With Fire We Play

Their vertibird glided over the small gulf between the Brotherhood and Minutemen HQ's with a smooth bearing under Danse's hand. Although not officially established within lancer ranks, Maxson had suggested he be their pilot for the short trip, and the two men had shared an intimate grin at the prospect.

Ilya had watched their almost boyish trade-off from the sidelines, guessing it was some type of nostalgic inside-reminder to that story Danse still owed her of the two dabbling in the Outcast alliance. It was bizarre seeing them at ease around each other like that, even for a snippet of a moment. They must be closer than she first thought, and she made a mental note to keep a closer eye on them if the three of them were going to be a triad of war.

She couldn't have them both gunning against her.

Ilya stood in the troop hold overlooking the radioactive sea as it heaved below, choppy waves reflecting the morning sun. Salty mist infused with the familiar scent of wilderness filled her nose, and she welcomed it, breathing in deeply. It was refreshing to be off the Prydwen and back out in the Wastes.

The elder stood on the opposite flank of the vertibird adopting the same ritual, though his tension was palpable across the distance between them. He was not happy about this.

...and it made her very, very happy.

The only thing to frostbite Ilya's happiness on this little trip was the woman in power armour looming behind them both. Star Paladin Groves. Elder Maxson's stalwart bodyguard. Tendrils of her icy blonde hair rebelled from her rigid top-knot and lashed across her face in the wind. It was the only movement over a sullen backdrop of features as she stared Ilya down unblinkingly.

Ilya smiled pleasantly at her and flicked her chin up in greeting.

Groves did not blink. The bitch.

As Danse guided the vertibird into a low prowl around the Minutemen Castle for an appropriate LZ, Minutemen scurried about like army ants, taking up defensive positions and manning their artillery. Ilya had radioed in to forewarn of their appearance under 'political means' but she couldn't blame them for taking every precaution against the Brotherhood.

Did they still trust her?

"Alright, bringing her down," Danse alerted them as their altitude dropped to second him. The twin rotors buffeted off the dusty gravel and whipped up at the passengers as they dismounted, though all four were battle-hardened and accustomed to such minor inconvenience, eyes squinting through the sting of debris. They manoeuvred around to stand before the nose of the aircraft in preparation of the Minutemen greeting, Groves striding to her elder's forward flank with rifle in a taut cradle at her chest, casting out a clear warning to all. Danse had attached himself protectively to Ilya's left, one subtle step ahead of her, though he wielded no rifle to alienate the militia. Why he was assuming such a protective guard against the Minutemen, her people, she had no idea. Maybe just his typical hypervigilance. On her right, Maxson himself looked on edge, though Ilya knew it wasn't because he felt threatened by the Minutemen.

Through the collapsed fortress wall marched Ronnie Shaw with two men on her flanks, all three of them clad in traditional Minutemen attire, from the dusters to the rawhide hats. Ilya strode forward to bridge the remainder of the gap, wearing what she hoped was a cordial smile.

"General," Ronnie greeted, a fissure of wariness in her tone. She regarded Ilya with a once-over, maybe checking for evidence that the Brotherhood had held her against her will and beat intel from her. Or, maybe checking for a tattoo of a sword and gears to symbolise her new allegiance. Ilya had adorned her stitched and patched vault suit to appear neutral for that very reason.

"Maxson, Ronnie Shaw—my second officer after Preston Garvey and our volunteer staff sergeant. She was with the original Minutemen, and she knows her stuff. Ronnie, Elder Maxson... that pretty much sums him up."

The two only exchanged tolerant glares. Perhaps Ilya could have been a little more professional, but fuck it. She was a soldier, not a politician, damn it.

Ronnie took on a puzzled look. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you're well and all, General, but I'm a tad on the wary side right now with these gentlemen at your hips. No offense intended, Danse."

Danse inclined his head politely. "None taken, Shaw." The two had always been a little prickly with each other, mostly due to a clash in tactical teachings. Ronnie never took too kindly to Danse offering his opinion on how to spread the Minutemen out across the Commonwealth when Ilya had been at a loss, and Danse had been his typical arrogant, defensive self.

