A notice: I am looking for a couple of betas to help me out. My usual one is on a well deserved break.

A Maxson Standoff

"I don't understand why you had to keep this a secret," Danse said for what felt like the thousandth time in the space of five minutes. "A teleporter into the Institute would have been invaluable for the Brotherhood. We could have found a way to send more than one person."

"Ignoring the fact I had already started this project with the Minutemen months before I'd even met you," Quinn said, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice, "as I told you on the Prydwen - and about six times just now - the Brotherhood couldn't provide me with what I needed."

"But if you had told Elder Maxson-"

"No!" Quinn snapped, all patience abandoning her. "Are you so blind as to what Maxson is?"

"Elder Maxson."

"Elder Maxson," Quinn conceded grumpily, thinking no twenty year old deserved to be called her elder. "He keeps the bigger picture in mind, but glosses over 'acceptable' casualties. If he knew that I had an instant way to infiltrate the enemy, do you really think he would concern himself with the safety of my son?"

Danse didn't answer.

"Once the Institute realises how I've gotten inside," Quinn went on, "they will patch up the hole and make it impossible to gain access again. Elder Maxson isn't stupid; he would expect this, and he would use his only opportunity to take the Institute down, consequences be damned." She breathed out heavily through her nose. "I can't allow that. Shaun comes first, every time. I had hoped the Brotherhood would give me a way that didn't involve an unstable teleporter, but sadly I was mistaken. And so here we are."

Danse shook his head, looking troubled. "I don't think this is a good idea. It's too risky. There must be another way."

"Well, there isn't," Quinn replied bluntly. "And I've wasted far too much time; if I'd just stayed with the Minutemen from the start, I'd probably have Shaun back by now. And I know what you think about my impatience," Quinn added, before Danse could open his mouth to argue. "But tough. I am done fucking around in the Commonwealth trying to solve the problem, just because I don't like the answer in front of me." She let out a deep, ragged breath, clenching her hands into fists. "The teleporter is being built, and I am using it."

Her tone must have had degree of finality to it, because Danse didn't question her further. They trudged towards Sanctuary in silence, an icy annoyance growing between them. Quinn didn't give a shit. Her nerves were frayed past the point of endurance. All she wanted now was to throw herself into this new task. As they neared the settlement, a figure in a smart uniform stepped out from one of the crumbling houses, his weapon half raised. When she drew close, however, he lowered it; a wide smile appearing on his handsome, gentle face.

"General!" Preston cried, half running, half skipping towards her. "I didn't realise that was you! Where have you been?"

Sturges' head poked out from a nearby window, eyebrows perked in surprise. "The General's back?" he said. He turned to look at her and blinked. "You're with the Brotherhood now, General?"

"I am," Quinn called back to him, "but that doesn't mean I've abandoned the Minutemen either."

"The General of the Minutemen?" Danse frowned. "Is there anything else I don't know?"

"About as much as I don't know about you, Paladin," Quinn shot back. She looked at Preston, her own face breaking into a cheeky grin. "Preston! Any settlements that need help?"

"Well now that you mention it..." Preston began, but then winked at her. "Since the radio channel was activated and the Castle secured, new recruits have been coming in by the day. We have the numbers to send out regular patrols to the settlements under our protection, all thanks to you." He shook her hand, scowling when Sturges barged him out of the way, his own hand extended. Quinn took it with a laugh, allowing him to vigorously pump her arm. He looked as if he'd run all the way from the house to greet her.

"Welcome back, ma'am," he said. "Honestly, we weren't too sure if we'd see you again, but we kept working on..." Sturges voice trailed off as he gave Danse a wary look.

"This is Paladin Danse," Quinn said, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of Danse. "It's okay, he knows about the teleporter. He's a friend - you can trust him."

Sturges nodded. "Well, as I was saying, we weren't sure if you had left for good, but we decided to work on the thing anyway. A nice challenge to break the monotony of building houses."

"That monotony is giving people shelter," Preston said in a voice so scathing it could have given a deathclaw pause for thought, but Sturges didn't seem troubled.

