March 3, 2288

Technically speaking, Nora was under orders to rest but Cade couldn't have really expected her to listen. Not when she'd been locked in that stuffy medbay and trapped in her bed for days that seemed to stretch into years. That she'd survived at all was miraculous. She'd heard it so many times like broken records, from proctors and scribes and in those hushed tones attempting anonymity when she passed by. It was the least abusive piece of gossip she'd ever heard about herself, especially amongst the soldiers. In preparation for her departure to the glowing sea, she'd been bent over her armor, modifying it in an attempt to make it feel like it looked on Danse: like second skin. Her wrench had loosened a bolt and then tightened it again out of sheer anger when she overheard some childish asshole of an initiate inform Teagan that "that Railroad bitch" had spread her legs for Maxson to get her hands on a suit of theirs. Anywhere else, she'd have ripped into him but she didn't want to risk burning the bridge that was still under construction, the tenuous link between herself and the Brotherhood.

That link was Danse, only Danse and the schematics she'd brought back with her. And Maxson only knew about the latter. It wasn't quite an alliance; mutualism was a more precise term. The Brotherhood had the means and the motivation to wipe out the Institute and the Railroad had the dirty details. Useless without each other but together, a force to be reckoned with. She had to stay involved in the mission, a main participant, if she had any hope of finding Patriot and evacuating the synths before the Institute met its end but that depended on her working and she wasn't currently-technically-supposed to.

Ingram didn't bat an eye when Nora limped toward her but her tone was harsh, as always. "Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?"

She winced, an accident she'd meant to suppress as her weight shifted slightly onto her bad leg, but she made up for it in confident assurance. "I'm doing great, thanks for asking. How's the relay coming?"

The proctor raised an eyebrow. "We have teams out looking for some of the rarer items we need but the relay dish and reflector platform are already almost done."

Nora nodded. "How long do you expect it to take? All of it, I mean?"

"That depends. If all goes well and our soldiers return with the things we need on the first run... we're talking days."

Days. The possibility sent a shiver down Nora's spine. It had taken her months to get Kellogg's name and even longer to find him but everything was moving so quickly now that it was dizzying.

She thanked Ingram and dismissed herself, seeking the Elder.

If they were that close to completion of the relay, she had to see him now. He had to let herbe the one that went through. It shouldn't be hard to persuade Arthur, pragmatic as he was. If it didn't work and she was fried, then it was no loss to him.

But her heart squeezed it's painful protest at the thought of leaving Shaun.

Six years ago, he chose her. He came through the Railroad a toddler-the youngest they'd ever seen, an anomaly-and she'd been assigned to escort him to Nordhagen Beach to adoptive parents, two overjoyed settlers, but he'd screamed and wailed in dissent. He wouldn't let go of her, wouldn't let her set him down, didn't want anyone else, even Deacon. He was stubborn and in that way, he was Nora through and through. She'd adopted him herself, bought a house in Diamond City so he could attend school and be around other kids. The Railroad was a demanding line of work and Nora inevitably had to be away but it takes a village to raise a child and a village she had. Shaun had more family than he knew what to do with between HQ and Fenway.

Everything, all of her striving, was for Shaun, for his race, for his future. She couldn't imagine a better thing to die for if that was what it came to.

The irony of having such thoughts on her mind as her knuckles rapped against Maxson's door wasn't lost on her.

It was quiet inside. She briefly considered that she'd missed him but it wasn't likely. He had a schedule, she'd learned. The command deck, the airport ruins, his quarters. Like clockwork, the same times each day, and now-she turned toward the rhythmic tick of a nearby clock-he was surely behind that door. She pushed the handle and it bent under her hand: as good an invitation as any.

His coat twisted around him as he turned to face the intruder, fuming when he realized it was her. "What do you need, Nora?"

"We need to talk. About the relay."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose. He must've known better than to try to lecture her about interrupting him, must have known it was futile, because he closed the file he'd been pouring over and pulled out two glasses.

She didn't like whiskey but she wouldn't turn it down. Not from Arthur. It wasn't social grace as much as it was strategic manipulation. Impression management. She needed him to see her for the better parts of herself: strong, battle-hardened, indestructible, determined.