Ilya tried to soften her apparently intimidating image with the big boys on her flanks. "It's alright, Ronnie. They might look like they want to kill you, but it's just their resting faces. They really can't help it." She felt both men shift their heads ever so slightly to glance at each other over her head. "Groves, over there, though. I can't speak for her." With an indicative glance from Ilya, Ronnie peered across her shoulder at the star paladin who stood off to the side, eyeing the Minutemen from their blind spot. "I haven't figured her out yet." That earned Ilya a chilly eye.

Ronnie turned back to Ilya. "What's this all about, then, General?"

To that, Ilya grinned. "The elder has something he would like to share with everyone."

Oh, he was not in his happy place right now. Ilya observed from the Castle grounds as Elder Maxson stood atop the central wall, waiting for the crowds of fighters, farmers, and technical workers to assemble and settle. He stood with his usual iconic bearing, stance asserting confidence, the pillar of supremacy he always was. Patient, he may be holding himself as, but his face and the play of his jaw said otherwise.

Danse was eyeballing her at her side. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you," he observed.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Blatantly."

She gave a rogue chuckle.

Once the gathering settled and an expectant calm ensued, Maxson waited for every last individual below him to silence, reminding Ilya of how her pre-war school teachers would do that, relying on their domineering presence alone to gain order. The man knew exactly what he wielded.

Finally, he spoke. "I'm sure many of you already know who I am and what I represent, but for those of you who are uninformed, I am Elder Maxson, of the Brotherhood of Steel." His emphasis was heavier on what he represented, rather than his title and name, Ilya noted. Maxson allowed a brief pause for respite as a murmur swept through the crowd, then he severed it, untainted by its effect. "While I'm both well aware, and dismissive, of your regard of our presence and cause, I make no claims to justify them before you all. Ruthless, prejudiced, or imperious, you may call us, but we do what we must for the good of mankind, for our future generations, and for our planet. That is our duty. That is what sustains us."

Harsh, but honest. The murmuring dwindled. Despite herself, Ilya was intrigued by his handling of this.

Maxson absorbed the response his words elicited, his eyes gliding over the mass below him, cool and calculating. "The Brotherhood's arrival upon the Commonwealth was for the purpose of liberation, from the Institute, and from all forms of tyranny. Which is why we have made it our personal duty to abolish the raider uprising. By now, you all know exactly how much of a threat this uprising poses to the Commonwealth. To all of us."

Another pause, and Ilya observed the atmosphere more closely. People were wearing scepticism, but they were listening, and no one had made an outburst to challenge Maxson yet. The Minutemen were unruly, and a rowdy bunch at the best of times. Impressive.

"So, your general and I have agreed to collaborate on the defence of the Commonwealth against this abominable scourge,"—Ilya garnered many questioning eyes with that, and she realised she probably should be up there with him to show her support—"though it has been a... trying process." Maxson angled an accusatory look down on her. "Not only do your general and I have a great many opposing qualities and ideals, but so do our forces." His gaze snapped off her to the crowd again. "I won't coddle this announcement; our alliance will not be easy. There will be disharmony at first, friction over differing opinions, perhaps even outright conflict, but if we let these trivial things splinter this alliance, then we fail in our duty to the Commonwealth." His fist animated his disapproval in a downward stroke, and his voice darkened a shade. "And in the Brotherhood, failure is not an option."

People were nodding in miniscule detail, maybe not willing for their agreement with such a notorious figure to be known by their neighbours. Ilya noticed that Danse, however, was nodding avidly to the elder's every word, standing tall and proud at attention.

Maxson was only hitting his stride, warming to his address before this 'rabble of farmhands.' He began to pace slowly with conviction, hands at back, each step a purposeful design of his pitch. His regard of the milling audience was of ambiguous intent. Ilya felt herself tense in wariness. "I presume many of you share a similar outlook. Why else would you be here, serving for your homeland." His hands gestured out the rhetorical question with open palms. "As brothers and sisters of creed, we have a duty not only to instil trust in one another, but to build upon the foundations of our strengths and to fortify our weaknesses from outside forces." His pacing altered direction, back to where he had originated. "It will take time and patience to identify these strengths and weaknesses between our forces, time and patience we may find ourselves hard-pressed to find with the rate at which these raiders expand, but with diligent cooperation, and a firm resolve, I believe we can form an effective resistance." He gathered that belief into a symbolic fist, and his pacing came to a sudden halt. "One that may endure throughout the future of the Commonwealth, and possibly beyond."

