Truck Stop Tinkering

Quinn traced the screen of her Pip-Boy, nerves fluttering through her as she swayed with the movement of the vertibird. Nate's holotape was nestled deep within the device on her wrist, waiting for the moment to be released again. She hovered her finger over the play button, before changing her mind and clenching her fist instead. God, she wanted to hear his voice. But that would mean hearing Shaun as well.

"Quinn?"

Danse's voice was barely audible over the noise of the aircraft, even though he was sat directly opposite her. Every inch of his worn face was tense, his shadowed eyes fixed on hers.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," he said after a pause. "You don't-"

"I do," she replied. "I have to. And I want to."

Those were the same words she had said to Carson, less than half an hour ago. He had gripped her arm as she had stormed through the ship, throwing her gear together like she was marching into battle, before pulling her aside. When she had told him where she was going, he had hesitated, and then quickly pulled himself together.

"Take some time. You don't need to go right away."

He didn't understand. But why would he? He had his love right with him, warm and breathing, able to hold him in the night. Nate had been trapped in Sanctuary for centuries. She had to free him, whatever the cost.

Quinn dropped her gaze as Danse continued to stare at her, his features creased with concern. She didn't need his pity. She just needed to focus, needed to…

A shiver rushed through her, and Quinn hugged herself, her body being buffeted by the wind. The cold, always the cold. It followed her wherever she went, taunting her with the source of her misery. That damn vault.

Danse had tried to convince her to bring her armour with her, but she had point-blank refused. The last thing she wanted to do was clunk around Sanctuary in steel and circuitry. No. She had to feel the wind. Feel the ground at her feet. Feel her grief as he was buried. She couldn't encase herself away for this.

Thank God for Kapraski. Danse may not have relented if the lancer hadn't offered them a lift. He had been all smiles, saying how he'd 'heard' they were travelling out west for a scavenging mission, and that he was going that way already. The fact that Carson had been lurking in the background had not escaped Quinn. It didn't matter to him that she had told him to stay behind, so long as she got there safe.

Quinn wasn't sure why she didn't want Carson along. He'd asked if she would like him to go with her, but before he had finished the question, she had shut him down. And yet despite that, he had insisted on helping Kapraski pilot the vertibird. They both knew he had no idea how to fly.

Carson was 'helping' now, pointing at buttons and asking questions so often, Kapraski had to keep batting his hands away from the controls.

Huddling over, Quinn clutched at her hair, trying to block out the roar of the vertibird, the sound rocketing through her head and scratching at her brain. She just needed quiet. She just needed…

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, and Quinn jumped. Looking up, she was greeted by the face of Danse. Once again, he had moved without her hearing him, and was now crouched in front of her, looking pale.

"Are you alright?" she saw him say, though his words were drowned out by the noise. "We can go back-"

Quinn shook her head violently and placed her hand on top of Danse's steel plated one without thinking.

"I'm fine," she shouted back, quickly removing her hand as Danse's eyes flicked to where she had touched him. "I just...I'm fine."

He nodded and carefully stood, turning to look out at the wasteland below. Quinn returned to looking at the floor, the constant motion sending waves of nausea rippling through her body. Scrunching her uniform between her fingers, she shut her eyes, counting under her breath the way her mother had taught her when she had gotten car sick as a child.

Her body had just reached the point where it could hang on no longer when there was a bump; Quinn jolted upright, clinging to her seat, and shot a look to the outside.

They had landed.

Faster than thought, she threw herself out of the aircraft and bent over, gasping as the sickening feeling enveloped her.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Quinn!"

She heard running footsteps, and then a pair of hands grabbed at her.

"Don't!" Quinn wheezed, pulling away. "Feel sick!"

"Oh...well, face the other way, Blue."

She laughed, her situation momentarily forgotten, and took a few more breaths until the urge to vomit lessened somewhat. When she straightened up again, she found herself surrounded.

Piper. Hancock. Preston. Nick.

