March 17, 2288
Nora slumped, heavy in her chair as she watched Tinker fiddle with the terminal. It was commonplace now to watch the eyes of whoever found themselves in that chair go blank, wiped clean with a mixture of technological savvy and advanced neuroscience. Ordinary but still futuristic, even for her, because she'd been watching it for years but it always held her captive like it first had. The mingling of awe and exhaustion-the damn Med-X in her system-fought for dominance and she yawned as she looked on.
The woman in the chair squirmed under all of the wires and nodes stuck to her. It must be uncomfortable, to say the least; sit still, don't move, and give up everything you've ever known. But her eyes were full of resolve. Not ready, just committed.
When she looked at Nora, she gave the synth a warm smile and the woman sat a little straighter in her seat. Sometimes, they needed the reminder that the Railroad was a friend, even when no one else was. That they cared. That this sacrifice would be worth it.
Losing your memories was one thing. Losing your life was another. Most preferred the former.
"Nora," an agent called, thinly-veiled panic heavy in his voice as he ran from the entrance. She shot him a questioning look and he burst, "it's Brotherhood."
Brotherhood, but not Danse. It was too soon to be Danse. Maxson or Maxson plus bodyguards, or any number of yes-men that would surely overwhelm their small force. Across the room, Desdemona nodded toward her. Their agreement had been that should the soldiers come, Nora would do the talking while Dez coordinated the evacuation out of the back tunnel. She was poised to give the orders to pack up their operation on Nora's cue and trailed behind her to wait just outside the door while Nora confronted the trespassers.
But it wasn't at all what she'd expected. Whatever she'd imagined would greet her when she made it to the entrance, it wasn't a single scribe, vaguely familiar and visibly distraught.
Nora lifted her chin, pulling her pistol from her holster, eyes glued to the hallway. There had to be more. There were always more and she wouldn't be caught off guard again. "What do you want?"
"I-I-I'm not here to..." the woman tripped over her words, "I just need some help."
"How did you find us?"
"I heard someone in Diamond City say to follow the Freedom Trail."
Nora flipped her safety off. "I find it hard to believe the Brotherhood gave you leave for that unless you plan on turning us in. It's not easy to do."
"They didn't," she gulped. "I just... I didn't know who else to go to."
The scribe's voice was shaky, something like fear in her light eyes, and she was covered in blood. She lacked the ferocity of the others she'd known, certainly not who Maxson would send to attack. But she couldn't afford not to consider every possibility. She might be a distraction, misdirection for Arthur's sleight of hand.
"Out with it," Nora demanded, aiming at the woman's forehead. "Your faction betrayed us and I won't wait for reinforcements to pour in."
"You're the one who brought the records back from the Institute, right? Well one of the records of the escaped synths turned out to be Brotherhood. Elder Maxson sent someone out to kill him but... he's not... I mean, he's a good man," she blubbered between sobs.
Nora's blood ran cold and she lowered her weapon a few inches.
Not him. Anyone but him.
"Who?"
"Paladin Danse."
Her pistol fell to the floor, tarnished metal clacking against concrete, fingers weak and nausea filling her empty stomach. For a solitary moment, she was speechless and disbelieving. And then, quickly, she snapped her attention back to Haylen, every synapse firing rapidly as she planned. "Where is he?"
"I... I think I know but he didn't say."
"He didn't... what happened?"
Breathlessly, the scribe recounted Quinlan's analysis of the Institute files, how they'd stumbled upon Danse's picture and compared the DNA: a perfect match. How she'd been among the first to meet him at the airport upon his arrival and inform him of his identity. How she'd urged him to leave before Maxson found him and how he had-but only after motionless minutes ticked by, processing. How she'd conspired with a lancer in a vertibird to drop him off outside of a settlement to the north and how she'd tried to watch where he went as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Probably to a bunker, she said, one he'd pointed out as a fallback point when Recon Squad Gladius made its way through the Commonwealth and down to Cambridge.
It wasn't like Nora hadn't taken the same information back to HQ. She hadn't been the one to read it, had relied on Tinker's reports and he'd never seen Danse, not until the pictures in that report had been scanned over and forgotten. M7-97 hadn't meant a thing to her until now, when it meant everything. It meant her world was collapsing because his world was collapsing. He was in some godforsaken bunker, alone and stripped of his life's purpose, and no one would be there to keep him from those dark thoughts she knew would come. He didn't come to her-no, he didn't want to be saved but he didn't want to die because if he had, he wouldn't have run. Some part of him no doubt hated himself but some part was still fighting and she could only hope it kept him going long enough for her to find him.