His lull for reverie created an eerie hush through the Minutemen ranks. Distant gunplay split the morning air in constant Wasteland lament. The surrounding waters crashed against the shore in soft backdrop. Ilya waited with mounting suspense for someone to suddenly let rip with a debate, and maybe Maxson had been waiting for it too, welcoming the challenge, but no one did. They all seemed deep in their reveries that he had allowed them. Would they go for this alliance after just one speech?

"But first," Maxson captured the implications with a booming return, "we must focus on integrating our ranks, and working alongside one another in harmony. This will be the crux to our success. The Brotherhood has agreed to offer combat and weapons training to those of you who wish for it. Opportunities to contribute further in this war for your lands will arise with the more effort you put in. I'll let your general and her advisors provide you with the necessary details on how to pursue this... I sincerely hope you all take into account what I have said today, and that each and every one of you is willing to put your best foot forward to achieve our shared goal, and to ensure your lands are safe from this uprising." With a subtle inclination of his head, Maxson then parted from his pedestal to begin descending the steps down from the wall.

The finality of his speech was anticlimactic, which was odd for Maxson, and the Minutemen didn't clap or cheer, but they also didn't object or criticize. Ilya also breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't tied it up with an Ad Victoriam as the cherry on top. As the wind of his speech settled and people fell away or mingled to begin their aftermath of chatter and gossip, Ilya suddenly felt embarrassingly inadequate as a leader. No way in hell she could ever deliver a speech like that.

"Damn, he really went all out," she mumbled colourlessly to Danse.

The paladin smiled in proud agreement. "He has a knack for improvisation."

"He's good, I'll give him that."

"You have no idea."

Ilya slanted him a curious look. He was just smiling ahead, as if he didn't know how she was staring at him. He knew this was Maxson's way of redeeming himself, and that she was chafing from it. She narrowed her eyes into him. Was Danse... enjoying their ongoing power struggle?

Then it hit her. The slippery motherfucker! Ilya bristled with sudden fury. "He never apologised."

Danse said nothing and just stared ahead into nothing, his smile stooping into a smirk that he failed to suppress.

She lanced her exasperation at him. "You think it's funny?"

"...a little."

Ilya crossed her arms and stared Maxson down as he drifted back over to them, wending easily through the crowd as they parted for him swiftly, as if he were some god whose anger was incited by a single peasant touch.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," she chided quietly to keep from making a scene.

Maxson had anticipated her reaction, quick on the defence. "The goal was to unite our forces. I think it's fairly obvious that's been set in motion, just as you wished."

"You're a piece of work, Maxson."

He quirked his head, but his eyes retained their stale regard. "A vice we seem to share, Harper."

Ronnie edged in on their subtle hostility, keen to break it up. "Well, Mister, er, Elder. That was quite the speech. It takes a mighty effort to sell these boys and girls on new ideas." Maxson said nothing. She switched to Ilya, elbowing her with an impressed smirk. "So this is what you've been doin' up there in that boat, eh, missy? Took ya long enough to bag this alliance. I didn't think you had it in ya."

Ilya chuckled. "It took some sweet-talking... and then some." She caught Maxson's eyes slit at her in miniscule detail.

"I'll bet," Ronnie chirped. "Well it sounds as if we have a lot of work that needs to be done. Whatdoya' say we put our heads together and pin down some of the details now since you made the trip special and all?"

More hours and more coffee passed as they all sat around the table in the general's office, sharing the deployment plans and training regime with Ronnie and several Minutemen tacticians. Preston was hailed over the radio from Sanctuary to give his input. Deacon somehow got a hold of his radio and stalled the whole process for a good ten minutes with his chatter and banter, eventually asking after Ilya, Dogmeat, Clay-Crawler, and even Danse. When he passed on the good news of Dogmeat, it sounded as though the entire settlement was hovering nearby when they burst out into cheers and clapping. Then there was a minor scramble of static, grunts, and yells until Cait's voice, intermingled with Piper's, MacCready's, and Hancock's, took dominance. She demanded to know if Ilya was 'bein' a good girl', covertly referring to Jet, and Ilya barely had time to reassure her before Deacon snatched the radio back to hand it off again to Preston, who was far too docile to wrangle it back himself, especially from Cait. She could still be heard cussing Deacon out in the background. Something like 'shitey bald molerat.'

Atom, they sounded stir crazy. Ilya hoped they hadn't trashed Sanctuary while she was gone, or that Deacon's party plans hadn't gone awry. Despite the annoyance, it was good to hear their voices.

