March 13, 2288
Something about Boston in disrepair ate at Danse. History, decaying before his eyes, and there wasn't anything to be done about it. The Old North Church itself had surrendered to time and as weathered as it was, he was surprised to see it still standing, steeple proudly piercing the humid night air.
Proud, yes, but derelict and crumbling to the point that it hardly looked habitable. Danse nearly asked if she'd remembered correctly, if she hadn't meant some other church, but a stripe of red beckoned him to the door and erased all doubt.
When he reached the front entrance, she pulled it open from her place in his arms and the pair stepped through to splintered walls and concave floors.
"How are you feeling?" he inquired, nervous in her silence. She'd hardly spoken on the trek to the church and he needed to be sure it wasn't any indication of her health.
"I've... been better."
"How's your leg?"
"My leg," she scoffed. "My leg will be fine."
Her real concerns went unspoken but he knew. Andrews had taken some unnameable thing from her and he hated that. How could he hope to replace the abstract, something closer to a phantom and impossible to hold?
He couldn't. He hated that.
But if she was feeling, then she was alive. Knowing she was still with him, enough to sound like herself even when she was a drastic and unsettling pale, kept him going. He could push past his own pain so long as she was hanging on.
He could feel the inflammation of his ankle and the simmering heat it gave off under the leather of his boot. It was unbearable, having been pushed past its limits long ago, but it couldn't have been anything compared to what Nora was feeling. She hadn't complained, given away only by her breathing. He knew she was in pain the way she sucked in suddenly if he moved her wrong and then she'd delay the exhale, focusing on the rhythm and tempo of her lungs. She had an impressively high tolerance for pain. The kind bred over years of violent clashes and conflict, remarkable even among Brotherhood veterans.
He stepped over the cold corpse of a feral and closed his eyes against the flash of white-hot pain as his weight shifted.
"What are you gonna tell Maxson?"
He stammered, hadn't settled on an acceptable answer yet. "I don't think he'll believe anything I say."
"Maybe not. You're a dreadful liar." Her smirk, taunting and light even in the worst of situations, made him hopeful. She sat taller in his arms, suddenly livelier than she'd been in hours. "Atrocious, really. We'll have to work on that."
"What do you suggest?"
She pursed her lips pensively. "Maybe you shouldn't go back at all."
He trampled carefully through the piles of debris that had gathered in the catacombs, narrowly avoiding tripping over a discarded toolbox. Desertion was not an option. It would only confirm whatever theories the elder had but even if the Brotherhood thought him dead rather than a traitor, he wouldn't know what to do with himself. There was nowhere to go but home. To the Prydwen, to Maxson, to what few possessions he owned. He would deal with the rest.
"Danse?"
He looked down, anxious at the tone of uncertainty in her voice. She flinched as he unintentionally held her tighter. "Yes?"
"Really. You can stay and we'll figure something out."
"I can't, Nora."
She stared at him somberly, mashing her lips together to keep the words at bay. It was obvious she wanted to protest but she must've known he couldn't just leave. He didn't have it in him, didn't know who he was if not Paladin Danse and he had a team that relied on him. She nodded slowly, accepting.
They rounded a corner and Danse's eyebrows drew together. "It's a dead end."
"Turn around," Nora instructed.
He set her on her feet carefully and she leaned forward to slide the tarnished pieces of a seal into place. Faithfully, he turned his back to her as she worked, keeping her propped up against him for balance. With the right combination, the stone wall screeched open.
The entrance to HQ was as covert and secretive as the Railroad itself. He should've surmised as much.
Danse lifted her once again to carry her through the dark corridor. Suddenly, light flickered on and flooded the room. Desdemona stood imposingly across from them, a smaller woman with a minigun posted just to her right.
Whatever she was going to say was lost the moment she laid eyes on the figure in his arms. "Nora?"
He helped her stand but she swayed and clutched at him, fingers digging into his suit. They wouldn't need to see the knife to know she wasn't well; her cheeks were drained, colorless and washed out in the glaring light and she couldn't even stand on her own.
Fresh fury kindled in his chest. Andrews' doing and damn if he wouldn't make him suffer for it.
"Dez. I'm okay."
"Jesus. You're not," she gestured to her thigh.
Deacon interrupted, bolting past her and running up to Nora to pull her solidly against him. "Shit, Nor, what the hell happened to you?"
"Deeks," she breathed into his shoulder. They held each other for so long, too long, and Danse felt the tide of panic rising. She'd already gone hours without any medical assistance but Nora gasped and it wasn't until then that he realized she was crying.
Deacon's face creased, deep worry lines wrinkling his forehead. "Hey. Talk to me, lady."
"I can't right now, okay?" she sniffed, leaning back and wiping her cheeks.
Danse couldn't see her expression and he was thankful because whatever Deacon saw in her face leveled him.