There was a loud thud behind her, and she turned to see Danse walking towards her, away from the vertibird. A clunk and a hiss followed, and the cockpit opened, Carson and Kapraski popping their heads out with their mouths hanging open.

"A synth?" Carson gasped, staring at Nick.

Shit.

Everyone tensed, and Quinn cursed her stupidity. In her haste to leave the Prydwen, she had completely forgotten about Nick. From the look on Danse's face, so had he, but his expression flicked from alarm to something dark so fast, Quinn barely had time to register it.

He straightened up and snarled, "Out of the cockpit. Now."

Quinn frowned at the odd request, but Carson and Kapraski obeyed without question, scrambling down from the vertibird and lining up to attention. The second they were in front of the paladin, she understood.

He towered over the two soldiers, radiating menace as he stepped forward, his voice razor sharp with authority.

"You are not to breathe a word of this synth to anyone. Not to each other. Not on the ship. Not anywhere at all. If you do, and I find out - and I will find out - I will deal with you both personally. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir!" they said in unison.

"I don't have a problem with synths anyway, sir!" Carson said.

"Me neither, so long as they're not shooting at me," Kapraski added quickly, nodding at Nick. "And this one isn't, so…"

"Enough." Danse looked deeply displeased at their words but also relieved. Quinn thought she knew why. On the one hand, their acceptance of synths meant that no harm would come to Nick. However, that was also against the morals of the Brotherhood, and of the morals of Danse himself.

This isn't about Nick's safety...he's doing it for me.

A strange mixture of annoyance and gratitude tore through Quinn, and she coughed, catching everyone's attention.

"Carson...Kapraski," she said, smiling at them. "Nick - the synth - is my friend. Not only that, but he's worked tirelessly against the Institute to bring them down. Whatever Institute synths are, Nick's not one of them. Paladin Danse doesn't approve of my choice of companionship, but I asked him to trust me on this one occasion. Against his better judgement, he has."

Danse threw her a half annoyed, half thankful look.

"So," she went on, "please, don't tell anyone. Nick helped me find my son...or at least helped me find his ghost. I owe him."

Carson nodded and smiled back, glancing nervously at Danse before saying, "Like I said, I don't have a problem with synths, and neither does Tom." He looked at Nick. "Nick, is it?"

"Yup," said Nick, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he patted the rest of his coat with the other hand.

"You've nothing to worry about from me. And..." Another glance in the direction of the paladin. "If I'm ever back here again, I'd like to talk to you some more. I've never met a synth that didn't try to shoot me on si…"

Carson trailed off at the livid expression on Danse's face, and shuffled his feet, staring at the ground. Nick dropped the cigarette he had been holding.

"I, uh…" Nick paused, still absentmindedly patting his pockets, apparently unaware his smoke had escaped him. "Yeah, sure, kid. If you want."

"Knight, Lancer," Danse said, his tone crackling with anger. "Dismissed."

"Sir!" Carson and Kapraski saluted him and then practically ran back to the vertibird, clambering back into the cockpit without a second look. The wind whipped up as it took off, coating them all with a thin layer of dust. Quinn coughed and spluttered, covering her face, and by the time she had wiped the grit from her eyes, the vertibird was almost at the horizon.

Silence hung over them all as they watched it go. Nick patted his pocket and made a small noise of approval, pulling a lighter out from the depths of his coat. The flame flicked to life as he held it near his mouth, and then he blinked, looking confused.

"You dropped something," Hancock said, stooping down and picking up the fallen cigarette.

"Thanks." Nick stuck it in his mouth and lit it, puffing a little as he kept his eyes on the aircraft in the distance. As it disappeared out of sight, he turned to Danse. "And...thank you for...well."

"Don't mention it," Danse said, looking like he would very much prefer if Nick never mentioned it ever again.

The awkward quiet returned, and one by one, they all looked at Quinn.

"So," she said, trying force her voice to be calm, hating how high pitched it suddenly sounded. "Danse tells me that you...that…"

She couldn't go on.

