Nate pulls an touched bottle of whiskey from his trunk and slams it shut. As they walk back into Warren's house, Danse notes the label. Black and a reflective silver. He's seen it before only a handful of times in his life and he raises an eyebrow.
"Not every day you start a new year, brother," he grins, plucking a cigarette from his pack. He owes Danse a drink, the price for lost bets, but he hadn't expected him to splurge. They are hours away from January first and he supposes it's reason to celebrate.
Transparent glasses are filled halfway with the dark alcohol and Nate slides one across the counter to him. A celebratory clink and they're taking the first potent mouthfuls of the night.
They're both waiting for her. Nate straightens his tie while they talk about superficial things but their eyes flicker expectantly to the door at every knock. This time, Danse knows she'll come and he's been anxiously anticipating all day.
It takes half an hour before she finally arrives and he straightens his spine when he sees her.
He doesn't like going so long between doses. The shock of the magnetic pull always feels stronger than he remembers and tonight is no exception. She's still in her work clothes; Nate has confirmed she's been working overtime and then some with the Vault-Tec caseload. It's the subject of every conversation from idle grocery line chatter to bar gossip so it's no surprise that she's bombarded with questions only seconds through the door.
Marjorie walks with her towards Nate, hoping for answers, but Nora is tight-lipped; rightfully so. There are rumors of plea deals that she won't confirm or deny and Marjorie dismisses herself to get the door for those still arriving without any substantial new information.
She greets Nate with a kiss to his cheek and turns, somewhat hesitantly, toward Danse. She acknowledges him with his name and he nods.
This particular party is full of more than their usual nine. The room is stuffed with bodies and the constant hum of voices. It isn't long before someone else finds her and engrosses her in conversation and then she jumps from person to person, Nate by her side, for the better part of an hour. She looks tired but the wine in her hand helps her keep up the charade of pleasant sociability. She fills it twice as she makes her rounds and it amplifies her laughter so that it carries to his place across the room.
He's never more lonely than when he's in a room with Nora.
Because he's desperate to know her. Better, he adds, than the others in the room who are all superficial, interested more in what she's done than anything else. He looks for moments to steal her away or at least ask her for small pieces of herself. Something to hold at night when his bed is cold. Even when she and Nate settle beside him at a table, her attention is elsewhere and he doesn't see a chance to cut in.
But the opportunity presents itself when Nate is pulled away for shots. He doesn't even look back at Danse; he knows he's not the sort for drinking that way. He isn't twenty anymore and vodka makes his head spin. Nora is invited but she politely declines for the sake of her early morning commute.
And then, alone with him, she's strangely timid and he remembers why.
Their last meeting is seared into his mind, branded by painful awkwardness and the sting of her eyes asking him why. He could explain, tell her it was one and done, but he thinks it's better to move past it altogether.
"You're Jewish," he says.
She looks up, more than a little confused.
"What else?"
"Wha... uh, sorry?"
He leans in, gives away just how much he wants an answer. "What else don't I know about you?"
Her mouth tilts upwards and it makes him crazy how breathtaking it is. When Nora is cared for, she's effervescent. She's easily the most vibrant thing he's ever seen and he knows for a fact that she lights up when he shows affection, guarded as it may be. And this is affection, though he'll swear the rest of his life it's platonic at its core.
She responds in a foreign tongue, one he's never heard and didn't realize she was fluent in. He's less informed than he'd hoped. At his slack jaw, she smiles brighter, bigger, and it creases the corner of her eyes. "What do you want to know, then, Danse?"
Everything. All of you.
"What do you do with your spare time?"
She laughs. "None to spare."
"Nora."
"Fine. Every once in a while, I get around to playing piano again. But that's certainly a rare thing."
"I didn't know you played. I didn't see a piano."
She shakes her head and her eyes dim. "We don't have one. Well, anymore. I admit I... got a bit overzealous a few years back and sold it. I was convinced we'd need the room for a crib."
Her pain is his. He can't stand there and watch her swallow and blink back tears without his own heart shattering. His lover's instinct is to console her with a hand on her cheek but that isn't right.
All he knows to do is change the subject. "Any other hidden talents?"
She looks around the room and gathers herself. Stalling so her voice won't crack when she finally responds. Her eyes linger on the doorway to the kitchen and it sparks a smile. She claims that college developed in her the generally useless ability to distinguish not only the type of wine solely by taste but where the grapes were grown and he's being pulled all too willingly into a game.
When he expresses disbelief, she tilts her and raises her eyebrow. "Try me," she dares.
He follows her to the dozens of open wine bottles that clutter the kitchen counter. In the quiet of the room, the buzzing of fluorescent lights is audible, drowns out the muted conversations that drift through the walls. He leans back against the counter, examines his options then hands her a bottle, the label towards him as her fingers wrap around the neck. She takes a sip without breaking his gaze and holds it in her mouth, finally shutting her eyes to deliberate.