He cleared his throat. "She requires immediate medical attention."
Deacon reached beneath her legs to lift her but she retreated from him, shaking her head.
"Nuh-uh. He needs a stimpak. Get him one first."
"Nora-" Danse argued.
"Shush, soldier boy." She rounded on him, austere as she could manage with so little energy, and the hand not balling up Deacon's shirt flew to her hip. Not, he imagined, unlike the way she reprimanded Shaun. "We're both shitty at taking care of ourselves so I don't want to hear it."
Deacon spared him an unfriendly glance before he sighed and jogged back into HQ.
The outside of their facility looked bleak and neglected and Danse hoped the inside was in better shape, equipped to handle the severity of her injuries. Bricks crumbled around him and he couldn't help but eye them dubiously. Not a threat to the Brotherhood on their best day, if this was any indication of the extent of their resources.
Desdemona raised an eyebrow. "You kept your word."
"Of course I did," he retorted, smarting at their lack of trust in his virtue. If she doubted him, she shouldn't have let him go after Nora at all.
"Oh, don't get pissy. You know why things have to be this way. Which leaves the question: are you going to report us?"
He scratched at his jaw. "Under the circumstances, I don't see how I can."
"With Nora here, I doubted it."
He looked to the floor, brooding.
He didn't make a habit of lying, only did so when absolutely necessary and it showed. But his clumsy attempts at bluffing had saved him at Bunker Hill. Desdemona had seen through it, transparent as glass; so long as they had Nora in their ranks, he was practically Railroad himself.
He readjusted himself and cursed when his ankle flared up.
"You got us out of a war zone still teeming with enemies. You walked all the way here on a bad ankle with more than just your own weight and for what?" she mulled aloud. "We didn't promise you anything. Our respective organizations are no longer friendly and I have no idea what sort of questions you can expect to face when you return. With that said, I'm inclined to offer you the services of Dr. Carrington before you go."
Danse looked her over skeptically but didn't dismiss her outright. There were reasons to consider the offer. It was foolish to attempt the trek to the airport in his current state and, perhaps even more salient, he was intrigued by the prospect of viewing the inside of their base for himself. But his hackles still raised at the thought of enemy territory. He would be surrounded, outnumbered, easy pickings for an ambush if they decided to finish him off.
"A response would be appreciated," she pressed.
Nora bumped her shoulder against his and reassured him with a smile.
He grimaced. "I accept on the condition that I'm able to remain armed in your compound."
"Have it your way," the redhead waved a hand over her shoulder passively, heading down the short hallway behind her.
Deacon returned, stimpak in hand, and at Desdemona's word, he tucked it into his pocket, annoyed. He wasted no time reaching for Nora. "I hope you know what you're doing, Nor," he grunted as he cradled her, stalking after Desdemona. "Bringing that Brotherhood bastard here."
"Quit being an ass." She punched his arm. There was no power behind it and Danse's gut flipped, hoping desperately that Carrington was competent and well-supplied.
He staggered after them, the woman still tracking him with the minigun like she hadn't heard a word of their conversation. He reached an open door where Desdemona stood alone, only stepping through when he'd shambled within a few feet of her. He followed slowly, clenching his jaw against the pain building to a fever pitch.
The interior of HQ surpassed his expectations. A shelf stocked with a decent amount of rations, functional terminals, even the odd power armor station. The room seemed full, the way agents dashed from one place to the next, but it didn't take long for the bustling to come to a standstill as they realized who was among them. One agent slapped the man beside her until he looked up from his paperwork to Brotherhood orange. All eyes were on Desdemona, watching for her reaction.
She lit a cigarette casually. "Don't stop on our account."
Confusion still plain on their faces, they reluctantly turned back to their tasks.
At least they respected authority.
He watched them with a reciprocal wariness, fingers itching to hold his rifle, but a shriek that ripped through the air and he snapped his head toward the sound. He pushed himself faster toward the sound, into a side room that functioned as a med bay.
When she came into view, she had her eyes closed, tears spilling down the sides of her face and lip caged between her teeth. A man in a white coat, presumably Dr. Carrington, was bent over her leg, the knife noticeably absent. He pressed a metal instrument into the gash and it forced another pained cry from her. She lurched forward involuntarily and Deacon grabbed her hands as they reached for her wound, holding them away. She struggled weakly, flailed and whimpered under the doctor's hands, but she wasn't strong enough to put up her usual fight.
Danse stood helplessly by her cot. The air smelled sour, not unlike the aftermath of battle. Burning flesh, he realized. Her wound had been cauterized.
"How exactly did this happen?" Dr. Carrington inquired as he doused a rag in antiseptic.
Nora rolled her eyes. "Well, someone stabbed me."
He dabbed gently at the edges of the laceration, sighing when she whined at the sting. "You know, you don't always have to be so contrary."