After one more round of coffee, they finished up their talks. Maxson was eager to be underway for the Prydwen to get Kells up to speed and delegating his officers their duties to kick-start this training regime, as Minutemen were already packing and gearing up to trek for the airport. He perused the rallying with a slow, scheming gait, and Groves stuck to him like a tick, her every step a reflection of his movements, even the slightest shift in his weight was equalled by a shift in her demeanour, ever the guard dog to shield her master from these mud-squatting savages.

Danse also seemed pumped with proactive blood, skimming his sharp eyesight over the Minutemen preparations and telling them they wouldn't need to bring this and that, but that they'd need this, plenty of that, less of that, oh maybe some more of that, and that the Brotherhood would provide for its own. He already acted as if he was running the show, and Ilya wouldn't be surprised if he got the gig to whip them all up into shape. Poor them.

Ilya wanted to stay longer. She wanted to unwind and bask in the makeshift atmosphere that the Minutemen diffused, to lounge out in the sun with an ice-cold beer and share battle-stories with her comrades, compete in a half-assed kickball or rugby game, shoot empty bottles and make the loser streak across the Castle walls yelling obscenities they would never live down, then get way too wasted and play the most childish game they could think of. A dance-off. Truth or dare. That always had them gagging on their beers with laughter.

But no, war was afoot. They couldn't afford to celebrate this minor victory just yet. And she was a general, she reminded herself. Whether she liked it or not, these people looked up to her, for reasons she couldn't fathom. She had to step up. Because if she wasn't careful, Maxson would step up in her place and consume the Minutemen into his own ranks. His performance today made that a very real threat.

Just another thing to add to her pile of stresses. She picked a bad time to get clean of the Jet.

As they were ready to depart for the vertibird, Ronnie caught Ilya by the arm and waited for the Brotherhood company to pace ahead out of earshot.

"You just watch your ass with that Maxson fellow, General. I was keepin' a close eye on him today, and caught him eyein' you up a few times with that dark stare of his. Like you were a piece of meat."

Ilya wasn't sure if she meant he thought her something rotten and worthless, or a sex object. She didn't know which was worse. But by the way her attempted charm had backfired off him earlier, he wasn't attracted to her at all. That or he had impeccable self-control. "I can handle him," she feigned poise.

Ronnie gave her a straight look. "I'm not so sure he's a man that can be 'handled.' I hope you know what you're doin' gettin' involved with him. You're playin' with fire."

With fire I play.

The night was black as soot as the clouds wreathed the stars, only a few peeking out to greet her. Ilya lingered out on the Flight Deck, something that had developed into her routine ritual before turning in each night.

Dogmeat sat near her feet sniffing the secrets of the Wastes in the wind, now able to go without being in direct physical contact with her. He still padded along at her heel as a constant shadow though, and as much as she loved him, he could get under her feet and really piss her off when she was working with the Minutemen trainees down on the ground. He reminded her of Deacon, actually.

As she had predicted, Danse was overseeing the physical side of the training sessions. It was just a temporary position to keep him occupied while they waited to be assigned on their next mission—Kells obviously knew how restless the paladin could get with nothing to do.

Danse was working the trainees hard. Mercilessly, almost. She would often just lean back and watch him work, snapping out his orders in barking intensity, prowling the lines in rigid stride as Minutemen slaved away in their strength-training. Although he adopted his dark air of ruthlessness, Ilya could tell how much he loved his job, how it filled him with a sense of pride when the trainees succeeded. When wielding his authority, it was like he snapped on this new persona, this steel idol of valour that was both cold and afire, embodying everything the Brotherhood aspired to. It made Ilya think back to when she was first initiated into the Brotherhood, how stone-cold and untouchable he had been toward her, and how in awe she had been of him.

Now, he was just Danse. Yes, he could still beguile her into her shell if he came at her in his full confidence, and he could still burn her with his fire when he put her in her place, but she knew him now. She knew the soft spots in that flaming heart of steel.

The breeze sighed lightly in her ears, and she inhaled deeply, reaching a hand down to scratch at Dogmeat's mane. She felt the canine twist his head back toward the railings, and she peered over her shoulder to see what had drawn his eye.

A figure was approaching her with a calm, wandering step. Shrouded by the dark, she couldn't identify who it was, and hoped it was Danse, summoned by her thoughts.

