

Danse felt himself go cold. He understood Nate's joke.

Hancock waved a hand in front of his face. "Hey, tin can? What's up?"

"I…" Danse swallowed, his mouth dry.

"My lonely days are over, and life is like a song…"

"Turn it off," he said, and Codsworth obliged, the tape port popping open. Danse felt uncomfortable, like he had intruded on a private and intimate part of Quinn's life. The first dance she had ever had with her husband, the night they had met in that bar. He could still recall the faraway look in Quinn's eyes when she'd told the story.

"By 3am, I had my arms wrapped around his neck, dancing to Etta James…"

It was this song. It had to be this song. There was no other reason for Nate to make such a comment.

Hancock reached over and took the tape out, throwing Danse a confused look. He opened his mouth, his black eyes narrowing, and then seemed to reconsider, putting the tape on the kitchen unit again as he said, "I guess you're not an Etta James fan…"

Danse ignored him and turned back to Codsworth. "Which one is the Taps tape?"

"This one, sir." Codsworth pointed to a tape at the edge of the pile. It stood out from the rest, in that while the others were marked in various colours of pen and in an untidy scrawl, the label was written in black, neat ink that read: 'Crofts: In Memory.'

"What's a Crofts?" asked Hancock, picking it up and squinting at the label.

"Miss Quinn once told me Mister Nate played it not long before Master Shaun's first birthday, for an anniversary of sort. His old friend, Sergeant Crofts. She...she died on the battlefield. And Mister Nate blamed himself."

Danse's stomach gave a sharp, painful jolt, and he winced, doing his best to keep his face blank. "Play it."

"A 'please' wouldn't hurt," Hancock grumbled, but he still put the tape into the port, with a click and a whir. There was a slight pause, and then it began.

A single, haunting bugle call sounded out from the recording, clear and sharp, but sombre too. The player reached for the notes with grace and poise, emotion flooding the simple tune in a way Danse had never heard in any other song. He could see the ancient battlefield from centuries past, stretching far beyond the last Great War of America, the dirt and sand stained with the blood of the fallen.

Shivers raced down his spine as the lone bugle went on and on, slowly dancing with grief as each aching note rang out in turn.

When it was over, Danse did not want to break the silence.

"Well shit," said Hancock, apparently not as taken by the beauty of the music as he was. "Can't get any more traditional than that."

Danse scowled, irritated at the ruined moment. "If you do that on the day-"

"Yeah, yeah," Hancock said, taking the tape out of Codsworth and placing it with the others. "Unlike some people I could name, I know when to shut my damn mouth."

"Practice it now, then," Danse shot back.

"Christ, what's pissed you off?"

"Nothing." Danse paused. No, it was troubling him too much to keep quiet about it. Even sharing it with the ghoul was better than nothing. He shifted on the spot. "The song...it's traditional, but...is it the right choice?

Hancock shrugged. "It's a funeral. She's going to be heartbroken whatever we pick. Might as well make it a song that meant something to her husband."

This was true. But it was the idea of choosing the music for her made him uncomfortable. He voiced this, and to Danse's surprise, Hancock nodded.

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, if she wants to go ahead with this when she gets here, we'll ask her and let her choose, alright?"

"Agreed."

Another awkward silence.

Hancock put the tapes back in the safe and closed it, and then sighed, pulling a face at Danse. "Right. Come on. Let's get this little road trip done with."

"The sooner, the better," said Danse.

Hancock laughed. "You got that right, crew cut."

A/N: Usual thanks to my beta, waiting4morning, who made a real effort to help me despite being really busy this weekend. And thank you for reading and reviewing and any favourites you might give me. They mean a lot!