She shouted commands: for Carrington to patch up the scribe, for Tinker to mark the bunker on a map, for Deacon to grab his things and follow her, for Dez and Glory to prepare for an attack should Maxson come looking for his most trusted paladin. And then she was shoving things in her bag and running out of the back tunnels, forging ahead despite the alarming pain in her thigh, Deacon struggling to keep up until she reached the surface and her wounded leg gave out beneath her.
She wanted to break down, craved the liberty to fall apart for once, but there was so little time for that these days and she definitelydidn't have time now. Not with Danse's life hanging in the balance.
"Hey slow down, would ya?" Deacon hunched over, panting. "What are we doing anyway?"
One hand reached up to rub at the headache throbbing at her temple. "Danse is a synth."
For once, her partner had nothing to say. For the best. Nora didn't want to talk about it anyway. She pushed herself back up and studied the map religiously, tracing a path to the bunker with her fingertip.
"You can't run. You're gonna hurt yourself."
"Well I can't stay here," she snapped.
He stooped down, back to her, and gestured for her to climb up. "Just tell me where to go, boss."
She lowered the map, caught off guard by Deacon's easy compliance. He looked as sincere as he ever did with her, if not a bit cheeky. "That's it? You're fine with this?"
He grinned. "I think Danse is better off without these assholes."
That sentiment meant more than anything and nearly drove her to her knees for a second time. Danse had so many more people in his corner than he knew and she was going to remind him of that. She wrapped her legs around Deacon's waist, still consulting the map as her arms encircled his neck. "You're a good one, Deeks."
"Quiet back there." His hand came over his head to smack her and she dodged him, a phantom smile gracing her lips.
Deacon had a contagious way about him. It calmed her pulse to nothing short of a dull roar in her ears but at least it was something. She had no backup plan for what she would do if she didn't find Danse, heart beat and all, and far too much time to imagine cold bodies and blue lips. He would be the last straw; if she didn't have him, then the wasteland had lost everything good and it would finally kill her.
Danse had put all of his hope a single loaded word: paladin. And Nora had all of hers wrapped up in him.
March 19, 2288
She took a moment to admire the feel of the smooth metal under her hand, cool in the balmy afternoon. Behind her, the sky rumbled, an ominous gray, and she knew rain wasn't far behind. Fitting, for such a gloomy occasion.
She'd left Deacon behind, far enough away to spot any approaching Brotherhood yuppies and get a few good shots in before they found him, but it was as much for security as it was an excuse to go into the bunker alone. It had be her, only Nora, unarmed and level-headed when she found him.
A deep breath and she pulled the handle down and stepped into the bunker. She gave it a once-over: nothing but the wreckage of a protection, a skeleton, and a lone desk. It was hauntingly empty and yet impossibly cavernous for such a small room.
The elevator button flickered and she knew he must've taken up underground, down in the depths where he believed people without mothers belonged. As isolated as he thought he deserved. Her heart thrummed painfully the longer it went on wondering over all the ways she could find him.
The elevator sluggishly struggled to the bottom floor. When the doors opened, she was met with two functional protectrons, a single shot searing through the leather arm of her jacket before she put them down alongside a final turret.
She couldn't help but wonder if he wanted to survive this after all, if he'd realized he didn't fit the part of the conniving synth from Brotherhood horror stories. The place was sturdy, fortified, guarded and maybe he was trying to protect himself. It was a long shot but it was all she had and the hope of finding him in fewer pieces than she'd imagined was too good to let go.
Those damn orange flight suits were practically neon. She hated all they stood for but right then-she caught the color through a window opposite her and she could have painted the whole bunker that shade out of pure joy. She couldn't get to it quickly enough, rushing through the maze of concrete and turning into a cheerless, gray room to find him standing near the far wall, a holotape between his fingers.
"Danse?"
He looked up, startled and nearly dropping the tape. He clearly hadn't expected it to be her who'd found him. His wide eyes were red and exhausted, the brown there less soft than it used to be. Stubble had developed into a short beard and he looked older by years. Still recognizably himself and yet, the most miserable she'd ever seen him. She felt her face fall as her heart stumbled over its beats.
Her eyes flicked to the laser rifle at his side, unholstered and lying on a console. She tried not to think about the plans she'd interrupted but she did and she sucked in like she'd been struck because she needed him here.
"What's on that?" she nodded at the tape, opting for the least confrontational of the questions brewing.
He cleared his throat and stared down at the plastic like he'd forgotten it was there. "It's... an explanation."