"I can't help it," she said sternly, fists still firmly in Deacon's grasp. "Every time I'm in here, I'm in a fuckload of pain."
Desdemona laughed at his side, quiet giggles until Deacon turned and they both burst into a fit of hysterics.
"Oh, wha- really? What's so funny?"
Desdemona composed herself, falling back into the seriousness Danse was used to from her. "I would say your stubbornness is in your blood but with how much you've lost, I think we can safely rule that out."
Nora's mouth twitched and she pressed her lips together. "Not funny."
Dr. Carrington whirled back to toss the rag into a bucket and his eyes narrowed at the infamous Brotherhood flightsuit. "And who the hell are you?"
"Oh, this," Deacon stepped in between them and clamped a hand onto Danse's shoulder, "is the Brotherhood's most confused paladin. AKA, our secret weapon."
Danse frowned at the description and shrugged Deacon's hands away.
"Patch him up, Carrington," Desdemona ordered from the doorway. "He has a long trip home."
The doctor looked less than thrilled to have another patient but nonetheless, he motioned for Danse to have a seat on a nearby cot. He hoisted himself onto the thin cushion and Carrington looked him over, pinpointing his affliction with surprising accuracy. He pried Danse's boot off, the movement hitting swollen flesh and making him wince.
"Do you need me to hold your hand, soldier boy?" Nora teased from beside him.
Danse grunted as Carrington pressed into his ankle, feeling for fractures. "Negative."
"'Secret weapon'. I like that. That's your official RR code name."
"Nora," the doctor barked. "Close your eyes and let the Med-X work or at least stop talking."
Her eyelids were drooping under the weight of the chem but she wasn't drugged enough not to scowl at his back. She reached over and covered Danse's hand with her own. It was feeble, shaking and he took it just to stop the tremors.
It seemed to appease her. She dozed uneasily while Carrington reached for a stimpack and injected it into Danse's ankle, whistling as it emptied and Danse dropped his head back to rest what little he could. The air was humid underground, not particularly conducive to sleep, but it was safe. He'd settled down in worse places.
Deacon crossed him arms and leaned back against the brick wall. "So. Why did the Brotherhood turn on us back there, Secret Weapon?"
"I already told you, I don't know," Danse grumbled.
The doctor bandaged his ankle, quickly and expertly wrapping layers of cloth around the joint. "This is all I can do for now. I'd tell you to stay off of it but we know that won't happen so just give it a few hours."
"Affirmative."
Carrington looked put off by the military response but he didn't reply. He gathered his tools and tersely skulked away without so much as a glance back.
Deacon sighed as he sank further into his chair. "Find out for us, will ya? So we know Maxson isn't just a conniving son of a bitch."
He stared down at his hand, Nora's fingers weaved through his.
Gray. It was all gray. So few things had been left black and white and he was left to sort through it all unassisted. He wasn't a spy but if Railroad leadership didn't have an explanation for Bunker Hill, then it might not be the worst thing to clue them in.
At the very least, he knew what was precious to him now, knew for damn sure what he could and could not live without. He'd felt the shifting of his priorities, tectonic in nature. It was unsettling to be so divided and though he'd never subscribed to the belief that the Brotherhood was flawless, it was no less world-shattering to become this disillusioned with it. But the more he unraveled from where he thought he belonged, the more tightly he clung to her.
Nora, he thought, as she fidgeted in her chem-induced slumber. Nora was worth all he'd been put through since she'd crept up on him at an ungodly hour at his wasteland campsite with a proposal of a treaty, worth broken ankles, worth whatever awaited him at the airport.
Worth the hell he would pay and then some.
March 14, 2288
The airport came into view and it took a few moments for the night guards to recognize him in the distance. When they saw his dirtied uniform and confirmed his identity, they let him through the entrance and he ambled, exhausted, to the landing pad.
Raucous laughter and taunts drifted from a group of men against one of the walls. Danse's head pulsed and the pain swelled at their volume. He didn't think peace and quiet was too much to ask this late into the evening but the soldiers were drunk, still celebrating victory, and it infuriated him.
It wasn't like Bunker Hill had been mutants or ferals. Synths were one thing, but they'd done more than rip through machines. People had died. Flesh and blood and even if he was confused as to whether or not the Railroad had warranted their betrayal, that was nothing to commemorate.
He was far too tired to put up with it, about to bark at them to quiet down and show some damn respect for the dead when he recognized the loudest voice.
Yellowing bruises covered the side of his face, trailing down his neck. They could be from anything but his mind painted its own picture: Nora thrashing, desperate for escape under a body insistent that she stay put. Hands roaming, taking, claiming what they had no right to and what they hadn't been given permission to. A theft if there ever was one. Worse, because what he'd stolen was irreplaceable and Danse knew he couldn't fix what the man had broken.
