At Last

It was happening. It was really happening.

Quinn stood in the ruins of her old back yard, watching as a coffin made its slow journey towards her, draped in a pristine, if somewhat creased, American flag.

Faces peered curiously from the houses around the settlement, but they kept out of the way, lurking in the shadows as the procession from centuries past worked its way through the battered street, the usual rubble and litter cleared away. At the front, balancing the coffin on their shoulders stood Preston and Nick; at the back, Piper and Hancock. Two Minutemen Quinn didn't know helped support the middle.

She had visited Nate that morning after he had been laid out in his coffin. Sturges had done a good job, not just in the structure, but in the finer details. It had been sanded, with design and shape carved into the wood, before being given a finishing gloss coat. He could have just constructed a simple box, but instead Sturges had taken the limited resources given to him and made miracles. Quinn had hugged him as soon as she had laid eyes on it.

Nate, though...it had been a bittersweet meeting. Their last meeting. A large part of her was glad that he was no longer stuck in that awful, frozen position. Another side of her, a more selfish piece of her being, wished he could remain like that forever. He was getting the burial he deserved, the burial she wanted him to have...but at the same time, Quinn knew she would never see him face to face again.

There had been a moment where she had considered giving him everything. Both of their rings, the tape he had made for her, their wedding photograph...something to stay with him. Eventually, though, Quinn had decided against it. It was like Danse had said: Nate would have wanted her to keep such trinkets, for her to cherish. He had gone on to a place where he would no longer need them.

The coffin was drawing closer now, and the disconnect increased. Quinn knew Nate was inside - she had seen him in there. And still it was hard to believe the coffin was anything but an empty box.

One thing that surprised her more than anything was the way her friends moved. They stepped in unison, their feet hitting the ground at the exact same time with a sharp tap as they marched up to where the burial site lay. Someone had obviously trained them up for this moment. She glanced over at Danse, who was standing at attention with a line of Minutemen in the cleared out back yard of next door.

Would her friends have listened to Danse?

All her meandering thoughts were driven away as the coffin reached her. The carriers carefully placed it on the contraption Sturges had set up around the grave, before picking up the flag and holding up at chest height, tight and flat. Without thinking, Quinn blindly groped to her side, grabbing hold of Sturges' hand and clinging at it. He threw her a sharp glance of surprise, and then after a moment, gave her fingers a little squeeze.

A hush fell over the congregation, and an older man dressed in shabby, handmade pastor clothes stepped forward. She recognised him as Pastor Clements from Diamond City, and saw he was holding a dark blue book with peeling gold letters. Though most of the words on the cover were intelligible, the word 'Bible' stood out, clear and bold. Quinn's stomach turned. How had they known Nate had been religious? Had she told one of them and forgotten?

Pastor Clements flipped open the Bible, scanned it, and then looked up at Quinn and smiled. She tried to return it, but her lips had gone numb, her body trembling with nerves and dread. He didn't seem to mind, his kind expression not so much as faltering before he spoke.

"Welcome all," his voice as rich and warm as mulled wine in winter.

Quinn heard nothing else. His words washed straight over her as she stared, transfixed at the coffin. Her husband was in there. What would he have thought of this? Had he imagined this was how his funeral would be, pieced together from the wreckage of the world, two hundred years in the future?

She hoped at least that he would approve. Quinn had never been one for religion herself, but Nate had been a staunch Catholic. His faith had flickered somewhat after he had returned home from the military, and he'd never set foot in a church after he'd been discharged, but she thought he had still believed, in his own way.

Once or twice, Quinn tried to focus in on what Pastor Clements was saying, but found herself unable to focus. Guilt prickled within her. They had all worked so hard to make this happen, and she couldn't even listen. Not only was it disrespectful to them, but it was disrespectful to Nate.

Nate. In the coffin, feet away from her.

Quinn felt herself sway, and Sturges' other arm shot up, steadying her.

"I got'cha," he murmured.

Quinn didn't respond.

After a while, the talk ended, and a thin silence filled its place. She continued to stare at the coffin, wishing it was all over, knowing that it wasn't, when something in the distance caught her eye. Glancing up, Quinn saw that Danse and the remaining Minutemen had begun their part, and the sheer precision made her breath catch in her throat.