It was Maxson. The nature of his approach kept her tension from spiking, but his very presence still roused her caution. She turned back to watch as the night swallowed the city ruins.

His heavy step on the decking preceded his voice. "It's dinner-hour. You should claim your rations before only scraps remain."

Really? Ilya rounded him an amused look. "You came all the way out here to tell me dinner's ready?"

His brow twitched to hint at mirth, but he was otherwise dry upon dodging her wit. "Your recovery is progressing well. Knight-Captain Cade seems pleased with your results and feels you should be fit for active duty when the time comes." She nodded and said nothing, and he ogled her sternly before expanding. "Have you used again during your recovery?" Suspicious and critical.

Ilya's reflex was to be enraged that he had the nerve to ask her that, and so plainly, but then realised it was his right, both because she was aboard his airship, and because of the possibility of her returning to duty.

"No."

Maxson gauged, and Ilya endured, and then they broke gazes, finding refuge in the night.

He was still standing right behind her, making no effort to spark conversation or even bring up something about their work to fill the silence. The muscles of Ilya's back began to tense up, dangerous potentials dancing through her thoughts. Was he considering pushing her over the railings? Shooting her in the back? Using his bare hands to strangle her to death to feed his need for dominance? Or worse, and even more frightening, that he would take her out here, on the railings, where death was a single scream-for-help away. She was a mere twig against his brawn, and he could easily overpower her. Though hating herself for it, Ilya admitted to herself that she was afraid of Maxson. On instinct, her hand covertly drifted for the handgun at her hip.

"Your guard dog... Dogmeat. He looks well."

Ilya blinked and turned slowly. "What?"

He looked at her as if she were stupid. Maybe a projection of himself for saying something so... friendly. "Your dog looks well. How is his recovery?"

She blinked twice more, then glanced down at Dogmeat on reflex. The canine was content, just watching the exchange and showing no sign of anxiety at Maxson's presence, or response to Ilya's tension at his presence. Ilya would have been proud of him if he were instead growling at the man in warning, but no one was perfect.

"He's doing good. Still a little clingy and skittish around strangers. He freaks out when he hears rumbling noises, like passing vertibirds along the hull, but he's getting used to it. Neriah's still keeping a close eye on any developments from the specimen."

Maxson nodded, and then he dared to step up beside her on the railings, seizing the opportunity of her dropped guard. Ilya rigged her body language not to show her tension. He settled his hands on the rails, and said nothing. If he was trying to negotiate a truce, he was flumping. If he was planning a murder, he was succeeding in the psychological factor of intimidating his prey.

As the silence grated on her nerves, Ilya decided to chase up a loose end she had been wondering on. "I'm guessing Danse told you about our decision to reform our unit?"

"He sent in his request, yes. I will approve it, pending your re-initiation."

The nuance in his tone told her he was getting impatient waiting for her decision. She gave him silent kudos for his restraint against badgering her. So he wasn't here to murder her, at least.

"Thank you," she mumbled awkwardly. He just stared ahead into the dark of night. More silence. "The chems... why haven't you told Danse?"

Maxson's stiff profile didn't so much as flicker, his hair, beard, and lapels of his coat the only victims of the breeze. He took his time. "You had told me it was an isolated lapse in judgement. I didn't think it necessary to inform him."

Something was off. Maxson went above and beyond when it came to text-book regs and consequences. Ilya didn't need to decipher his body language and expressions to know that. "Why are you covering for me?" she pressed straightly, tone level.

A pulse along his jaw. There we go. His brow deepened and he darted a look down at her from the corner of his eye before looking back outward. Then he sighed. "Think of it as that box of chocolates you once requested."

She grinned slowly, looked away, and then gave a small chuckle in disbelief. He may have been suppressing a smirk, but the scruff of hair on his face did its job of concealing it. Ilya felt herself relax an iota. "You know, I was serious about that. A man with your power should be able to have chocolate found pretty easily."

To tolerate that, he fed her a civil look, easing the usual hard fixture of his face. It was probably the closest thing to camaraderie she would ever get from him.

"But seriously, I appreciate it. I think we both know that Danse would have my head if he found out."

That hard fixture returned after that, and he levelled his gaze on her. "I hope your appreciation of my lenience will keep you from repeating your mistake. Danse is one of my best officers, perhaps the best in his field of dedication. I won't have his reputation and wellbeing further tarnished."