"An explanation or a goddamn suicide note?"
He sighed through his nose. "Nora, I know you and I don't see eye to eye on this particular subject."
"No," she mourned, her words a broken whisper. "Fuck that. Don't do it."
"I'm a synth, which means I need to be destroyed."
"I know this isn't easy for you, but please. I'm begging you not to." With slow steps towards him, she holstered her gun and read his reaction. He didn't flinch away, didn't reach for the rifle suspiciously at his side.
He dropped his eyes to the floor. When he looked back up, he'd buried all of the anguish and only steely resolve was left. "You don't understand."
The sudden venom in his words cut her down and she was equal parts pain and fury. She recoiled, surprised to feel tears accumulating, that she had any left anymore. "Please don't do that."
"Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions. They need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction."
He was only reciting what he'd been told, maybe even verbatim. She refused to accept that he believed any of that about himself and she certainly didn't.
"Don't say that," she begged, wiping at her damp cheeks in frustration. "That's not you, Danse. Leave with me."
He smiled, minuscule and dark and empty. "And go where?"
"HQ. We'll make a plan, figure out where to-"
"This isn't something I can just run away from, Nora."
"Dammit, Danse," she wept, spinning away from him and pacing the anxiety from her system. She halted in place and the seconds ticked by as the tension ratcheted up, peaking just as her fist slammed into the wall.
The concrete was unyielding. There was no give for her knuckles as they painted the surface a sticky red. She hardly felt it until the throb set in and Danse reached for her reflexively, but he shrunk back just as quickly.
"Stop it," she roared, cradling her hand. "You can touch me, you're not a damn leper!"
"What is this? What are you doing?"
"I don't know!" she shouted, breath unsteady with the force of just how much she was feeling. Maybe she wanted him closer, luring him with childish outbursts and raw heartache. Or maybe, she was simply trying to distract him because God, she would do anything if he would just put that fucking gun away. "You and Shaun and- don't you fucking care that people need you, Danse?"
His face was blank but his gaze was set on her intently as she finally broke.
"Do you even know how I found you? Your scribe came to us and begged for help. You're important to... hell, I don't even know how many people. But as brief as my stay on your steel war balloon was, I saw it. That doesn't just go away because you're a synth. People love you," she insisted, feeling her voice quiver as realization pierced quick and deep. Her next words were quiet. She said them as soon as she thought them and they were unpracticed now, relics from halcyon days that she'd nearly forgotten how to pronounce. "I... I love you."
"You... love me?" he breathed, disbelief cracking his mask of duty.
"Of course," she sighed. "And God, I'm so tired of losing things."
If his face was honest, then she'd at least made him reconsider. She knew that he cared about her and had hoped it would be enough to keep him for another day. But the longer he went without answering, the tighter the coil of nerves behind her neck wrapped.
"Please," she whispered. "Just... just wait, think about this. Come with me."
He glanced down at the holotape in his hand and pushed it into a pocket before taking the rifle carefully, like an armed mine the way he held it. He'd meant to use it to destroy himself, might still, and she flinched back, eyes closed as she waited for a shot to ring out and declare him dead.
It didn't.
She gradually closed the distance between them and he pulled her into him tightly, too tight for her lungs to expand properly but just enough to tell her her need was reciprocal. Her arms wrapped around his middle and squeezed a tender reassurance, a lifeline, medicine, anything else he might need. When he finally let himself cry and she felt his body shaking under her own, she had to shut her eyes against the moisture forming in them.
She knew how incredibly rare this was. She knew all the things that no one else did, knew Danse inside and out like her favorite book. She'd seen him this way only once before: in Rivet City when he came home and Cutler didn't. It was the pain of losing the essential that could dismantle a man in seconds. Could reduce him to eat, sleep, breathe quickly and efficiently. She tangled her hand in his hair, forced him closer and this time, he just let her skin on his just be.
He held her for so long that when his grip finally loosened, her ribs ached and prickled as she leaned back to look at him, assessing his mental state. He looked tired, drained, absent. But all of that was better than dead and as he followed her to the elevator, the headache that had plagued her for days ebbed away.
March 21, 2288
Days worth of Commonwealth grime and muck stubbornly clung to Nora's skin. She rubbed the wet rag over her arms roughly in a desperate attempt to clean herself and it left her raw and red but she felt cool air against her pores and it was refreshing, calming.
She shed her clothes, stripped down to only her bra and underwear, and polished the rest of her skin until she was satisfied.