"Ready!" barked Danse, the authoritative snap in his voice making her and Pastor Clements jump. The line turned and raised their weapons in one fluid motion.

"Aim!"

The barrels pointed up to the sky, all the same height, all perfectly still, the men and women holding them stood in place like statues.

"Fire!"

There was a single, deafening crack, and the line brought their rifles down and reloaded, their actions amplified by their synchronisation.

"Ready!"

And so it went on, the group, led by Danse, firing into the air until three volleys had been completed. When it had finished, they stood down, their rifle butts buried into the ground, once more stood to attention, waiting.

Waiting for what?

Quinn thought she knew. She had been to a military funeral once before, when Crofts had been put to rest. Seconds later, Codsworth floated near to the grave, and she was proven right. The bugle began to play, so heart-breakingly beautiful. The image of Nate, making the journey all the way to the Arlington National Cemetery to play this exact tape on the anniversary of Crofts' death, streaked through her mind, and her knees buckled.

"Woah!" Sturges' exclaimed, managing to keep hold of her before she fell. With a grunt, he pulled her upright and leaned her against him as he looped his arm under hers. The heads of her friends turned to look at her, concern written across each face.

"I'm fine," she heard herself say. "Carry on. Carry on."

Uncertainty flickered through the crowd, but they stayed in their places, those holding the flag throwing her the occasional glance. Danse and his rifle party, however, remained still until the last note faded into silence.

In one sharp motion, Danse passed his rifle to woman next to him, and she accepted it with the same crispness, before the paladin turned on his heel and marched towards the grave site.

With his clean, shaved face and his armour buffed to a high shine, Danse almost looked like an entirely different person. His years in the Brotherhood had clearly paid off - in that moment, Quinn felt as though he could say anything and they would all listen. She knew it now without a doubt: Danse had been the one to organise the funeral. It had to be him. No one else could have laid it all out with such meticulous precision.

He stopped at the head of the grave, stood to attention, and then gave Piper a nod. She tugged her corner of the flag, and all at once, the folding began.

Quinn had never seen a true flag folding before, and any other time, she would have watched with great interest. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the coffin once more. It was almost over. Nate would be gone forever. Her legs began to tremble again, and Sturges shifted his grip, keeping her steady.

"Just hang on," he whispered into her ear, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "You're doing great."

Quinn nodded, her throat tight, and stared determinedly at the floor, leaning her weight against the engineer. All she could hear was the slight scuffling noises of folding fabric. When she forced herself to look up again, the flag was in a neat triangle, held by Preston. He turned to Danse and handed over the compressed mass of fabric, his movement lacking the cutting quality of the paladin. Preston saluted, and Danse returned the gesture; the whole thing looked wrong to her, but she couldn't figure out why. Quinn's thoughts were cut short at Danse marched over to her, his armour making a series of dull thuds in the wasted earth.

Quinn met his eye as he stopped in front of her, and at once recognised his expression.

He's nervous.

However, when he spoke, his voice held the steadiness of a speech well-rehearsed.

"On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honourable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation."

He offered out the flag, and Quinn took it; it felt heavy in her hands. Final.

Danse saluted her, and she finally realised what was wrong. He was using a pre-war salute, not the Brotherhood's.

Letting Sturges prop her up, Quinn brought her fist to her chest, giving the salute the paladin deserved. There was a moment of silence, Danse blinking at her, apparently forgetting himself, and then Sturges coughed.

"Danse," he said, tilting his head towards Quinn. "I need to...the coffin. Can you hold her?"

For the briefest of seconds, Danse's composure seemed to crack, his eyes flicking to Quinn as his brow furrowed with apprehension. But then it passed, and he nodded, taking Sturges place and holding Quinn up with ease as the engineer walked over to the grave and began to fiddle with a tangle of circuitry next to the stand that held up the coffin. There was a click, and a section of the stand started to move, lowering the coffin slowly into the grave.

Quinn clung to Danse. She didn't know what else to do. The entire experience was surreal, a stabbing pain in her chest mixed with relief as Nate's container disappeared into the black of the pit. The cold metal of Danse's armour began to warm beneath her skin, and she leaned her head against him, ignoring the prickling of guilt in her stomach.

Still, there were no tears. Quinn had expected to be crying throughout, but so far there had been nothing. Once again, the emptiness had returned.