"Only if you want to, General," said Preston. "This is entirely up to you."

"I do want it."

"Then…" he glanced over to the hills where the vault lay. "With your permission, may we collect your husband so we can...prepare him?"

Quinn blinked, stunned. "You...you want my permission?"

They all nodded solemnly, and she thought her chest might burst with love.

"Yes...you have my permission."

The men all glanced at each other and then walked off, while Piper took her arm.

"Come on, Blue," she murmured, pulling her towards the centre of the settlement. "There's just one more thing...then we'll handle the rest."

"Oh?"

"Where...sorry, I don't know how to phrase this…"

"Where do I want him buried?"

Piper nodded again, her eyes wide.

Quinn sighed and then glanced in the direction of her old house.


Rain battered down on roof of the Red Rocket truck stop, water snaking its way through the decaying structure and pattering down onto the floor inside. Quinn sat on her bed, watching the puddle grow for a little while, before sighing and standing, sliding an old bucket over with her foot. The tinny sound of the leak hitting metal joined with the light shower that fell against the building, before both faded as the rain subsided.

Back on her bed again, Quinn stared up, nerves fluttering through her stomach. The concept of what was happening tomorrow was finally starting to hit her, and fear caressed her skin, making it prickle and shiver.

Her eyes fell upon the half-used jet inhaler Hancock had left behind, which, despite everything, made her crack a smile. Her friends. They'd insisted on doing all the work, telling her it wasn't right for her to help. Quinn had relented, falling back to her one place of peace and quiet, waving away Piper's offer of company. Even Codsworth had left her alone.

Dogmeat padded into the room, sniffing loudly as he stopped next to her bed, and then shook his coat. Quinn yelled, sitting up sharply as she was sprayed with water, and then toppled backwards onto the floor with a string of swearwords.

"Dogmeat!"

Dogmeat took this as an invitation and bounded over, jumping onto her lap, still damp from the rain. He ignored her shrieks and began to lick her face enthusiastically, his wagging tail banging against the metal frame of the bed.

"Is everything alright?" came a familiar voice.

Quinn shoved Dogmeat off her and pushed herself to her knees, to see Paladin Danse standing at the interior door, his power armour absent. It seemed he had learned his lesson from his previous struggles with the doorframe.

"Yeah, fine," she said, getting to her feet and trying to wipe away the mud and dog hair now coating her uniform, to no avail. "What's up?"

"I, well…" He straightened up, dragging his eyes away from Dogmeat, who had run over and started sniffing at his feet, and pointed to a bundle in his arm. "We found an old collection of holotapes in your house. I wanted to discuss what music you wanted for...for tomorrow."

Quinn rubbed her forehead, wincing at the ache that lurked in the depths of her skull. Nothing came to mind, and trying to think of something only made it hurt worse. "All of that will be Nate's music, so whatever you pick, I'm sure he would have liked it."

"But-"

"Danse." She smiled as she let her hand drop to her side. "I trust you. I trust your judgement."

Danse paused and then nodded. He suddenly looked uncomfortable. "There was something else, too." He set the bundle on the nearby cabinet and pushed the fabric aside, digging his hands through the pile of tapes until he pulled something completely different from the mass of plastic and metal.

In his hand was a bottle. Quinn didn't have to look at the label to know what it was. The moment of Nate presenting it to her with a mischievous grin while she was pregnant was burned into her mind.

Bowmore scotch whisky, from the Isle of Islay.

Quinn's knees buckled, and she fell to the floor with a bump. Danse clunked the bottle down so carelessly it nearly skidded off the cabinet, but he paid it no mind as he darted forward, crouching down next to her and taking hold of her shoulders.

"Are you alri-?" he began, but he never finished his sentence. Quinn grabbed Danse and yanked him into a hug, nearly pulling him on top of her as he wobbled unsteadily in her grip.

"Thank you," she mumbled into his shoulder. "Thank you."

