Hallelujah: Winter Wonderland (Danse)
He's never really seen snow before. Oh, there were some small flurries back in the Capitol Wasteland, a half-hearted spurt of white flakes drifting lazily towards the ground when it grew really cold, usually some time in January or maybe February. But whether DC had always been that way - and he suspected not - or because of the bombs, they didn't see real snow there.
The ground when he opens the door of the police station is thick with a three-inch layer of ice and snow; it makes a soft crunch when he steps on it. When Danse holds still and he can hear the muted sound of individual flakes falling around him. His gun is cold in the chilled air, the metal slippery in his hands. He shivers in the frosty air; he should put his power armor on, but he has a hard time believing anything is stirring out here in the desolate white world appearing before him.
A gasp behind him; Scribe Haylen is peeking over his shoulder and he steps aside to let her see. Her eyes light up as she takes in the scene, the grime and decay around them disappearing under the white veil falling from the sky. She turns, giddy as a child, and something in him is lifted by the sound of her voice as she calls Rhys to the door.
The knight comes, grumbling as usual, and stops dead behind Danse with a soft, "Whoa."
Haylen takes one tentative step outside, passing Danse in the doorway, a grin dancing across her lips. Rhys lingers behind them, his bulk blocking the door, his face closed and guarded. Danse follows the scribe, marveling at the cool drops of snow landing on his face, on his uncovered hair.
"It's so beautiful," Haylen says, twirling slowly, arms extended as she looks up at the gray clouds above them. When Danse glances back, he sees Rhys watching the taut line of her waist carefully, his eyes unreadable and dark, and then the other man steps forward, shouldering past him to clutch one of Haylen's hands and spin slowly in the yard with her.
Oh, Danse realizes with a start. That's still going on.
Christmas in the Brotherhood is a subdued affair, more a vestige of the old world recognized out of obligation than a legitimate celebration. Usually they'll share a bottle, swap war stories, and play some game. Nothing much, no gifts or luxuries like they used to give in the old world. He's always seen this as the right way to observe the holiday - the old world nearly destroyed everything with their indulgences. Sacrifice is necessary for them to keep moving, to keep existing. That means eliminating anything unnecessary to survival, Christmas included.
And yet -
He can't take his eyes off Haylen and Rhys, their gleeful faces lifted to the sky as they turn languidly, arms extended and hands clasped, looking up into the great white clouds above them. It can't hurt to let them have this, can it? What's wrong with a little fun, with morale so low?
Looking at Haylen, he thinks of the sweat on Worwick's face when Haylen administered the last shot of Med-X, the one that slowed his heart before gradually stopping it. The way her eyes had dropped down to his mangled legs, the ruin that used to be his left arm. The way Worwick's chest had gone down and simply never risen again.
They've seen enough death, Danse thinks, watching the remnants of his squad twirl in the snow like children. It may not be protocol, but it's better to let them have this, to let them enjoy themselves. Tonight he'll open a couple Nuka-Colas he's had stashed for a rainy day and mix them with some whiskey. He'll let the two of them have something of a party while he stands watch outside.
He doesn't want for much; he can be stalwart and turn a blind eye when Rhys ends up in Haylen's bed. The two of them don't ask for much; they deserve this. It's not so cold outside; he'll be okay once he lights a burn barrel.
"Come on, Danse." Haylen's voice is bright, verging on giddy, and she grabs a handful of snow, tamping it down with her fingers. He only has a moment to wonder what she'll do with it before it hits him squarely in the chest, scattering across his uniform in a white powder, making his neck cold where it sneaks in at the collar.
Rhys's smile is wicked, dangerous. In his hands is another snowball; this one Danse ducks. He watches it break apart on the wall of the police station.
"I don't know that we should -" Danse is silenced by a snowball that lands on his mouth, the cold spilling down his chin, freezing his tongue. From Haylen's giggle, it must've been her. Rhys would know better than to hit him in the face, anyway. He argues with himself for a moment - someone really should stand watch with all the ferals in the area - and then when another snowball hits him in the shoulder his decision is made for him.
Danse sets his laser rifle carefully against the wall, standing up and in easy reach in case a hostile approaches, then ducks down behind the small retaining wall at the top of the stairs. There's a laugh from Rhys as he hits Haylen with a snowball, and her higher voice promises of retaliation.
The snow is cold in his hand, but then again, what did he expect? He curls his fingers together, working quickly to make a series of snowballs, pleased by the way the snow clings to itself, the way it keeps the shape he gives it, even the small dents of his fingers. He wonders if people did this, before the war, if they would gather in the front yards of their blue and yellow and pink houses and fling snow at each other until they were all too frozen to think.
He thinks they must have.
When he raises his head over the small wall, Rhys has Haylen in his grip, one arm wrapped around her waist as the opposite hand stuffs snow down the back of her uniform. His shot is perfect, easy to line up. He takes aim and -
Fire!