When she crunched back to camp, she found Deacon and Danse sitting uncomfortably in the same tense silence that has permeated most of the trip. At her nod, Deacon grabbed his backpack and headed out the way she came for his own makeshift shower.
Danse didn't look up and he may as well have been a statue for how much he'd moved since they stopped for the night. He was in the same position: sitting on the dirt with his feet planted firmly, his elbows locked around his knees. He wore the same look of intense and faraway consideration. It couldn't mean anything good.
"Can I sit with you?" she asked shyly. They'd had small interactions since the bunker, mostly his periodic are you alright as he carried her, and even fewer intentional touches. He was avoiding her and she let her despite the way it stung.
"Of course."
She gently lowered herself, euphoric relief to her tired and injured leg. She ran her fingers over the denim covering her wound. The physical kind, mangled skin and torn muscle, but beside her, Danse struggled with the invisible. Worse, she thought, than the physical because her own invisible battles were harrowing.
"Do you have a dinner preference? We have..." she trailed off and rummaged through her bag. "Cram or cram. Your choice."
He offered no smile, no warmth, and she immediately regretted trying to lighten the mood. Her fingers peeled away the lid of the tin and fished for the dull fork she owned, holding both out to Danse.
"No, thank you."
"Please?" she urged. "You haven't eaten all day. It's not-"
He cut in angrily. "What makes you think I need to eat?"
"Don't you think I'd know something about synths? You'll kill yourself. You're still flesh and blood."
"I'm machinery."
She swung her leg over his waist and straddled him, a strong hand forcing him to look her in the eyes. "No," she growled.
This close, he radiated an angry heat and his eyes burned with conviction. "You're blind if you don't see it."
He believed himself something awful, evil and undeserving of life, goodness, and, she realized, her. It was a punch to the gut and he would hurt her, would keep swinging if she got too close.
"I'm not," she insisted, resting her nose beside his.
His hands gripped her arms and gently forced her back. "Don't be ridiculous, Nora."
"Jesus Christ. You have the market cornered on ridiculous, Danse, don't worry."
"Do you even understand?" he boomed. "Can you see past your faction for a goddamn minute? I was created by the Institute. The same entity that toyed with you in the name of science. Not a week ago, you were gunning down waves of synths-"
"You aren't a robot, you dense asshole," she cried, bunching up his flightsuit in her fists.
"No, I'm worse than that because I look like a goddamn human! Don't tell me you're too brainwashed to see how-"
"Brainwashed?" she repeated, laughing even as tears rolled down her cheeks and she pressed her fists harder into his chest. "Have a little self-awareness, Danse, you're still talking like a Brotherhood of Steel douchebag."
His hands closed tightly over hers and pried her fingers away from the wrinkled fabric, shoving them against her chest to maintain his distance. "They were right."
"One fucking piece of plastic in your head and you're worthless, huh?" she twisted in his grasp, jerking until one hand was freed and she could stab a finger into his sternum. "Everything you've done and none of it matters to you because you've got one extra part? That's bullshit!"
In an instant, he flipped them so that she was on her back and he, leaning over her, pinning her down. She quieted, wondered if he might press his mouth to hers, kiss and make up, but he only lingered for three breaths to fix her with a venemous state and then he was standing, arms crossed and severe and every bit the soldier still.
"I need... time. To think."
She raised an eyebrow. "About?"
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. Everything."
"Think with me," she begged quietly.
"Everything I had, everything I knew, is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my world turned upside-down."
Nora sat up and watched the way his face contorted into something tortured. "Tell me." She pulled herself to her feet and drew closer to him, hating the way the proximity made him tense up.
He dropped his arms and balled his hands into fists, body shaking. "Those sons of bitches who created me couldn't even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents. I don't even know how much of my own past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even imagine that?"
She shook her head and brought a hand up to cup his cheek but he brushed it away, tender but forceful.
"I started out as nothing and I've ended up as nothing. And I don't know what the hell to do about it." He was shouting but she could see how his anger was deflating him, drawing out his breaths more quickly.
"Not nothing," she whispered. "You've always been something."
Deacon returned, slowing as he read the mood and realized he'd interrupted something. Nora waved him over. There wasn't any more to say then. This was a talk that would have to happen many times over before Danse accepted any of her words and she was prepared to fight for him. She had in the bunker and she would a thousand more times before she let anything destroy him.
And Danse, for all of his talk about being an abomination not fit for human companionship, for all of the ways he shoved her away, never protested sleeping beside her, curling into her so that she knew without any words passed between them at all how desperately he needed her, now more than ever.