"Yeah, but it's not exactly taxing, is it?" Sturges said, shrugging. "Nothing wrong with trying to decipher the plans of technology so advanced most people don't believe it exists."

Quinn laughed. "So, good progress then?"

"Yeah, actually. We had some extra help from a friend of yours. We haven't built anything, because it seemed like a waste of resources if you weren't going to use it, but we got the technical stuff mostly figured out at least."

"A friend of mine?" Quinn asked, but as she said the words, she knew. She knew. Piper hadn't seen him for months. He had wanted her to stay in Sanctuary and work on the teleporter. Quinn glanced at the paladin, terror rising up in her. Oh shit, oh fuck. Please no please no please-

"Nick!" Sturges bellowed over his shoulder towards the house Preston had initially emerged from. "The General's here! Bring out those plans!"

To Quinn's horror, Nick replied.

"The kid's back?" he called. "About damn time!"

"Nick, stay where you are!" Quinn yelled, her hands tightening on her gun, eyes fixed on Danse. Danse looked at her, frowning as suspicion began to creep into his face. Everyone was staring at her. Even Trashcan Carla and her mercenaries had stopped to gawk, one of them peering with interest over his black sunglasses.

"What?" Nick Valentine shouted back. "Hang on, I can't hear you." He strolled out of the house - still wearing his trademark hat and coat - and undeniably, unmistakably, a synth.

Later on, Quinn would decide that it had been the shock that had saved Nick's life. Danse stared at the detective - completely dumbstruck - for what seemed like an age, his lips silently forming the words "...friend of mine...real nice guy…"

By the time he had raised his weapon, Quinn had thrown herself between the two of them, her own rifle directed at Danse. Quinn never thought she would be staring down the barrel of the paladin's gun; it pointed at her chest - Nick's head height, she thought dimly - still and steady. Her own rifle was trembling, but she kept it aimed firmly at the paladin. The surprise that graced his features was strong, but fleeting; it was quickly replaced by a cold, hardened expression. Danse tried to dodge around her, but she moved with him, consistently blocking Nick from view. Quinn's heart felt like it was going to break through her ribs, with his glare so intense that her will almost buckled. It took everything she had, but she held fast. If she stepped aside now, Nick would die.

"Stand down, soldier." He spoke with force, each word a fortress, separated and walled with authority. The weight of it pressed down on her, demanding she moved; Quinn felt her legs tremble as they begged her to obey.

"No." Was she talking to herself or to Danse? It didn't matter. The effect was the same; the shakes increased, but her resolve strengthened. She was vaguely aware that Preston and Sturges had pulled out their own guns, too. "You need to stand down."

"What possible explanation do you have for sympathising with these machines?" Danse spat. The sheer venom was overwhelming and, in that moment, Quinn wasn't sure if he would shoot her as well.

"You said you would trust me," she said, her voice trembling as much as her gun. "You said you would trust me if I told you there was good in a person."

"A person, not a-"

"Nick is a good man," she shouted, drowning him out, and Danse stared at her in disbelief, before firing up again.

"That thing is an it, not a man!"

"You're no prize yourself, bucko," Nick grumbled from somewhere behind her.

"Nick!" Quinn snapped in alarm as Danse's face went scarlet.

"Sorry, sorry."

Quinn fixed her eyes on Danse again. He still hadn't moved, but an edge of uncertainty had crept into him. At the very least, his scowl had lessened somewhat.

"Please," she said, "listen to me. I know what you think of synths, but I've known Nick for almost as long as I've been in the Commonwealth. He's a detective; he spends his days working with people to look for their missing loved ones. Nick helped me start the search for Shaun - without hesitation, without asking for anything in return - and he found my husband's murderer. He is, in every sense, a good man. So I'm begging you. Please, stand down."

There was a stillness in the air as Danse stood there, taking in her words and mulling them over. Quinn could see the conflict, the trust he had put in her pushing against the values he held so dear. He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, and then nodded, slowly lowering his weapon. Quinn kept hers up for a few moments, but when his stance relaxed, so did she.