Clunk

The coffin had reached the bottom. Her friends all looked at each other and nodded, before turning to Quinn.

"Kid, we need to…"

She knew what they were going to say. No. If there was one last thing she could do for Nate, this would be it.

"I'll bury him," she said, her legs finding their strength again as she shook Danse off.

"Quinn…" Piper began, taking a step towards her.

"Thank you," Quinn said, forcing a smile as she looked at each of them in turn. "Thank you for what you've done today. I can't express enough how much this means, but...this is something I need to do. Please don't take this away from me."

Another pause.

Piper fidgeted, but Nick and Preston were watching Hancock, who was trembling on the spot, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face as his eyes darted from side to side. Quinn dragged her attention from him and focused on Nick, fixing him with a hard gaze until he looked at her and nodded with a sigh.

"Come on," said Nick. "We've done our part."

He walked past her, clapping his hand on her shoulder as he left. The others glanced at each other, looking like they wanted to argue, but then relented and then followed suit. They murmured their condolences each in turn, and Piper led Hancock away by the arm. Danse signalled to the rifle party, and they turned in formation and marched away, each step a sharp click of sound. However, Danse himself did not move, instead looking back at Quinn and frowning.

"Are you alright?" he asked, after a slight hesitation.

"Yes." That was a lie, but a necessary one. She didn't want to worry him. Hugging the flag close to her chest, she twitched her lips into a small smile. "Where did you put Nate's tapes?"

"In the house, back in the safe. It's not locked, though."

Quinn nodded. "Show me."

Minutes later, she stood in the corner of her living room, staring down at a safe she had never known existed inside her own house. That damn infuriating man. She grinned to herself, the familiar pangs of loss mixing with amusement at Nate's mischief. It was just so typically him.

Reaching into the safe, she took out a few select tapes, and put the flag in their place.

"For safe keeping," she explained to Danse, shutting the safe on its protruding lock, keeping the door wedged open. "I don't want it to get dirty."

"There's a case, if you…"

"Yes. That would be wonderful." There was an awkward silence, and Quinn realised she couldn't keep up the facade anymore. "Can you send Codsworth back to me, please?"

Before Danse could answer, she strode out of the side door of the house, making her way towards Nate, picking up one of the shovels left behind as she went. Quinn knew she was being ungrateful, but she had reached her limit. The needles of guilt had turned into waves, threatening to drown her as she stood over the grave.

"Miss Quinn?"

Quinn jumped at Codsworth voice, taking a deep, settling breath as he floated over to her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, mum!" he exclaimed. "I didn't mean to startle you!"

"No, it's fine. I just wanted some company while I…" She gestured to the grave, and then pulled one of the tapes out of her pocket. "Can you play this while I work?"

"Of course, mum!" He revolved on the spot, the port on his back popping open, and continued to talk while Quinn switched the tapes. "If you don't mind me saying, mum, I think this was a fitting farewell to Master Nate. I believe he would have been pleased."

"Me too," Quinn replied, her voice breaking slightly. "The others...they did well."

"Indeed!"

The tape port closed with a click, and the usual whirring began as the tape loaded. There was a crackle, and then the song returned, every note and syllable burning her. Their final dance would be a bittersweet one.

"At last, my love has come along."

She could almost feel him, his strong warm arms around her, the smell of beer on his breath as they swayed slowly on the spot, her head resting where his neck met his shoulder. She had known that night he was special, that he was something good and pure.

"Mum, are you...?"

Quinn jerked back to the present, his touch leaving her as she stood at the edge of the pit he now lay in, the slight breeze in the air clinging to the wet that now streaked down her cheeks.

Ah, she thought dully. There we go.

Her vision blurred, but then she wiped her eyes, glancing at the huge pile of dirt that towered over her. She tightened her grip on the shovel, taking deep breaths, willing herself to complete the last step.

Just one more push. One more trial.

You can do it.

With a grunt, Quinn thrust the shovel deep into the earth. It was the first of many, the flat, metal blade consuming the loose soil while the worn wooden handle rubbed against her skin. Splinters nestled into her flesh as the layers were stripped away by the labour, and blisters slowly rose with the work, only to split and weep, covering her hands with a stinging, sticky film. More blisters bubbled up from the mess, before bursting again, and slowly the shovel's handle became smeared with blood as her palms and fingers were rubbed raw.