A drink with powerful men was never just that; it meant being sized up.

"Something of an alcoholic, are you?" she teased.

"Something like that," he mumbled. In any other mood, she would've gotten a warning or a rebuke but today, he was in good spirits. How lucky.

Drops of whiskey splashed out of the glass as he poured. It smelled like him, or rather, he smelled of whiskey. It shouldn't have surprised her: so young, early twenties with an unfathomable amount of responsibility. It made her want to weep right there. Mourn the things he'd lost. Did he have a mother somewhere to do that for him? "How old are you?"

If anyone ever asked him that, she wouldn't know because his stony demeanor cracked just a little at her question. Maybe taken by surprise, maybe irritated, maybe letting her a centimeter closer to himself or some combination of the three. "Twenty-two."

She forced down a mouthful of whiskey. "Jesus. How do you stand it?"

"It's in my blood. It's honorable."

"Of course, Elder," she curtsied in her seat mockingly. "I just mean... aren't you tired? When do you get away? I always see you on this damn ship and not anywhere else."

"I've been down supervising the relay as well."

The only hint that he wasn't annoyed by her prying was the crinkle at the edge of his eyes. The alcohol, she assumed. Either way, it brought a warmth to her cheeks and she kicked herself for it. They weren't friends but it was just so rare that the animosity between them dissipated.

"Right. Lots of fun." Nora took another sip of the godawful drink and this time he read her disgust.

"You don't have to drink it if you don't like it."

A way out. She didn't take it. "S'not so bad."

He ignored her, stood up and rummaged through a drawer in his desk. "What do you drink, then, if not whiskey?"

"I'm fine."

He chuckled. Arthur Maxson. Elder, if she was being proper. She wouldn't have believed the man could produce such a sound if she didn't hear it herself. He turned back to her with a beer and chugged the last of her whiskey before opening the Gwinette Stout.

"Ah. A gentleman." She took a sip and it was instant relief from the foul aftertaste clinging to the back of her tongue. "You know, underneath your raging racism, you're really not all that bad. But I'm sure you get that a lot."

He nodded, playing along. "Often. Now what is it you want?"

"The relay is pending a few items as I'm sure you're aware. I know we still need the courser chip."

"I have a team taking care of it."

"I plan to go after it myself."

"In your condition-"

"It's hardly a condition. I'm practically fully healed and even if I weren't, I've faced a courser before." She hadn't but she'd seen one, watched her in combat and took mental notes. Close enough. "I'm better suited than anyone you could send."

His mouth straightened into a line and he considered her proposal, tapping his index finger against the glass in his hand. "You'll take Paladin Danse."

"Fair enough," she sighed. "And when all of that's finished, I want to go. I want to be the one sent into the Institute."

"I'm afraid I can't honor that request, Nora. Knight-Captain Cade would-"

"You know, I think we're really similar," she mused. "Do you take weeks off of work, Arthur?"

He shook his head and a short, frustrated laugh escaped him. "The relay is only capable of transporting one person one time. The Institute won't receive us well and if you're discovered, your ability to single-handedly survive an assault will be severely reduced. This isn't supposed to end with a casualty."

"As I've said, I'm fine. My leg isn't a problem. I can handle it. And if I go and I do end up dead, at least it wasn't one of yours."

"That blood is still on my hands. If I let you go in there, alone and crippled..." he trailed off, staring her down. Incredulous. Willing her to understand.

And she did, in a way. Even though the Brotherhood was just organized bigotry, she'd never want to send one of them to their death. There was more than enough killing in the Commonwealth without her contributing unnecessarily. But this was a partnership of equals and it wasn't his decision to make. She leaned forward, just inches from his face. "You wouldn't have this relay without me. You're not in a position to make that call. Send me or we'll have to take a vote."

"Then we'll vote."

There was no defeat in his voice. He was sure he'd get his way and it made her furious. Deacon could go, would be willing, and she might've suggested it but now it felt too much like giving in. Maybe he just didn't trust her-he shouldn't, after all-but he'd met his match in Nora Adler.