Sturges broke the silence. "We can trust him?" he said in a tone that suggested that anyone who trusted Paladin Danse was as mad as a box of frogs.

"Yes, you can," Quinn shot back at Sturges with a glare of her own. "If it had been anyone else, Nick would be dead and so would I." She turned to Danse and gave him a smile. "Thank you."

Danse did not return it.

"I can't say I'm comfortable with this, but…" Sturges ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Okay, okay, we're all one big happy family then. And with that in mind, I assume you're back to work on the teleporter?"

"You know it." Her teeth chattered together as she spoke, distorting her voice. The adrenaline was wearing off. It had been a frightening moment, almost unreal as the world slowed down around her. He had pointed a gun at her, and she had stood her ground. Even now, she didn't know if he would have shot her. Had Danse been tempted? And more importantly, if he hadn't backed off first, would she have gunned him down to save Nick? Nate flashed to mind, body spasming as Kellogg's bullet ripped through him, and Quinn felt a wave of nausea. Would she have killed Danse?

I don't know. God, I don't know.

"So, uh, Danse?" Sturges went on. "That's your name, right?"

Danse nodded. "Affirmative."

Sturges' eyebrows rose so high, Quinn thought they were on the verge of sprouting wings and flying away. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment - as any sensible man would when considering teasing a seven foot, armoured soldier carrying a modified laser rifle - and then smiled. "Alright, Danse. I hear you Brotherhood types are good with technology. Why don't we leave the fearless General and robot man to do the grunt work, and we'll make a start on the complicated wiring?"

"Sturges," Preston said, "you need to show more respect to-"

"It's fine," Quinn interrupted, waving down the Minuteman's objection. "I'm good for a bit of grunt work."

Sturges shot Preston a triumphant smirk and sauntered off, sticking out his hand towards Nick and taking a page of the plans off him as he went. Danse followed, determinedly not looking at Quinn or the detective, and disappeared with Sturges inside the house.

Quinn sighed. "Come on, Valentine. Let's see what we need to do." She took the remainder of the plans off him and opened them up, vaguely remembering Sturges telling her to build the various pieces months ago. Humming to herself, Quinn scanned the paper and muttered at the amount of scrap needed. If her stash was intact, she'd have enough for some of the work, but she'd need Hancock to follow through with his end of the deal to finish the rest.

"Hey, kid," Nick murmured as they walked towards a cleared out space where a wreckage had stood months ago. "What you did back there...I just wanted to say thank you."

"Don't mention it," Quinn replied, her nose still buried in the plans.

"No, I will mention it." He grabbed her arm to stop her and gently tugged the papers away. "You put yourself between me and that moron without a second thought. Do you know how many people would actually do that?"

"You're my friend. You must have a shit social circle if-"

"Most people, friend or not, wouldn't risk their lives for a synth."

Ah. Now that was interesting. Quinn tilted her head to the side and folded her arms. "Come on, Valentine. Are you telling me none of the people you've befriended over the years wouldn't try to save your ass if you were in trouble?"

"No."

Nick didn't elaborate, which was worrying. It was so final, so absolute, as if he felt there was no argument that could stand against it. Did he have a point? Quinn thought back to when she had entered the Commonwealth and gone looking for 'the detective.' No one had bothered to mention he was a synth; the first time she had seen his tattered face and metallic, skeletal hand, she had admittedly been unnerved. But he had proven to her, time and time again, that he felt and thought as she did, that his existence was just as human as hers.

"Nick," Quinn said gently, "I can't be the only person to recognise you're a person. You're selling yourself short."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking it upsets me," Nick said with a shrug. "It doesn't. You haven't lived with the Institute looming over your head your entire life, like many of the people have here. All they know is rumour and fear; most of them have an idea of a synth in their head long before they ever meet one. And when they do, it usually isn't under the best circumstances."

Quinn had heard enough talk of the kidnappings - even seen a synth imposter revealed in Goodneighbor - to know this was a fair observation. A new question surfaced in her brain, one that made her uncomfortable. If she had never met Nick Valentine, would she see synths the same way she did now?