Quinn didn't care.

The sweat was pouring from her, until she had pulled her jumpsuit down to her waist, her white undervest soaked through, her hair saturated with it. Her neck and shoulders reddened as the fierce wasteland sun beat down upon her, and her brain fuzzed as the song - their song - played on loop, until she was tired of the sound of it.

Quinn didn't care.

This procedure, this...ritual - it had to be completed. She had to do it. A deep, sickening fear lurked within her, crooning and clawing at her insides, just waiting for her to pause, to weaken for even just a moment. Quinn gritted her teeth and worked faster, ignoring the burning pain in her hands, and the dizziness as the heat increased. She ignored Preston when he had tried to bring her water, ignored Nick when he had ordered her to stop and rest.

He hadn't argued with her. Maybe it was the look she had given him. Or maybe it was the crazed behaviour paired with the shovel in her hands. Either way, he had left, saying words to Piper, words that blurred and smudged in her head so that they made no sense.

Quinn did not care.

Only when the last clod of earth had been patted in place, only when Nate was well and truly sealed away, did she stop. She swayed on the spot, staring down at the mound of dirt, the only barrier she had left. The shovel fell to the floor with a thud, and Quinn followed shortly afterwards. She stared up at the ashy-blue sky, barely aware of Nick and Piper swooping down upon her. Between them, they pulled her up, and helped her walk towards the house.

Her head was hurting. Her muscles were aching. Her hands were on fire. Quinn glanced back at the grave.

At last.


Danse stared out onto the horizon, feeling a rough blend of exhaustion and numbness. Still, it wasn't like he usually had the time to watch the day fall from grace. The colours of the sun were one of the few things outside of the oppressive grip of the wasteland. The ground glowed orange, deep shadows breaking up the landscape as the sky added splashes of pink and gold to its palette.

He couldn't stop thinking of the funeral.

Aside from a slip up with Hancock, it had gone well. More than well. But still, nerves lingered within him, keeping him firmly on edge as he patrolled Sanctuary.

Quinn.

Her reaction had been what he expected, grief mingled with stubborn determination. Danse had not been surprised that she'd wanted to bury Nate herself. No, that wasn't why he was bothered. It had been her attitude towards him that was concerning, like she couldn't bear to be near him any longer than she had to. He'd done everything he could, gone over every possible detail, taking everything into consideration, and yet somehow he had still managed to upset her.

Danse sighed. No matter what he did, whether it was for Quinn, or for his team, or even for the Brotherhood, it was never good enough. He was never good enough.

"Hey."

Danse turned and saw the ghoul walking towards him, and felt anger shoot through him. He was not in the mood for this.

"Go away," he said, glaring.

"Aw, and there was me thinking we'd made some progress," Hancock said with a grin, the tell-tale signs of jet consumption written all over his ravaged face. When Danse's scowl deepened, though, the ghoul's smile faltered. He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"You know damn well what," Danse snarled.

At the burial, there had been a heart stopping when Hancock had almost dropped the flag. His hands had been shaking so badly, he could barely fold it, and only managed to complete the task with the quick thinking of the Minuteman next to him. Thankfully, Quinn hadn't noticed, but everyone else had.

"I saw your hands shaking," Danse went on. "If it hadn't been for Crowcroft, you would have ruined everything. All that hard work, all that effort for Quinn nearly squandered because you couldn't wait for a fix until afterwards." His lip curled up into a sneer. "Just another junkie."

He had expected Hancock to argue, but far from engaging in a fight, the ghoul gave a half-hearted shrug, his eyes unfocused and a grin on his face, despite the severity of the accusations. Annoyance spiked within Danse.

"Pretty much," said Hancock, dropping down onto the floor with a bump and pulling a fresh jet inhaler from his pocket.

Danse stared, completely taken back by the lack of fight. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Hancock laid on his back, jammed the jet inhaler in his mouth, and shut his eyes, humming. Then he suddenly sat up, eyes wide open. Danse stepped back, raising his rifle slightly as his body tensed.

However, Hancock simply coughed and took another hit, before looking up at Danse, apparently unconcerned with the gun now pointed at him. "I tried to do today sober. That's what was wrong."