As it turned out, Desdemona and Deacon had already made the trip back to HQ. She'd only been made aware after searching for an hour, scouring the Prydwen and then the airport, when a knight finally took pity on her and asked if she was looking for "the other two"-they stuck out like sore thumbs, she supposed, as the only ones not dressed in Brotherhood formal.

She hiked back to the airport to the radio near the Nuka Cola machine. It hardly saw any use; the frequency wasn't secure and they communicated as little as possible over it but it was helpful nonetheless.

Soft yellow light illuminated the ancient dial and static crackled through its speakers.

She held the mic to her lips. "Dez?"

Nora counted to 20. There was no answer, no sign she'd been heard.

"Dez? Is anyone there?"

Someone was supposed to be near the radio on either end at all times. She was growing worried when Desdemona replied.

"Nora. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," she relaxed her shoulders and exhaled. "Listen, I need you and Deacon to meet me here as soon as possible. We need-"

"Deacon isn't there?"

Her eyebrows creased in confusion. "No... he's supposed to be?" Only static once again and her dread mounted, rising from her gut into her chest, her shoulders, her cheeks. "What's going on?"

"It's your son."

Desdemona's voice kept ringing in Nora's ears, far off and tinny, as she explained how Shaun had gone missing from Diamond City. One second he was playing with Nat and the next he was pulled away into a blinding flash of blue. A courser, no doubt, but she didn't give many details. Not over the radio.

Her knees buckled and before she could stop herself, she was in a pile on the floor, agonizing heartbeats pumping faster and faster through her veins until her whole body heard the news and ached. It was grief, like she'd felt before many times and yet entirely new now. She'd buried friends-God, so many, some more like family. But losing Shaun, who trusted her to protect him...

She was alone and then she wasn't, Deacon's arms around her, supporting all of the weight she no longer could. She was breathing fast, too fast to get any air at all. He tried to calm her, his hands rubbing soft circles into her back and whispering "it's okay, Nor" so many times, over and over until she felt sick because it wasn't okay. She pulled away and retched until her stomach was as empty as her heart. A trembling hand wiped her mouth. Somewhere she registered the looks the soldiers gave her: worried, appalled, confused. But then Deacon's face blocked them from her line of sight and she clung to him, never so grateful to see that stupid pair of sunglasses in her life.

"Hey, don't you have better stuff to do?" he yelled over her shoulder to the audience she'd garnered. She didn't open her eyes but the shuffling of boots told her they were turning back to their work leaving her to sort through her thoughts, torrential and pounding now in her skull, like turrets firing and she was unarmored.

She wasn't there. If she had been, would it have been so different? If the Institute could teleport anywhere on a whim, then nowhere was safe and it was a wonder he hadn't been stolen long ago. Why now? Was he distressed? Did they use his recall code? Had they wiped his mind, cleared her from it completely? Of course they would. The thought made her shake, passionate anger now burning through her sadness. She could only hope that whatever had caused him to choose her in the first place, that implored him to grab onto her and never let her go, would work in her favor once more.

It had to be her going into the Institute. If there was any yield in her before, it was gone now. It had to be her.

When Nora entered the Elder's quarters again that evening, she felt an odd sort of restless tranquility, invigorated by her loss and bound and determined to get what she wanted. Desdemona and Deacon had been hesitant to let Nora be ripped apart and put back together in enemy territory but they knew it was the only way to sate her mother's heart and at least she was a known quantity in the eyes of the Brotherhood. In the end, they'd agreed she was well-suited for this job: lithe on her feet, quick, charismatic, and, now more than ever, motivated.

She stopped at the head of the table, Maxson directly across from her at the other end. Kells was at his side, loyal pet that he was, but Danse stood farther back, arms over his chest and unmistakably uncomfortable.

She rolled her shoulder back. "Okay. I'm guessing everyone knows what we're doing here then. I want to volunteer myself to go through the relay and into the Institute."

Arthur sat back onto his desk. "All in favor?"

She raised her hand and to the surprise of exactly no one, so did Dez and Deacon. The fourth hand, however, was unexpected.