Danse didn't reply, but patted her awkwardly on the back, wincing as his legs started to cramp. Eventually she released him, sniffed, and wiped quickly at her eyes. Danse groaned as he stood, and then offered her a hand; Quinn took it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet.

Staring past him, she walked slowly over to the bottle of whisky and picked it up, cradling it with almost as much care as she had cradled her son. It was cool and smooth beneath her fingers, the last gift of Nate's that she could still truly call her own.

"Where did you find it?" she said eventually, not taking her eyes off the bottle.

"Your old house. In a safe in the floor," Danse replied. "Codsworth led us to it."

"Codsworth?" She glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised. There was a pause, and then she started to laugh. "That fucking…"

Her laughter died in her throat, replaced by the bitter taste of reality.

"We liked to play pranks on each other." Quinn sat on her bed, holding the whisky close to her chest. "After Shaun was born, and after Nate started to get better, we got some of the fun back in our marriage. He burnt the dinner one night, so I hid his screwdriver in his sock drawer where I knew he'd never look for it. Of course, he knew I was responsible, so he hid my bottle of Islay and refused to tell me where. Unfortunately for him, we'd just bought a Mr Handy to help with the day to day stuff in case Nate had another episode, and…well…"

"You reprogrammed Codsworth."

"Did he tell you?" Quinn said with a sly grin.

Danse nodded, trying to look stern, before the smirk broke through. "He was...less than happy about it."

"Nate wasn't pleased either. Said it was a bad example for our son. I think he was just pissed he had to call a technician out to change the settings, because he couldn't figure it out himself."

Danse chuckled; the sound was odd to Quinn's ears, but pleasant. She hadn't realised how much she'd missed hearing him laugh. She moved the bottle under the overhead light, admiring the amber sheen of the liquid within, and then made a decision.

"Do you want a drink with me?"

Danse froze.

"I…" His eyes fixed on the bottle, his body tensing so quickly, it was as if he had been turned to stone. For the briefest of moments, he seemed detached from the world around him, his being focused solely on the alcohol in her hands.

He doesn't want to refuse me, she thought. But he doesn't want this, either.

"Ah," Quinn said quickly. "Don't worry, I get it."

His eyes snapped up to look at her. "You do?"

"Yeah." She grinned. "I can tell. You're not a whisky drinker, right?"

Relief rippled through Danse's features, and he relaxed, smiling again. "Yes...I'm sorry. Whisky isn't my poison. But if you want to drink it, don't stop on my account."

Quinn stood, opening a cupboard on the wall - inside was a collection of shot glasses, some purified water, and a bottle of cheap Irish whiskey. She ignored it and selected the cleanest looking glass, setting it down on the cabinet next to the holotapes.

There was a pause.

"I don't know if I…" Quinn bit her lip. "It's the last thing I have of him from him. I just…"

"You're wrong," Danse replied, moving next to her as he shook his head. "You have your rings. You have the holotape he made for you. And you have your wedding photograph. Small things, but still things that tie him to you." He hesitated, frowning a little. "I'm not trying to force you to open that bottle, but you said to me you never had the chance to drink it, and I sensed regret in those words. He bought that for you to enjoy, and here it is, despite everything you've gone through. Would he want it to sit on a shelf, never opened or tasted?"

Quinn shivered, staring at the label without reading it. She could feel Nate's presence reaching across the centuries, guiding her hands as he whispered sweet reassurances to her.

It's okay.

Go on.

Her fingers took on a life of their own, pulling at the seal around the top, shedding its soft, metal skin before cracking open the lid. She raised the bottle to her face and sniffed, the smell of light, fragrant smoke with a hint of nectarine making her eyes water with delight.

Quality.

Eighteen years matured. Quinn quivered with anticipation. She screwed the lid back on and set the whisky down safely, before returning to the cupboard and pulling out the bottle of purified water. She opened it and dipped her fingers in it, before holding her hand over the shot glass, allowing the water to drip inside. Setting the bottle down, she picked up her glass and swilled the minute amount of water around so that it coated the bottom.