That was elder-talk for fuck up my paladin and I'll fuck you up. The two must have some kind of history or bond that she had missed along the way; Maxson was displaying his protectiveness of Danse in full colour, willing to expose a soft spot before her. Danse must really mean a lot to him. She had been right in thinking that he viewed her as a threat to the paladin's welfare. Ilya bore his warning in equal respect. He was allowing her a second chance with Danse, and she was grateful.

"I understand. I won't let this affect him again. It's not going to happen." It won't. It won't. It won't.

"Good," Maxson accepted. "Though of course, none of this will matter if you refuse to re-enter the Brotherhood in active duty."

There was the badgering she had been waiting on. What did she really have to roll around on? Sure, she was the leader of her own force, but a force that barely paralleled the potential of the Brotherhood. Sure, the Brotherhood was full of bigots and was a militaristic dictatorship, but their goal was noble despite their holocaust methods, and with this new alliance, she may have some influence. Could she change their ways? That was a mighty hike of an ambition, but early days and baby steps. She could spark a civil war if she didn't watch her step.

With fire I play.

And then there was Danse. She couldn't deny that her sentimental reasoning to support the Brotherhood was him. She would follow him to Hell itself.

With fire borne of resolve, Ilya straightened up and looked Maxson square in the eye. "Knight Harper, returning to duty and standing-by for new orders, Elder." She slipped on an impish grin, unable to tame it.

Maxson failed at taming his reaction, in kind. The wash of triumph over his features at her sudden decision was unmistakable, no matter how quickly he schooled it. "Outstanding, Knight," he praised her loudly, reminding her of Danse, and she had to tame her grin from exploding into a full-blown smile. She wondered who had picked it up from who, before Maxson enhanced his praise with a rigid Brotherhood salute, fist pounding against his chest. She mimicked it, though less forcefully to spare her breast tissue the abuse.

"I'm curious as to the reasons behind your decision," he implored upon releasing his salute.

Ilya drew a thoughtful sigh. "Put simply, your speech... got me. I believe in your vision, in what the Brotherhood stands for; the goal to protect humanity from itself. Your people would die for that, and for each other, and people like that are rare. I have the Minutemen and I believe in their cause, but you were right when you said they're a young uprising and are still vulnerable to outside influence. The Brotherhood has more potential, experience, and ingrained belief behind it. You have the scope of the entire world in your sights, not just your country or your piece in it all, and the world needs that."

There was a spark in Maxson's eye that she had never seen before, maybe fascinated surprise at her worldly vision that matched his own. Maybe he finally saw a woman worthy of being his ally in her, instead of a girl playing at being a big bad general. Because of this shift in him, Ilya refrained from mentioning that the Brotherhood only had humanity in their scope. That's where the Minutemen had a leg up on them. "I lost my old world, so I'm gonna fight harder to keep this one alive. If we can compromise on our views, then this alliance has the potential to change the world, if we choose to take it that far."

She surveyed his absorption of that. Maxson nodded again, but his eyes lost their fascinated glint. She chased it before he could speak. "During your speech, when you said that our alliance could endure throughout the future of the Commonwealth, and beyond... did you really mean that?"

He studied her for a beat, then his face hardened into diplomacy. "The synergy of our forces throughout the coming war will be a trial of that likelihood."

That was a convenient dodge. Ilya nodded to cover her suspicion. Whatever his intentions for the future of the Minutemen, she would keep her guard up. For now, they just needed to focus on keeping the Commonwealth safe. "So... should I address you as Sir and Elder again from now on? Unless we're taking care of alliance business, of course."

"You should," he confirmed. Ilya had meant it as a quip, and she had no intention of going back to proper address under him, but he either hadn't picked up on her wit or just ignored it. Her good-humoured smile died a cold death.

"Sure. Okay. We should keep things professional... sir," she collected herself awkwardly. This was going to be a tough habit to fall back into. Not to mention humiliating. Suck it up.

"To further clarify, not only will you adopt proper address and decorum, but you will refrain from using offensive language at your usual rate and in unacceptable situations, you will treat your brothers and sisters with the respect they deserve, and you will expect no special treatment from anyone, unless you are summoned on official business as my ally. Is that understood, Knight?"

He was really milking this. Ilya ground her jaw and forced a taut nod. "Yes, Elder."