"Most people are wary," Nick went on, "and even those who like me would still see my life as...less than a human's. It's not their fault; I'm not human, even if I think and act like one. But you were willing to put yourself in front of a gun for a machine." Nick handed back the plans to her. "You're a rarity, kid. I just thought you should know that."

Sweat trickled down Quinn's forehead and cheeks as she lugged a large piece of metal across Sanctuary to the foundations of the project. It would have been easier to move it in her power armour, but it had become so sweltering inside the suit that her thoughts on the idea were firmly 'fuck that.' Nick was tinkering away in the distance, grumbling every time he dropped a piece of scrap on his foot.

Finally reaching the work platform, Quinn noticed one of Trashcan Carla's mercenaries watching her. He clocked her looking back at him and hastily turned away, fixing his black sunglasses and tugging down slightly on the grotty hat he was wearing.

Something clicked into place.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said to Nick, and marched across the settlement, hands on her hips. The mercenary glanced over his shoulder, saw her stomping towards him, and tried to sidle away.

"Don't even think about it, you tab-dodging molerat!" Quinn yelled, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. The mercenary stared at her, momentarily flummoxed, and then a wry smile flickered over his lips as she launched into her next line. "So you thought you could skimp out on paying your share at the Third Rail and I wouldn't notice?"

"There a problem?" Trashcan Carla drawled, sizing Quinn up as her hand drifted to the pistol at her hip. The woman had the face of a leathery old boot, and an equally rough personality to match.

"No problem so long as this asshole pays what he owes me," Quinn snarled, pointing at the man in question. "We're going go somewhere private and discuss the terms of repayment."

"Oh come on," the mercenary said, clearly enjoying himself now, "it was only a few whiskeys."

"A few whiskeys, several beers, a bottle of vodka, and at least two hookers that you-"

"Alright, alright," Carla said loudly, raising her hands. She looked from Quinn's glare to the mercenary's wicked grin and rolled her eyes. "For Christ's sake. If you two want to go fuck in the bushes for five minutes, I don't give a shit. Just don't come over here making a scene like you wanted him for something else." Jerking a thumb in the direction of a secluded house down the road, she said, "Piss off. And this is coming out of your wages, Lemmy."

"Yes ma'am," the mercenary said, talking over Quinn's spluttered protests as he grabbed her hand and began dragging her. "Come on, babe." He smirked and reached over, planting a smack on her backside with a loud thwack. Quinn yelped, a deep flush creeping up her cheeks, and gave him a look that suggested imminent murder, but his grin didn't falter as he led her away.

Once they were out of sight and earshot, she exploded. "Deacon, you asshole!"

Deacon fell into peals of laughter, bent over double as she raged at him.

"You ever hit my ass again and I swear to god-"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Deacon wheezed, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to calm himself, "that was too far. But you should have seen your face when she - when she-" He erupted into a fresh set of giggles. Quinn glared at him, trying to ignore the fact the corners of her mouth were twitching, but after a few seconds, she relented and joined in. It had been funny.

Deacon stuck his fingers under his sunglasses, wiping away the tears. "You seriously need to work on your acting. But top marks for effort."

"I aim to please." Quinn paused, and then folded her arms as she remembered why she had approached him. "Back to business, though."

"Ahh, I love business."

"Why are you still following me? You said you just wanted to see if I was worth recruiting. We had a chat and a few beers, and I haven't seen you since. So what's the deal?"

"The deal is that you went and signed up with a group of fanatical lunatics. The Brotherhood, Quinn? Really?"

For the first time since she had known him, Deacon's voice was deadly serious. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling behind those sunglasses, but Quinn suspected he was frowning. She let out a noise that was a mixture of annoyance and weariness. How many more times did she have to explain this shit?

But an explanation wasn't needed.

"We helped you crack a Courser chip. We smuggle synths out of the Institute all the time," Deacon said, shaking his head. "If you wanted in, do you think we wouldn't have found a way?"