"What are you doing?" Danse asked, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

"Always add a small amount of water to scotch whisky," Quinn said, eyeing up the glass carefully. "Or any whisky, really. It brings out the flavour."

She put the glass down and picked up the Bowmore again, opening it and pouring it with a practiced, steady hand. Not a single drop wasted.

"Normally I'd use a proper whisky glass, but…" Quinn shrugged, gesturing vaguely to her surroundings. There was no room to be picky in the wasteland. She picked up her drink, pausing once again to take in the potent scent of burning herbs and traces of fruit, and then sipped.

An electric shock raced through her taste buds, and she shut her eyes, savouring the moment, running the spirit over her tongue as she clung to the edge of bliss.

She had heard of the peaty nature of Bowmore, but nothing she had been told could prepare her for the real thing. Rich and strong, the peat and smoke mixed together, supporting the softer floral notes, wrapped around a prickly centre. Quinn swallowed, the aftertaste sweet and woody, gently burning her mouth and throat as it slid down to her core.

It was like nothing she had ever tasted before, and she realised with a twinge of sadness, when the bottle was finished, she would never experience it again.

Quinn slowly worked her way through the glass, keeping her eyes firmly shut, blocking out all other senses but taste and smell, until eventually she reached the bottom. Not caring for dignity, she threw her head back, tilting every last drop into her waiting mouth, and then opened her eyes.

Danse was watching her, his expression odd. Soft. Warm.

He smiled at her. "Good?"

Quinn nodded, not wanting to speak just yet. She needed to hold onto this, just for a little while longer. As she moved forward and set her glass down, her foot caught on something, causing her to stumble. Quinn glanced at the floor and saw her rifle poking out from under the bed. Remembering the terrible state it was in, she picked up the battered gun and dusted it down. The exterior was badly dented, and some of the parts felt stiff and sticky.

"Piece of shit needs work," she muttered to herself, before sighing and strolling over to her workbench. She laid the gun down and stroked her chin as she tried to decide where to start.

Her hand drifted over to the nearby toolbox, and it creaked as Quinn opened it; she selected a small screwdriver before beginning her work. It had been Nate's, one of the few things that had actually survived, though the plastic handle had partially melted and the metal was patched with rust. She grumbled as she pulled at the stock, but it was so warped by wear and tear that it was jammed in place.

Danse, who had been slowly edging forward, apparently intrigued by her tinkering, gave a slight cough. "Want me to-?"

Quinn shoved the rifle into his hands before he could finish.

He grinned and set it back onto the workbench, before rooting through the toolbox.

Although Danse lacked the flow of Arlen Glass, watching him work was an education in itself. His hands deftly moved over the weapon, dismantling it with ease as he laid out each component in a neat row to the side. The tools he used also lined up perfectly beneath his fingers, like a little row of metal soldiers. He laboured slowly and carefully, pausing before every action, considering his every move before he made it. Quinn found herself mesmerised by his precise and fussy mannerisms, so different from Nate's organised chaos.

When he began cleaning each individual part, Quinn stepped in to help. They didn't speak as they worked, content in the silence and fully focused on the task, passing parts and pieces between themselves without exchanging a single word. Even Dogmeat sniffing at their feet for attention didn't distract them, and he finally padded away, whining.

Comfort washed over Quinn, and she was barely aware of the way their elbows knocked together while they concentrated on their own separate jobs, or how their hands touched when they traded equipment. She felt secure and at ease, like being with Danse was the most natural thing in the world.

The spell was only broken when he put the last piece of the rifle back in place and handed it to her, whole and almost gleaming, the love and care he had invested in her weapon as clear as the scars on his face.

"We're even now, I think," he said, smiling to show he was teasing.

Quinn nodded, grinning back as she held the gun close to her chest. It all felt so important somehow, though she couldn't understand why. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He paused and then yawned, rubbing his eyes. "I think I should let you sleep. I've taken up enough of your time."

"You haven't taken up anything. I wanted you to be here."