Kells.

Nora smiled. "That's it then."

It wasn't part of the plan. Maxson bit out, "Lancer-Captain."

"I don't think we should be risking our necks if she so clearly wants to go. It's only practical, sir."

"My leg will be much better by the time this actually happens, alright? It won't hinder me. No one needs to worry," she offered in Kells' support.

What Nora imagined would be a long night of argument and counter argument in rapid succession was over before she knew it and she excused herself as Kells and Maxson heatedly contested his vote. She ambled into the mess, nearly empty at the late hour, and hunted behind the counter for a Nuka Cherry.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Danse had followed her and was glaring at her across the counter, every bit as tense as he'd been in Maxson's quarters.

She sighed and popped the cap on her soda. "Getting a drink. Is that alright with you?"

"Do you have a death wish, Adler?"

"Someone has to do it."

"You're a leader. You have subordinates who need direction."

She was growing annoyed. Whatever he was trying to do, it wouldn't work. She was resolute. "We have a chain of command and everyone in it is qualified to take my place. And since when do you give a fuck about the Railroad?"

"What about Shaun?"

Oh. It hit her in the lungs and ripped the air out of her throat so that all she could offer in reply was stunned defiance. When she caught her breath, she was in his face, teeth bared and nails digging into her palms. "Everything I do is for Shaun! Don't ever accuse me of anything different."

He didn't flinch away and for once her anger didn't feed into his. He just stood, staring down at her until his frustrated mask melted into something softer. It was that same face that had greeted her when he snuck into the medbay that night and brokered a deal with her and she didn't know what to make of it. It had been so long since he could make her squirm like he was now, inspiring uncertainty and anxiety in the pit of her stomach because dammit, she had no idea what he wanted from her.

She dropped her gaze to the toe of her boots. She couldn't look at those warm brown eyes, not anymore, because she'd lunged at him even when she knew that wasn't what he meant, that he would never insinuate she didn't care about Shaun. He'd just been unfortunate enough to strike a nerve, raw and inflamed, and whether it was from guilt or something else, she felt herself unraveling for the second time that day, powerless to stop it.

"Actually... he's gone." It was out of her mouth of its own accord, like it wasn't possible to bottle so much inside even though she felt like she was nothing but a vacuous shell. But she had to watch what she said. The Brotherhood was still blissfully unaware of Shaun's identity and that's how it had to stay.

He didn't understand what she meant. How could he? But a gentle hand reached out and rested on her shoulder, careful but questioning. His way of telling her he was listening but not demanding she explain.

She bit her lip, searching for the right words. "He was in Diamond City and just... a courser took him." The last part choked her on its way out. It was impossible to grasp no matter how many times she said it.

"As a hostage?"

"I don't know. They haven't contacted me. I don't know why they did it."

The way his brows drew together, she could tell he wasn't convinced. Knew her too well. Or maybe her deception wasn't functioning at full capacity. Understandably so but she cursed herself anyway. "Why didn't you tell Elder Maxson?"

"It's not exactly my favorite subject at the moment. I was saving it, in case we were outnumbered. Turns out Kells doesn't mind risking me though. Ad victorium," she smiled up at him, melancholy and empty.

The joke was in poor taste. He tilted his head just a fraction.

There it was. The craving to fold herself into him, to be comforted by familiar arms wrapping around her tightly and pulling her in like she could never be close enough. It festered in her empty chest and she closed her eyes because she was sure she wouldn't get it. There was nothing to do but let it pass. She was trying but he put a hand on her other shoulder and then everything was so much worse. It wasn't what she wanted, not at all. Just a weak substitute. It was enough to cause the tears lingering in her eyes to spill over. Embarrassing.

She hated being at the mercy of her circumstances, hated how even when she threw the crook of her arm against her mouth, it wasn't enough to stifle the sob that ripped from her throat.

