CHAPTER 24
Air

Ghosts are not real. That was one of the many lessons children learned as they grew. The tooth fairy, Saint Nicholas, ghosts, luck, the concept of fair—maturity gradually stripped all the wonder and truth from these things. That was the burden of growing up. And Grey? She'd grown up too fast.

She'd once told her mother ghosts weren't real. She'd said it smugly; the overconfident assertion of a twelve-year-old fancying herself far cleverer than she was.

In another household, such rationality would have been rewarded with head pats and praise. But Grey's mother had only smiled in response.

"That, my darling, depends on your definition of a haunting."

Grey hadn't understood what her mother had meant back then, but it had stuck with her. Perhaps because she never got to ask her what she meant. Perhaps because, less than twelve months later, she learned the truth of it all too well.

Danielle's ghost had haunted Grey for years, and she'd let it. She'd let it feed her anger, drive her forward. Everything Grey had done, accomplished? She'd done it for her mother, in her memory and in her name. Every gruesome, immoral bit of it.

But that was then. That was before Nate, before Shaun. Before the world fell apart.

Her mother's ghost was still there, rearing its head when Grey's mental wards wore thin, but it was mostly background noise. Controllable. Nate however…

Grey wrapped her arms across her stomach, fingertips grazing her hip. She could close her eyes and slip back into that moment. Their final morning together. They'd fought the night before; Grey couldn't even remember what over. But she'd won the way she always did, by waking Nate in the dead of night and fucking him until the anger emptied from his eyes.

He'd found her in the bathroom in the early morning, burying his face in the crook of her neck as she dressed, fingers skimming her ribs and resting on her hips. Except she'd still felt the anger, the resentment underlying all their spats. And she'd resented him for it, even as she pretended to savour his touch.

The lightest touch. That had been all it took to let him back in. Like needles in her skin, sharp reminders of what was lost and what she'd ruined. It didn't even matter whose touch it was anymore. It would always summon Nate. Always be Nate. It was pathetic.

Grey hadn't noticed as the forecastle door opened. The sound had been lost to the many groans of the airship. It was only as the smell of tobacco coiled itself through her memories—that shared cigarette in Boston Common, snow crunching underfoot, a flood of heat as Nate slid his hand up her thigh, his skin tasting of tobacco and adrenaline and sweat.

Grey turned.

The Paladin leaned against the far railing, cigarette grazing his lips. His gaze was distant, pensive. Grey knew that look. Had seen it so many times before. In another life. On another man. It reminded her she wasn't the only one with ghosts.

Danse startled as she slid the cigarette from his fingers.

He watched as the stale taste hit her tongue, the slightest grimace taking hold.

It tasted of him, she realized. Or at least what she imagined he tasted of. Earthiness buried in notes of nicotine and anise. Something solid, grounded.

They passed the cigarette in silence until little more than filter remained. The Paladin was hesitant at first, like a child testing the waters, gingerly holding it out and seeing if she'd accept. That was something she liked about the Paladin, the contrast of raw strength and gentle consideration. It was… refreshing, if not entirely unexpected. In her experience, consent and military were rarely synonymous. Especially in the good ol' US of A. But she was beginning to learn that in all the ways the Paladin reminded her of the old world—her world—he wouldn't have belonged. Men like Danse, like Nate—America never deserved them.

Dusk had long settled around them before the Paladin spoke.

"You respond well to instruction."

Grey's brow arched. "I'm sorry?"

"You are adequate with handguns, but sloppy with rifles and energy weapons. Thus I was pleased to see you at the range today. Practice and experience are required of all soldiers and should not be exclusive to the field."

"You were there?"

He nodded. "Initiate observations. Paladin Wright required an impartial performance evaluation for his newest recruit. But, I've digressed—my intent was to communicate that I am impressed you took the initiative to improve your aim."

She doubted he'd appreciate hearing she only fired off the rounds because some supervising officer gave her a disapproving look. That and she'd been too hungover to tolerate the momentary shame.

"You also incorporated Maxson's teaching satisfactorily," he continued. "I acknowledge it can be uncomfortable, coming under the scrutiny of a senior officer, but you handled it well."

That was the irony, she realized, how juxtaposed her feelings and her facade were. Hiding in the forecastle for three hours in order to get memories of her dead husband under control was not Grey's definition of "handling it well". But that wasn't what the Paladin was remaking on because that wasn't what he saw. And if Grey was careful, she'd ensure he never saw the truth. She'd made the mistake of letting another see her vulnerabilities once before. It would never happen again. For her sake and for his.

She crushed the butt into the railing.

"Thank-you for the feedback, Paladin. I also think I've taken up enough of your valuable time, so if you'll excuse me—"

"Actually, Knight, if you have a moment, there's something else I'd like to discuss with you."