"Good. As your first assignment, I would have you report on your field-test of the gauss-sniper prototype. It's been long overdue."

She then picked up on the tinge of pacifying sentiment in his manner, and then the glint of irony in his eye. Ilya grinned her amusement. "Yes, sir. Where should I start?"

Per his order, Ilya departed the elder's company in pursuit of dinner. Hunger gnawed her like a pest.

"Go see Neriah, boy," she encouraged in a sprightly tone, letting Dogmeat know he wasn't being sent away as punishment. He barked his acknowledgement and trotted off happily, and Ilya knew he associated the bio lab with plenty of loving attention from squires.

The mess was always a clusterfuck at dinner hour, the Brotherhood had no regs to dictate mealtimes, so naturally, everyone flocked in at 1800 hours. Unless the NCO's felt like being asshats and kept their juniors on duty. Ilya had dealt with that bullshit countless times in the pre-war military.

She braced herself for the swell of people and inevitable social interaction, and eased into the area, first scoping out the crowds before the food on offer.

Danse wasn't here.

Ilya hadn't realised how much she had been holding out to see him until she felt the weight of her stomach fall. Shaking it off, she ventured over to the counter, ignoring the way certain people shifted aside with glares to scorn her presence. She gritted her teeth and quelled the urge to shove her middle finger up in their faces.

"Feral," someone muttered at her back. You fuck. She crushed her fingers into her palms. Don't make a scene. That's just what they want.

With a tray of 'shitty mess' and a cup of ass-tasting coffee, Ilya searched for somewhere to knuckle down, but, again, clusterfuck.

So she headed off for her infirmary unit with her tail between her legs, something that felt downright alien to her. Sure, she could have demanded to know who had spoken out, brought the entire room to a halt, and either challenged whoever came forth or given some choice words to the whole crowd if no one owned up, but what would that have gotten her? Surely not their respect, she felt that ship had sailed long ago. She wasn't an inspirational speech-maker like Maxson, and her tongue tended to get away on her. No, it probably just would have earned her more enemies, and wounded any efforts she could make in uniting these bigots with the Minutemen.

Besides, now that she was officially in service again, she was just another dog on the leash to them.

This was why the leadership role left her jaded. Responsibility and restraint. Not her forte. How Maxson did what he did, always so guarded with his emotions, day in and out, it was beyond her.

Cade greeted her appearance with an expectant eye, following her movement toward her cubical. "I hope that's not all you've had to eat today, Knight."

"No," she lied, slumping down on her cot. "Maxson just gave me the all-clear, thanks to you. So thanks."

He returned her smile and tipped his head, softening his appeal. "How's Dogmeat doing?"

"Better. Not one hundred percent, though."

"Hmm. Well, it must have been quite an ordeal for the poor dog. I'm no animal psychologist, but I could observe his behaviour for you and offer some pointers on how to help him cope and put him at ease. It could speed up his recovery."

Ilya pondered him for a moment, his sincerity. He seemed genuinely keen to help out, not just offering out of principle. Cade really was a diamond in the rough. "I would actually really appreciate that. Thank you, Cade."

He nodded and mirrored her smile, as if it wasn't a big deal. "I'm due for mealtime, so I may as well stop in to see him before grabbing a bite to eat. I prefer to wait-out the initial crowd in the mess, anyway."

Ilya figured most of the officers shared that preference.

She shovelled down the first of her meal while watching Cade leave her alone, sipping half heartedly at her coffee while deep in thought. She wondered what Danse was up to while he waited for the mess to lull.

Knowing him, he was probably hard at it with the weights or sweating out a swimming pool doing suicide run drills down at the airport after a long day of making the recruits do just that. She remembered when he had got her joining him one time in a training exercise, running back and forth between two cones with a squad of grunts, over and over and over for an hour straight. That had been back when he had first roped her into the Brotherhood, and she hadn't been nearly as fit as she was now. By the end of the hour, she was flat on her stomach, puking what fluid she hadn't sweat out, and she wasn't alone.

Danse, however, had finished not only on his feet, but light on his feet, and with only a single layer of sweat to shine up his sculpted muscles and make them all look like puny weeds. He hadn't been pleased with any of them, barking at them to run to the showers. Not walk. Run. The bastard. She grinned at the memory.

But now, she would bet she was fitter than he was. She knew she could beat him in a straight-up sprint, but once she got her body back to its prime, she was going to challenge him to an endurance circuit around the airport.