And then he did draw her in. Slowly, unsure where to rest his hands and it only made her cry harder because he'd forgotten how to hold her. Finally one hand found its place on the middle of her back and the other on the back of her head against her ponytail and it was right; he'd remembered or else there were imprints there from all the times before. There was no use fighting it anymore so she buried her face into his chest and let her tears soak through his uniform. Her own arms were supporting her stomach, holding herself together like wonderglue. It was her last shred of self-sufficiency and she was holding for life. She'd readily admit she'd never have lived so long or done as much good in the Commonwealth without Deacon. He was her best friend, her life line. Without him, she'd waste away. But admitting her need for Deacon, which was mutual and always unspoken, and admitting how she needed Danse were vastly disparate. Deacon was constancy where Danse was transience, as drastically different as sobriety and intoxication. Maddening contrast. Deacon felt safe and Danse was so very risky.

Her cries quieted and she pulled away without looking at him, retreating to Arthur's quarters.

If he wanted his Elder to know, he would. She would tell him about her son. It would fuel his hatred of the Institute and he'd let her go without a fight. She knew what to expect.

Just not from Danse.

March 4, 2288

The Prydwen had a lot of attractive amenities: decent showers and weapon and armor workbenches. Nora was more impressed with the coffee. She'd only had the pleasure of sipping the bitter drink a handful of times in her life and never warm but the Brotherhood had enough to spare so she filled a mug and took a seat at an empty table. Activity on the ship had slowed with each passing hour but Nora couldn't seem to rest. Sleep was increasingly fitful and between her fatigue and her grief, her mind was in a haze and her eyes bloodshot and burning. Caffeine kept her from falling over but only barely. She lazily tracked the steam rising from her mug, following the tendrils until they dissipated into the air.

Shaun had tried coffee only days before in that same room.

She'd noticed his nose scrunching up as he forced it down his throat. "It's good," he'd said, voice strained with distaste.

It wasn't, of course. But his eyes had flicked to a man at a table nearby, drinking from his own cup and engrossed in the papers in front of him. If the soldiers did it, Shaun did it. He'd even taken to saluting her before bed and it made her nervous, made her wonder if he'd want to enlist one day.

He couldn't. Aside from all of the questionable Brotherhood doctrine, it was too risky.

Shaun wasn't human but he was hers. She couldn't love him more if he actually had come from her womb. Every spare second of her time was spent with Shaun, soaking up every milestone, every piece of his life he willingly shared with her.

Or at least, that's how it had been.

He'd need to get a haircut again soon. It was an odd thought, given the situation, but on his last visit to the Prydwen, she'd had to constantly brush dark hair back from his eyes. Would they do that for him in the Institute? Cut his hair?

Her fingers rubbed at her eyes, wiping images of Shaun away. She took her mug and retrieved a jacket from her footlocker before making her way to the forecastle.

She stepped onto the metal platform, pausing when she realized she wasn't alone, that someone was already there.

Danse.

She retreated, stuttering. "S-sorry, I-"

"It's alright." He smiled like he was genuinely happy to see her. She bit her lip and walked forward, closing the door behind her.

"It's late."

"Too late for coffee," he quipped.

It coaxed the side of her mouth up.

"I can't sleep."

There was no implied tonight at the end of his sentence. That would be a lie. It reminded her of seeing him all those weeks ago, on watch while his partner slept, and she'd seen how haggard, how exhausted he'd looked. She hummed her understanding.

The night was cool and refreshing and it did more for her sanity than caffeine ever could. She had the sudden urge to pour it over the side of the ship. She might've if Danse hadn't turned then and leaned his back against the railing, facing her.

"How are you?"

She cleared her throat of its sudden tightness.

His eyes lingered on hers until she broke away. He would see her hair, tangled and chaotic, tumbling down her back and the way her cup shook in her hands when she brought it to her lips and that would be answer enough. He changed the subject.

"I'm up here a lot."

"It's nice," she nodded.

"Not too high for you, Adler?"

The easiness was back, the hard exterior of a paladin replaced with soft edges and playful banter. Not quite Rivet City but close enough to make her knees weak. "I don't suppose you can afford to be afraid of heights."

"I'm not that tall."

"Practically a skyscraper."

He shook his head. "You're incorrigible."

"You know what they call you, don't you?" she baited.

"Who?"