Danse nearly dropped his rifle in shock. His surprise must have shown on his face, because the ghoul laughed.

"Yeah, I know, right? Fucking crazy of me. I'm an addict, through and through. And I like being an addict. Makes things...interesting. But I dunno." He shrugged, staring down at his jet inhaler. "Somehow, being high for this didn't feel...right. Not that Quinn would have minded, but considering how much you were putting into the whole thing…"

His voice trailed off, and he returned to his jet.

The ghoul was right, of course. Quinn had an irritating tolerance of the ghoul's chem taking habits that Danse simply could not understand. And yet…

"You're giving them up then?"

Hancock cackled, pulling the inhaler out of his mouth. "Does this look like giving up to you? Hell no! I fucking love chems. Ain't no force in the wasteland that could convince me to give up these delicious trips. Besides..." He grinned. "Today proved I'm better off high as shit. It's just who I am."

Danse turned away, looking out towards the sunset, only to find that it had gone. He gritted his teeth and threw a nasty look at the ghoul. "Go away."

"Yeah yeah." Hancock struggled to his feet and stood next to Danse, staring out onto the horizon. "While I'm here, though...I mean, we both live to piss in each other's sugar bombs, but credit where it's due - good job with today. Even with my fuck up, it was a good send off. Don't think we could have made it half as classy without you."

"She could barely look at me," Danse heard himself say before he stop his mouth. He flushed, but Hancock gave him an uncharacteristically serious look.

"Tin can," he said, tossing away the empty jet inhaler and folding his arms, "you just gave her the last wish she had for her husband." He paused. "And I guessed we helped. But everyone knows you did all the legwork. I mean, fuck, I'm not gonna get anyone marching like that anytime soon." He paused again, considering it, before shaking his head. "Anyway, point is, you did a good thing for her. Just give her time, alright?"

Danse's cheeks were burning again and he was thankful it was getting dark. The last thing he wanted was advice from a ghoul. And yet it was a slight comfort, all the same.

"Alright," he said finally.

"Alright," Hancock repeated, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "Now go get some damn sleep already; I'll take over the night patrol. And it's not just me here, so you don't have to worry about a ghoul watching your back." He grinned again to show he was joking, and Danse chuckled.

The noise surprised them both, and they stared at each other, the silence between them growing increasingly uncomfortable. Deciding a tactical retreat was the best option, Danse stomped away without another word; running into Quinn was preferable to remaining here.

It was only when he had made his way towards the outer edge of the settlement, that he heard Hancock yell, "You're welcome!"

To his utmost annoyance, he laughed again, and feeling of great frustration washed over him.

Damn ghoul. The sooner he was back on the Prydwen, the better.

Shaking his head, Danse stomped across Sanctuary, barely aware of the greetings the other settlers gave him. He mumbled his responses, a dull throbbing growing in his forehead, and kept his eyes fixed on the goal ahead. The house he set up in was not too far away now.

However, as he walked past Sturges' workshop, light blazing from the windows, he caught sight of a scene that made him stop in his tracks.

Quinn was sat on the workbench, staring blankly ahead as Piper stood in front of her, carefully dabbing at her hands. Danse's breath caught in his throat. Her skin was red raw, the palms and inside of her fingers bloody and weeping.

"Blue," Piper said, her exasperated tone tinged with concern. "Why didn't you ask us to help you? You better hope this doesn't get infected."

Quinn shrugged.

"Don't you shrug at me! Someone's gotta look after you, you clot."

"...Thank you."

Piper smiled. "Don't mention it. Now, I think we have some clean bandages somewhere…"

Danse walked on. That conversation was not for him. He felt strangely disconnected from the people around him, the area a haze of tiredness. What had he expected after the funeral? For her to be angry at him? For her to be grateful?

Certainly not this sudden distance. It had become quickly apparent that she had wanted to be away from him the second he had shown her the tapes, and Danse couldn't help but feel stung. He didn't blame her, but it would have been better for her to have been decidedly angry, rather than putting him in a state of limbo.

Give her time.

His temper flared up. What did that freak know about it? Nothing.

Danse hoped otherwise.

Blessed isolation greeted him as he stepped inside the house on the outskirts of the settlement, the still solitude a sweetness he was unable to describe. Danse stepped out of his armour, positioning it so it shielded his bed from the door, and then pulled the combat knife out of its sheath, sliding it into his boot, before stashing his rifle in the corner, out of sight.