Grey's jaw instinctively clenched. It was a hard urge to control. She'd spent years pretending to be someone and something she was not. With that came profound distrust. Every conversation, every interaction—a potential minefield. Someone sniffing around where they shouldn't be, someone testing her loyalties, looking for the one flaw in her perfectly crafted plan. Even after she left JAG Corps, the weariness never dissipated. She wondered if it ever would.

"What's on your mind?"

Danse straightened, clearing his throat. "This isn't a formal meeting, I—simply want to clear the air. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot when we first met, and with everything yesterday, I feel like I owe you an apology. Expecting you to embrace the standards of the Brotherhood without having a history with us was… unfair. And given that you've adjusted so well to our beliefs, I don't think that I needed to push so hard."

Grey exhaled the breath she didn't realize she was holding.

"That's very kind. Thank-you."

"Well, you deserve it." He smiled, the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes seeming to warm.

He pulled a pack of weathered Grey Tortoise from his pocket, flipping the cover back, thumb caressing the filters, before snapping it closed with a sigh. "When I was an Initiate, my sponsor was Paladin Krieg. Toughest squad leader I ever served with. He was a model soldier, embodying the values every trainee was struggling to achieve: fiercely loyal, secure in his beliefs, and brave to a fault. But from the moment I was assigned to his squad, I was singled out. It felt like he was pushing me harder than the rest of the team. I fought by his side for years, and we had some seriously close calls, but he never explained to me why I was treated that way."

"Did you ever ask him why?"

"I considered it, but unfortunately I never had the chance. After I was promoted to Paladin and I had moved onto my own squad, I received word that Krieg was killed at Adam's Airforce Base." He pressed his lips. "The news was like being kicked in the stomach. I mean, I'd lost some of my brothers and sister before, but his death... well, it really got to me. And it's taken me a long time to realize it, but the reason Krieg was so tough on me is the same reason I'm so tough on you. It's because I believe in you and what you're trying to do, and I don't want to see any of your potential go to waste."

Unease settled over Grey, her thoughts and feelings too hard to discern. Her instinct was to bottom out the angle, figure out what he really wanted for her, but she knew better. There was no hidden agenda here; the Paladin wasn't that good an actor. No, he was sincere. And perhaps that's what frightened her most.

She looked away. "I'm… flattered that you have so much faith in me."

"You've earned that faith by your own hands."

Except she hadn't. She deserved no praise. Wasn't even sure she wanted it, at least not from anyone else. She wasn't a soldier. She hated soldiers. Hated fighting. Hated wars. Hated unrestrained political power and men who played chess with the lives of innocent people. And was this Brotherhood any different from what she knew? More men, more power, more control. Decreeing who should have access to technology, decreeing themselves the East Coast's saviours, decreeing synthetics to be abominations. But was that really the same? Or was she again seeing ghosts of the past and imposing them on a very different present?

When she looked at Danse, someone who embodied everything she was sworn hate, she didn't feel malice. Didn't feel contempt even. If anything she felt…

Danse exhaled. "Well, I said what I had to say, and I hope that it meant something to you." He pushed off the railing, lips again pressing. "I... trust you'll keep this in confidence of course. Some of that information was of a... personal nature, and, well, I'd like to keep it that way."

Grey gave a nod, her brain still churning.

He paused in the doorway, weight of the bulkhead pressed against his chest. "Oh, one last thing. Kells was looking for you. Both of us actually. He asked we report to him at 08:00 tomorrow. Something about missing requisitions."

That piqued her interest. "So I find a missing recon team and now everyone thinks I'm a bloodhound?"

Danse laughed. Actually laughed. Teeth flashing and eyes beautifully warm. "No good deed goes unpunished. Sleep well, Knight."

As the bulkhead sealed with a hiss, Grey buried her face in her outstretched arms, the railing digging into her palms below. She'd forgotten what laughter looked like. Real laughter. Not that bitter, angry shit Wastelanders did; sarcasm and mockery hiding years of anguish and pain. Not even the flirty taunts Danvers employed. But actual laughter.

Had Shaun ever laughed around her? Codsworth said he did, recorded holotapes of it for her to listen to, but he never laughed when she was around. With her he was… quiet. Not an unhappy baby, just… still. Watching her, like he was assessing her. Watching her like she did everyone else.

She'd never wanted him to be like her. She wouldn't wish that on anyone. She'd wanted him to be like Nate, but, by then, Nate wasn't even Nate anymore. He'd already been ruined by her. Broken.

Nate never laughed either, she realized. Not after he made the mistake of trying to love her.

Grey shook her head.

She hated ghosts.