"If you could get inside that easily, you would have done it by now," Quinn retorted. "You can bring the synths out, sure, but I sure as hell don't see you getting back in without the teleporter." She massaged her temples, wincing. Her head was pounding, and the argument was doing nothing to help it. It seemed no matter what she did, whatever her intentions, there was someone stood waiting to oppose her. Why was it so hard just to get to her son? She didn't need all this baggage.

"The only reason we're talking now," Deacon said quietly, "is because you still have that special something that caught my eye the first time I met you. Sure, you're rubbing shoulders with a wacky tin can and his equally fun-loving boss, but you're still you. I saw you at The Slog. I saw how you treated the ghouls in Goodneighbor. And everyone saw what you just did for ol' Valentine. You've made a mistake, that's all. Leave the Brotherhood and come work for us instead. We need people like you."

"I..." Quinn couldn't deny that her discomfort with Maxson's Brotherhood was growing by the day, but she found that the word Deacon wanted to hear was one she just couldn't utter. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Is it because of what you were talking about this morning, or something else?"

"How did you-?" She stopped herself. This was Deacon. Of course he had heard earlier. "The former."

"Even though you have your doubts?"

"Even though I have my doubts," Quinn repeated. Despite the fact she couldn't see his eyes, Deacon's demeanour softened considerably.

"Quinn." He was whispering now as he leaned towards her. "You know as well as I do that the Brotherhood hates synth sympathisers as much as synths. If you..." Deacon paused, and this time she could clearly see the frown written across his entire face. He was considering something. Considering her. After a long silence, he shook his head and straightened up. "So long as you don't lose yourself to this shit, the offer to join us will still stand."

Quinn nodded and he smiled, stretching his arms. The serious discussion was over, a distant memory that she wanted to file away and forget about. Would they really force her to choose? She didn't know Deacon overly well, but he amused her all the same. She certainly didn't want to hurt him. But if she went with the Railroad, there would be a risk to Danse...and the paladin himself would certainly never forgive her for abandoning him and the Brotherhood.

"Time to keep up appearances then." The words cut through Quinn's jumbled thoughts as Deacon tugged at his shirt, pulling it loose from his pants.

"What are you doing?"

"Old Carla thinks we went for some rough and tumble," he said, unzipping his fly halfway down and then tilting his hat, "and I'd hate to disappoint."

"Deacon, don't you dare!"

But Deacon had already bolted back up the hill to Sanctuary, cackling as Quinn yelled a string of obscenities at his flight. She sprinted after him, determined to grab him and beat him to death with his own sunglasses, and had almost hooked her fingers on the back of his leather armour when she heard a settler cry out, their finger pointing to the horizon. Despite herself, Quinn turned to look, and was greeted with the most glorious sight that she had ever seen.

The hulking, misshapen monstrosity lumbered over the hill in the distance, a mass of scrap piled on top of what looked like a piece of an airplane wing, being pulled by two exhausted brahmin. The height of its peaks swaying to a fro with every step of its burdened charges, a large piece of cloth thrown over the mass of junk and tied down with rope.

Perched on top of the huge pile, wearing a shit-eating grin, was Hancock, his red coat flapping in the breeze as the procession drew nearer. Sat next to him, also dressed in red and reading a book, was Piper. She set it aside when Quinn called her name and waved. Quinn ran down to them, grinning widely, a feeling of joy rushing through her with such intensity that she nearly stumbled over in excitement.

The brahmin picked their way across the rotting bridge and slowly pulled their load up the hill. Quinn met them halfway, and when Hancock slid smoothly down the junk pile to the ground, she yanked him into a tight hug.

"Hey, easy now!" he said, though he seemed pleased. "Look who I picked up on the way past Diamond City. Good timing, eh?"

"Perfect timing," beamed Quinn.

"He saved my feet, at least," Piper interjected and grinned. She glanced around. "Where's your friend?"