"Hmmm." She swallows. "Pinot Grigio."
"And?"
"And... California."
He takes the bottle back to double check and sure enough, she's correct.
"Impressive," he confesses, but he reaches for another bottle before he'll really believe her.
Same procedure. Label out, slender fingers coiling around the bottle and she takes a swig.
"Easy," she smiles, stumbling one step closer. "Riesling. Germany."
"I'm questioning your drinking habits, Nora."
Every bottle is another step closer, of her own volition or driven forward by her increasing inebriation, until she falls and grasps his shirt to catch herself, his hand flying to the small of her back. It fits, like a dream or a nightmare. Fits so wellthat there's a very real shift in the way he thinks about them, tectonic in its scale, and it will make for another sleepless night. Her foot lands between his and they're close enough that it wouldn't shock him if she hears the blood rush to his cheeks.
"Damn. I need to take these off," she says to herself, leaning into him and stooping to rid herself of her heels.
She kicks them to the side of the kitchen. Barefoot, she's that much shorter than he is. Even though she keeps her hand on his chest and even though his is still at her back, she's increased the distance between their lips. He shouldn't have gauged that.
But he's too spellbound to look away so he reaches blindly for a third bottle and she smolders from over the glass as she drinks.
"Chardonnay." Her eyes drop to his lips and he feels the control slipping through his fingers. "France."
In his mind, he's throwing the bottle to the floor and tossing her onto the counter. They're urgent with their hands and mouths and she will never be close enough. Not with her hands under his shirt, not with her tongue behind his teeth, not even with her legs wrapped around him.
He has never needed anyone so badly as he needs her.
But in the present, they're still. He can hear himself say I don't think we should be here.
Simultaneously, pride and disappointment blossom and mingle and it's cloying in the back of his throat.
She looks at her palm, watches it fall to her thigh and she nods. If it's agreement or to shake thoughts from her mind, he can't be sure.
This is the worst part of all of it. How hard they work to keep away and how little payoff there is for their efforts. Every time, he has to see her recoil in rejection, as if he wants things this way. As if he'd push her away without so many barriers.
He leads Nora, drunk and wobbling, back into the dining room and she falls into the chair between his and where Nate is sat. Her husband wraps his arm around her and Danse knows he's had his share to drink when his lips seek hers and miss.
But the alcohol is only half of it. She'd squirmed away, turned her head a fraction of a degree to avoid the contact. It doesn't bother Nate, if he notices at all; he jumps back into his conversation seamlessly.
Danse isn't sure what to make of it. Discontent and frustration are written plainly on her face. He doesn't miss the side glance she casts at him before she quickly hides her face, folds her hands on the table and lays her head on them.
"You should date her."
He raises his eyebrows, can feel his cheeks heating up because dammit, he's tired of explaining himself and Nora, of all people, should already know why that won't work. "I don't think we're very compatible."
"No, no, no. That isn't true." She shakes her head slowly, side to side in long sweeps because she's too intoxicated for precise movements. The heel of her hand props her cheek up after a few sloppy and uncoordinated attempts and she stares up at him. "Tell me you wouldn't date her if you didn't know me."
Words are stuck in his throat, cutting off air and leaving his mouth dry. He knows what he wants to say and then he knows the truth. He knows she knows the truth. Their situation is unfortunate and he's loathe to bring another person in just to take up his time so he doesn't have so damn much of it. What he does with it now is sit and think and try notto think and he's not very good at that last part. But he doesn't think Camila can be the solution.
Nora disagrees without words. It's in the way she leans toward him, the hand that reaches for his forearm and squeezes and says see?. The piercing hold of her brown eyes against his that make him question his own reasoning. He can't quite understand why this, of all things, is what she wants him to do but he does know that she's right.
In a world without Nora, Camila is the next best thing.
But this is a world withNora.
And inexplicably, she knows him. She predicts his protest before he can utter a sound.
"Not settling," she mumbles. "It's pragmatism."
"Pragmatism," he repeats and she nods, slumping back onto the table and closing her eyes.
She says more but it's muffled. When he asks her to repeat herself, she rolls so that her cheek is pressed against her forearm and he can see her mouth move when she speaks and guts him.
"Don't miss her, Danse, because you already missed me."
She's never hurt him so deeply. Logically, he knows she's just reacting to the sudden distance he's put between them, but he decides if that's what she wants so damn badly, then he'll comply.
In the early morning hours of January first, Danse shows up at Camila's door, stone-faced and cold. She answers in her robe and blushes and he brusquely asks if she'll see him that weekend. She responds with a quiet affirmative and he thanks her before he turns back sharply to his car.