"Your subordinates."

One hand reached up to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. "I've... heard a few things."

"Have you heard 'Paladin Dictionary'? That's my personal favorite."

She remembered how it sounded when he laughed but the sound still ripped her open like it was the first time.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward, not in the least. It was solace, soothing the the fragmented pieces, new and old, in them both. He wasn't upset at her for yesterday. He didn't hold it against her. He never did.

She shoved a hand into her pocket and gripped the holotape inside. "Danse?"

"Yeah?"

"I..." She turned it over a few times before she decided to pull it out. "Here."

He took it in his hands and examined it, brushed the pads of his fingers over the letters of his name crudely scrawled on a strip of tape on the outside. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Just play it."

He stared at her for a moment and then made for the door, holding it open for her to follow. She took long strides to keep up with him, regularly looking over her shoulder just to ensure no one would see when she stepped into his room.

When Danse flicked the lights on, not a thing was out of place, the whole room tidy and the bed made. Of course. He'd always been that way. So unlike her, disorder incarnate. If she had a room at HQ, it would indisputably be in shambles. It was probably why she didn't.

He sat at the terminal in the corner but she wandered, surveying his belongings as politely as possible: weapons stored away in a locker, tools neatly aligned on a dresser-arranged by size because he was that meticulous-a plastic box with bottles of whiskey.

She reached for one and ran her fingers along the worn label. It was half empty. She raised an eyebrow and swallowed down the concern that he'd taken after Maxson, felt that same turmoil that drove even the strongest to their bottles night after night, the high of glory not enough to rid their hands, their eyes, their minds of the death that stubbornly clung to them.

She knew what it was to crave the deliverance to be found at the bottom of a bottle. They both had been through enough to understand that much.

She eyed the rest of the bottles: filled, unopened. No, he wasn't Maxson.

The whiskey clinked as she returned it, nestling between the others. She turned back to questioning eyes.

"You can learn a lot about someone from their personal effects," she explained.

He leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "And what did you learn?"

"Nothing I didn't already know." She walked toward where he sat at his desk and leaned against it, setting her mug down next to the terminal.

He inserted the holotape and after a few moments of noiseless loading, the strum of guitar drifted quietly from the speakers. She watched his face: intently listening and then, as recognition sparked, his jaw slackened and a blush crept over his cheeks.

"Country."

"I... just wanted to pay you back for fixing my earrings. It's not the stuff on Diamond City Radio so I don't know how much you get to hear it."

He looked far away, not distant but surprised. It made her heart swell to see him like that: a younger, happier Danse that fit the memories she had. He looked back to her and it made her heart pound because he wasn't crying yet but she could see the glimmer of unshed tears.

He sat in silent reverie, listening to a song he'd heard a thousand times before-she was sure of it, hated the song even now for how often he used to play it. He opened his mouth a few times, about to speak but then closing it again.

He was going to ask her to leave. It was too much. He could see how much she cared and she shouldn't at all because they were still far too different.

"Come here," he said hoarsely.

There wasn't much space between them to begin with. A few feet maybe, and she easily closed that. She wasn't sure what to do or what he wanted but he pulled her into his lap and she let him, brought her knees to her chest and rested her head on his shoulder.

Emotion welled in her gut, stuck in her throat. "You're so goddamned sappy, Danse."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and placed a hand on her knee. It shouldn't have been unnerving, shouldn't have reminded her of all the years she went without it, but it did and she felt like she might fall to pieces. He rested his chin on her head and she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the tears. Who's sappy now, Nora?

The holotape played through while she settled into him and when it finally clicked off, she realized Danse was breathing slowly, lulled to sleep and she didn't know how long ago.

She sat up, trying and failing not to wake him. He was immediately alert, scanning the room but he relaxed when he met her eyes.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Is everything alright?"

"I should go." She stood, feeling the prickling of blood rushing back into her legs.

He nodded and cleared his throat.

"Get some rest."

"You, too, Adler."

He meant that, really cared if she did and she should know because he used to.

She opened the door, checking the surrounding area carefully for curious eyes, and slipped away to her own bed.