Then they would see who was crawling to the showers...

Her thoughts warped into smutty fantasies of jumping him in the shower, naked, wet, hot steam rolling off his taut, throbbing muscles, dat ass, and then, shamelessly, something else that might be taut and throbbing... She bit at the smirk on her lips, but then it faded as her thoughts travelled down more present, realistic routes. She couldn't get Neriah's words on PTSD out of her head.

With Cutler, and then losing his recon team, Ilya reviewed Danse's past experiences with a fresh perspective. It was obvious that he felt extreme guilt over taking Cutler's life, even to the point of questioning what the Brotherhood had taught him on mercy killing; that in itself was a red flag that it had really shaken his core. Losing his recon team, especially with his order to Haylen to put that injured soldier out of his misery, could have reawakened the old wound of Cutler's death.

Suddenly, something clicked, and it made her blood run cold.

Oh god. The heist escape. The vertibird and those soldiers she shot down. No wonder it had hit him so hard and he had turned on her like that. Had he really blamed himself for that?

Bringing her hand up to her mouth, Ilya's mind scoured through his qualities that could be symptoms, from what she had witnessed in the military seeing fellow soldiers go through the same torment: The way he blamed himself for everything, the angry outbursts when faced with similar situations, the avoidance of reminders, the hypervigilance, his extreme protectiveness over her and anyone under his command, the nightmares he would constantly jolt awake from when she was on nightwatch, or all the times he pretended to be asleep when she knew he couldn't sleep. It all fit.

Even if he was liable, she was fabricating all of this out of her ass.

Her eyes skimmed gradually to the Knight-Captain's terminal.

If Danse's symptoms had been interfering with his duty, he would have bitten the bullet and sought out Cade for an immediate diagnosis and solution. No doubt about that. He would never put other lives at risk.

But she couldn't. It would be an invasion of Danse's privacy. He had told her about Cutler, his recon team, and even his past with the Outcasts, she should be thankful he trusted her enough with all that. If he really was dealing with PTSD, and had chosen not to confide in her, then that was his choice, and he would have his reasons. No, she couldn't snoop through his medical files.

Yes you can.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Yes it is.

God damn it. With guilt in advance, Ilya dashed across the room in a mere nanosecond and was accessing Cade's medical files. This marked the second time she was thieving something from him, the first being Clay-Crawler, and she did feel bad... just not bad enough.

Medical File DN-407P [Ongoing]

Paladin Danse

Patient symptoms included inability to sleep and a "dull throbbing pain in head." All standard tests are negative. Evidence suggests post-traumatic stress disorder or similar issue. Until severity of issue increases, recommend voluntary removal from active duty. Patient was informed, but is currently in the field.

Her intuition had been right. "Shit, Danse..." Ilya breathed in heart-wrenching pity for him. This report only stated mild symptoms, but what if it was worse and he just hadn't elaborated? He could have been going through silent, lonely hell this entire time and she had had no idea. The thought made her sick with guilt, made emotion catch in her throat and risk her eyes with tears. And he just wanted to take care of her. He was so strong, so resilient, so selfless to have been hiding this the whole time without a sole to confide in. Danse...

Void, she clicked off the terminal and wandered listlessly back to her cot, nestling her coffee with hands that were numb of its heat. He obviously didn't want her involved in this, for reasons that were his own, and that was his right and she would respect his privacy... from now on. But that didn't mean that she couldn't find ways of helping and supporting him without his knowing. She nodded to herself with purpose. She was going to be his guardian angel from the shadows.

Starting by cheering him up...

A/N: The contents on Cade's terminal is in-game. Whether Bethesda meant for Danse's symptoms as secret depth to his character with battle-fatigue, or just as a hint to him being a synth, since a lot of them have headaches and odd dreams (which could be why he wasn't sleeping) I'm not sure.

-I only realised after reading back that it went from hot, heavy, sexy-time hinting jarringly to just kidding, heavy mental issues! Sorry for any cold turkey reactions there...

-AboveReality – Lol our Maxson is a mystery... :3 I'm glad to hear you're not opposed to the idea of Maxson/Ilya though :) I'm still on the fence about where it will end up and gauging off reader feedback, so for now I'm just having fun with them :P

-Bianca – To your latest question on ch 36... mehbeh... :P