His body had gone as far as it could. Not caring what dreams he would face tonight, not even caring that his location was insecure, Danse collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep almost instantly.


2279

"Danse! Hey, Danse!"

Danse turned around as he and Cutler walked across the training yard of the Citadel, their arms full of ammunition, to spot a small, wiry figure in the distance, something rectangular in his hands.

"It's your newest fan," Cutler muttered with a nudge in Danse's side, right where he was ticklish. Danse jumped, nearly dropping the equipment he held, and shot Cutler an ugly look, who grinned mischievously back.

Arthur Maxson, twelve years old and still ever much the boy he was when Danse had first spoken to him, was sprinting towards them, waving wildly as a harassed looking scribe ran after him, flailing his arms and puffing.

"Hello, Arthur," Danse said, smiling as the child approached. "How was your time on the field?"

"Maxson, sir!" huffed the scribe, finally catching up with them. "You're not supposed to be here alone! Not after...not after…" He stopped, wheezing, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Raiders attacked us," Arthur said nonchalantly, with a shrug. Danse noticed the book he was clinging to, but paid it little attention as the boy went on. "Nearly took out the squad I was with, but I killed 'em."

"You killed them?" Danse said incredulously, his mouth falling open. Arthur grinned, seemingly pleased by his surprise.

"Maxson, sir!" the scribe tried again, but Danse cut him off.

"Scribe, does he really need to be coddled by you when he's just saved the lives of the team that was supposed to be protecting him?"

"I, but I," spluttered the scribe. "But Elder Lyons wants to see him!"

"Oh, Sarah wants me?" Arthur piped up. "Why didn't you say so?" He turned back to Danse, his grin widening as he thrust the book into Danse's arms, spilling some of the ammunition he was carrying. "I got you a present. Since I'm going out with my own teams now, you don't have to find books for me anymore. So I thought I'd return the favour, just this once."

"Sir, they're not your teams-"

"Like Knight-Sergeant Danse said, I just saved them. Guess that makes them mine now." He shot Danse a sly smirk and then ran off again, leaving the scribe groaning and cursing as he bumbled away after him.

Cutler peered over Danse's shoulder.

"The Tales of King Arthur?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Seems appropriate for the kid's swelling ego, at least. You better hope that scribe's not in charge of the next duty roster, with the shit you just gave him."

"Mm," replied Danse, not listening. He was staring down at the book, its cover a deep, rich red and embossed with silver letters that spelled out its title. He'd heard of King Arthur before, but that was as far as his knowledge went. Myths weren't usually to his taste - he much preferred history. Still, it was a gift. He would read it tonight, if he didn't fall asleep first.

"Oi, Danse. You listening to me? Don't make me poke you in the ribs."

"Do that and I will stand on your foot."

"Might be worth a broken toe just to hear you make that undignified noise again. Sounds like a molerat being sat-"

Danse stood on Cutler's foot.

He glanced towards his friend, grinning, only to be met with a snarling, lipless face as a large pair of greenish-yellow hands fastened around his neck.


Cutler.

Danse gasped as he woke, turning so violently he toppled out of the bed with a thump. Fighting his disorientation, he dragged himself across the floor as he collected his thoughts. He was at Sanctuary. Cutler was dead. He could breathe.

I can breathe.

Danse propped himself up against the wall of the house, his chest rising and falling in great heaves as his heart battered against his ribcage. It was a few more seconds before he realised someone was standing in the doorway.

His hand flew to his boot as he struggled to stand, but then the visitor stepped forward, and Danse let himself slide back down to the floor as he croaked, "Quinn?"

Quinn didn't move, the empty space between them feeling more like a ravine than a room. Normally she would rush to help. Now she simply stood and watched him panting on the floor, her heavily bandaged hands clamped together at her breastbone.

Danse didn't blame her. He was a mess. He looked away, the old sensation of shame creeping back.

"Piper told me everything," she said.