There was a pause, and a slight flush crept across Danse's cheeks, though he looked pleased.

"I'll remember that," he replied. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

With a nod, he left, and Quinn sighed, the room suddenly feeling large and empty. Her steps were heavy with tiredness as she dragged herself over to the cabinet, setting her rifle down on it and then picking up the whisky. Nate's face flickered through her mind, the image of his wicked grin as he handed his pregnant wife the coveted bottle as clear as day. Then it disappeared, replaced by Danse's own features, apprehensive at first, but then softening as she'd taken her first taste.

Wearing a small smile, Quinn carefully put the whisky away.


The night air was crisp and cool, sending shivers through Danse as he stepped outside into its embrace. He barely noticed it, his heart thundering away as he marched back towards Sanctuary, a slight spring in his step as Quinn's words played over and over in his head.

I wanted you to be here.

She didn't resent him. She didn't hate him for taking it all out of her hands. She wanted to be around him.

The bounce in Danse's walk slowly faded away, however, as he approached the settlement. While he was glad the whisky had cheered Quinn up a little, there had been another motive for his visit.

In the distance burned a campfire, a crumpled mass of dirty fabric a foot away from it. From underneath the material poked a pair of feet wearing standard issue Vault-Tec boots. It had quickly become apparent when they removed Nate from the vault that he would not thaw out in time before the funeral. The next best option had been to speed up the process with fire, whilst making sure not to overheat the body. The thought alone disgusted Danse, and he quickly pushed it out of his mind as he walked around the back of Quinn's old house.

The grave in the centre of the back yard was surrounded by lanterns, giving the entire scene an eerie, morbid glow. As he arrived, Hancock was clambering out of the pit, panting as Preston helped him up.

"Christ, the ghoul muttered, shaking his head at the large mound of dirt they had shovelled. "That was hard going." He turned to Danse. "How is she?"

Danse shrugged. "As well as she can be. I kept her distracted, at least. She's settling down for the night."

"Good." Hancock glanced at the hole in the earth, and then over his shoulder in the direction of Nate's body. "This is the last thing she should see."

Danse nodded. "Anything else need doing?"

"We're gonna move Nate in a bit. Figure he's defrosted enough by now."

"I'll do it." Danse strode past them towards the fire before they could answer, the rolling warmth of the fire doing little to quell the chills that were pulsing through his body.

Death was nothing new to him. It was a simple fact of life in the wasteland, and even more so in the Brotherhood. And yet something about this death felt different in a way that made him uneasy. It was a death that had been delayed, the grief and the healing paused, encased in ice and shut away from the world.

They were releasing it.

Danse reached Nate's body and crouched down, pulling back the sheet. He had finally gone limp, no longer locked in place, his eyes now closed. As Danse reached out to pick him up, a sudden shiver shot up his spine, and he hesitated, his stomach clenching.

He didn't want to touch him. Revulsion gripped at him, the unfamiliar sensation of fear prickling through his skin. This was just like-

Cutler, lying crumpled on the ground, his face turned away as-

"Hey."

Danse jumped, snapping out of his vision, and looked up to see Sturges stood over him, grinning.

His grin faltered as his eyes met Danse's. "You okay?"

Danse didn't answer, glancing back down at the body on the floor. The man lying there was tall and lanky, wearing a Vault-Tec jumpsuit. He was Nate. Not Cutler.

Nate.

"Yes," Danse replied, keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the ground. "I've been told to move him. Where do you want him?"

He could feel Sturges' frown burning into the back of his head, but thankfully, the engineer didn't comment.

"Over by my workshop," Sturges said after a short silence. "Come on. I'll help you."


A/N: Thank you for all the love, and thank you to my beta, waiting4morning, for the amazing help!

I did research on whisky, and Scotch whisky is spelt without the second 'e', and Irish whiskey is spelt with it. So that's why it's spelt in two different ways in this chapter!

Just a reminder that next weekend I will be away, so the chapter could be late or early, all things depending.