When he met the eyes of Initiate Andrews, he felt waves of revulsion roll over him and he was close, mere feet away from him. Close enough, finally, to release a portion of the malice that he'd been soaking in since she'd told him.
He stormed over and the soldiers scrambled to stand at attention. They watched him nervously, braced for a lecture from the visibly incensed paladin.
He stared down at Andrews, the object of his wrath. He had the gall to smile but it was fraught with nerves, too small to hold all his usual self-assurance. "Paladin. What d'ya need?"
"I wouldn't talk to your commanding officer that way, off duty or not," he clenched his fist, his whole body tense and looming over Andrews. "I know."
The accusation landed and his shoulders fell. He'd expected Nora to die, Danse realized, and for his guilt to die with her. "What?"
The paladin pressed an arm against his chest, kept his voice as low and calm as he could but his eyes burned into him. "I know what you did at Bunker Hill. Are you aware that's considered a war crime, Andrews?"
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
"No?" He reached into his pocket and flung the holotag at the man.
Andrews caught it against his chest, stared at the metal like he'd hoped never to see it again. Guilty. So fucking guilty that he couldn't even look Danse in the eyes any longer.
"Answer me, soldier," he growled, "and know that I don't take kindly to liars."
He raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched. "You know what? It's kind of weird that you're so worked up about this. Does Elder Maxson know?"
"Watch your tone, Initiate."
"Did I fuck her first?" he jeered. "Is that what this is about?"
In a blind rage, Danse threw him back into the wall. He stumbled and tripped, back hitting the concrete hard and knocking the air from him.
He was on him again in seconds, fist against his jaw. Andrews threw an elbow into Danse's ribs and landed a lucky punch along nose but the paladin was quick to recover, forcing him to the floor with a knee to the stomach.
It felt like losing control when he'd seen Cutler. Not Cutler. Warped and vile supermutant Cutler. He'd lost his hold on reality, so engulfed by his anger that he'd fired relentlessly and wasted God knows how many bullets on a corpse. He'd had to be pulled away by a fellow soldier before he stopped. That same feeling thudded through him now, disbelief and rage and that all-consuming imperative to set things right.
He swung tirelessly. It wasn't enough that he broke skin, didn't satisfy him that he was covered in Andrews' blood. It took all of the nearby men to rip Danse away from the gory mess that was Initiate Andrews. He could've kept going, would've killed him and he was still seething as he was yanked back.
"Paladin Danse?"
He deflated immediately. Haylen's voice put everything back in perspective and he shuddered, horrified. Andrews looked unrecognizable, slumped against the wall, and a scribe rushed to load him into the vertibird.
"What the hell happened?" her soft voice asked urgently.
The soldiers still standing around looked to one another in astonishment, at a loss for words.
"Paladin Danse..."
"They were arguing and then he just... snapped."
Danse ran a hand down his face, groaning at the soreness of his nose. Broken, maybe. There was certainly enough blood for that. He stalked into the airport towards a first-aid kit, the soldiers that had restrained him flinching and carefully maintaining their distance. He felt warmth trickle down his face and he let in drip onto his suit uninterrupted.
"Paladin!" Haylen called after him.
He grabbed a stimpak, not bothering with any of the other supplies, and thrust it into his ribs. At least one had to be cracked. He was going on a personal record for number injuries sustained at once.
"Danse." She stopped just behind him. "Paladin, sir..."
"What is it, Haylen?" he snarled with more ferocity than intended.
She looked crushed by his rebuff but she turned to the first-aid kit and grabbed some cotton and antiseptic. He let her clean his wounds in silence as he calmed himself, clenching and unclenching his fists as waves of anger crashed and receded.
"I heard what he was saying." She swiped gently near his eye, a cleansing sting setting in his skin. "He says that kind of stuff a lot. All the girls are scared of him."
He frowned. "That's troubling."
She dropped her hand and looked up at him apologetically. "I know it was Nora."
"How do you know that?"
"He was bragging about it earlier in the mess. The asshole." She gritted her teeth and packed the kit back up.
Adrenaline still coursed through him and he would've lashed out again if Andrews was near. He felt no remorse, wasn't sorry in the slightest. He couldn't be, no matter what his punishment was. Just the thought of what the initiate had done was so grotesque that his stomach churned violently.
"Paladin?" A knight addressed him from the doorway. "Elder Maxson has requested to speak with you."
He took a deep, measured breath and pulled off his bloody gloves. "Understood. Thank you, Knight."
Before he could move past her, Haylen forced him back with a strength he hadn't known she possessed. "You can't go to Maxson!"
"I need to face the consequences. Don't worry about me, soldier."
She shook her head, her words rushed and fervent and her blue eyes pleading. "That's not what this is about. You have to come with me."