Now that got his attention. Danse felt himself freeze. What had she told her? The incident with Hancock in Boston? The Cabot girl? The private conversation he'd had with Piper? She had swore not to tell. She had-

"About the funeral," Quinn went on. "She said it had been your idea. That you'd organised nearly all of it. That-"

Danse groaned. If anything, this was worse. He didn't want praise for it. He didn't want her feeling indebted to him. It had all been for her, not for his ego. Rubbing his forehead, Danse met her eye and said, "Piper is overselling it. I had a lot of help, and without them, I wouldn't have known how to find half of-"

"The drills," Quinn said, raising her voice as she talked over him. "The gun salute. The flag folding. The practice you supervised. The practice you put in yourself. The-"

"The others-"

"Piper said you haven't been sleeping again."

God damn it.

"I'm in an unfamiliar, insecure location," Danse said coolly, getting to his feet. "I rarely sleep well on the field."

"Bullshit."

Ah, that fire. He'd missed it. A small smile played across his lips and Quinn scowled, before sighing.

"I don't want to argue with you," she said, looking very small and uncertain of herself. "I just came here to apologise."

"For what?" Danse frowned, confused.

"For the way I've been treating you all this time." Her head was bowed now, her hair hiding her face as she spoke to the floor. "I've been…"

"It doesn't matter," Danse interrupted, and her head snapped up, her eyes glittering in the darkness.

"It does matter," she said sharply, the flames returning. "Don't ever say that. It does matter."

"Quinn-"

"I've been treating you like shit for months!" She began to pace up and down, shaking her head as she gestured wildly. "Taking things out on you. Talking down to you, yelling at you, disregarding all the advice you tried to give me, putting you in danger, and when you told me…" Quinn halted, putting a hand to her face and cringing. "Oh my God, when you told me you were leaving the Prydwen..."

Danse strode over to and took her by the shoulders, giving her a slight shake, as he said gently, "Quinn, I lied to you, remember? I think that makes us even."

She laughed at this, and Danse felt his stomach clench.

"What?"

"Just," she giggled again and then cleared her throat. "Just you. You didn't tell me the truth for a good reason, and yet you're still trying to say sorry for it. You're just so damn honest."

Danse's heart was racing again, for entirely different reasons. There was a soft look on her face as she gazed up at him, smiling, her giggles now forgotten. He became very aware that his hands were still on her shoulders.

You've just buried her husband. Let go.

He didn't move.

The smile faded, and she stared intently at him. "I mean it, Danse. I'm sorry for how I've been. I'm sorry for what I've said and done to you."

"It doesn't-"

"Don't." Her tone was forceful, but not unkind. "Don't say that. It matters. You matter."

Let go of her, damn it.

Quinn's arms slipped around his middle, and she hugged him tight, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by his uniform. "Thank you for everything."

For a moment Danse stood rooted to the spot, while his brain tried to catch up with the situation. After a few moments, he relaxed, allowing himself to savour her touch, her body warm against his. Without thinking, he closed his eyes as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, his thumbs drawing light circles in her back.

How long they remained like that, Danse didn't know. It could have been seconds, or even hours for all he cared. All he knew was the next moment, Quinn had wrenched herself free, her bandaged hand clamped over the spot where Nate's wedding ring lurked beneath her uniform. She stared at him now, wide-eyed and confused, traces of upset woven into her features.

"I better go," she said, biting her lip as her eyebrows knitted together into a deep frown. "Get some sleep. I don't intend to linger here tomorrow."

Quinn backed away, hurrying towards the door, but paused as she reached it and turned to look at him. She was smiling, but she also seemed closed to tears, and her words were strained as she said, "You're getting better at hugging."

Danse shrugged, feeling muddled. "You've given me some practice."

Quinn laughed, and her grip relaxed somewhat on the hidden wedding ring. "Goodnight, Danse."

"Goodnight, Quinn."

She left.

With a long sigh, Danse shuffled back to his bed and dropped onto it, knowing full well sleep was beyond him now. He let his mind drift back to their embrace, but realised he was too worn out to recreate it properly. It felt hollow, a weak imitation of something so small and yet so comforting.

Rolling onto his side, Danse bit back a swear word as he rubbed his forehead.

"Just give her time."


A/N: Sorry for not really responding to comments this week. Been busy with work and life in general. Usual thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning! And thanks to hokuto-ju-no-ken on tumblr for help with military funeral research.

Next week is gonna be another 'might be late' chapter due to beta difficulties and such.