"Helping Sturges." The idea of telling them what had happened with Nick made her skin crawl. She didn't want them to know. She didn't want them to know what Danse could have done. Was she protecting him, or protecting their opinion of him? Danse wouldn't care if they didn't like him, but for some reason, Quinn did. Gesturing towards the top of the hill, she said, "Come on. We'll get this crap up there and give the brahmin some water. And then, Piper, you can have a catch-up with a certain rusty, old detective..."

Confusion.

It was not an emotion that came easily to Paladin Danse. He was sure of his place in the world and the path he would follow: everything for his brothers and sisters, everything for his cause, and everything for his team. There was no doubt in his mind that one day he would push himself beyond his limits and fall prey to the battlefield, but Danse wasn't concerned. It was a good death; better than Cutler's, and all the other men and women he had let down. Better than he deserved.

Yes, Danse knew his lot in life.

And yet as he worked on a small circuit board, while Sturges clattered around in the background, all he could think about was the standoff that had happened a few hours ago. It was stupid. He was a paladin of the Brotherhood and he shouldn't be allowing himself to be distracted this way; a clear head was essential for victory. Push past it. Move on. Do better.

But try as he might, Danse couldn't get the image of Quinn's gun pointing at him out of his head. He should have shot her for it; he would have been well within his rights - she had threatened him and protected an enemy of the Brotherhood. And not just any enemy, but the enemy - the Institute was Elder Maxson's latest point of focus. Had it been anyone else, Danse was certain he would have taken them down without a second thought, or at least dragged them back to the Prydwen for interrogation. Instead, he had backed off first.

Danse sighed and rubbed at his eyes. The tiredness wasn't helping and he glanced at his power armour. It stood in the corner, a dead husk, cracked open and left to rot. He couldn't wear it if he wanted to do such intricate work, but he missed it all the same. The weight of it was a comfort, another layer between himself and the Commonwealth. Maybe he was an idiot for being here after all. Quinn had pointed a gun at him, and now here he was, doing complicated wiring for a project she had deliberately kept secret from the Brotherhood when she knew it could have helped them.

Did Quinn really care about the Brotherhood at all? Or him? A few hours ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. Now, Danse wasn't so sure. Perhaps the biggest issue was not even with Quinn herself, but with his own inability to read her. Every time he felt he understood her at last, she would change direction. She was possibly the most infuriating woman Danse had ever met; stubborn to a fault, an unruly temper, reckless – oh yes, definitely reckless – argued every little thing with him, put emotion before duty, and was a borderline alcoholic. Everything that he hated about other people - had hated about himself - and yet with her, it was entirely forgivable. What worried him the most was that it wasn't the first time he'd had these strange, conflicting feelings.

It had been his duty to shoot her. Danse had known that from the moment Quinn had stepped in front of the synth, from the moment she had turned against him, but he had held back. Listened to her, despite himself. And then right at the crucial moment, Danse had noticed something. Quinn's rifle had been pointed at his chest. Not his exposed, helmetless head - his armour plated chest. She'd had no intention of causing him harm, whether she knew it or not. That had been the moment he'd lowered his gun.

God, she confused the hell out of him.

Danse sighed, letting the memory drop away as he frowned at the jumble of wires in his hands. Had it been the right choice? He felt angry and muddled about the whole situation; could barely think straight, could barely understand why he had ignored his training so thoroughly.

"Don't even think about it, you tab-dodging molerat!"

Quinn's shriek broke through his thoughts like a super mutant with a sledgehammer. Danse abandoned the wires and strode from the workbench to the window, watching the scene unfold. Even though he still felt irritated with her, it was entertaining to see her screaming bloody murder at someone who wasn't him. Not that the recipient seemed bothered - on the contrary, he was grinning widely at her. Danse watched for a few seconds, his interest waning; he was about to return to his work when the leathery old trader woman said something that made his heart sink.

"If you two want to go fuck in the bushes for five minutes, I don't give a shit. Just don't come over here making a scene like you wanted him for something else."

What did she mean by that? An odd feeling rushed over him and he felt his fingers tighten on the window frame as he observed Quinn with the stranger. Had something happened between them? When? Had it been serious? Why was he smirking at her like that? Were they going to…?

Danse felt his stomach tighten as the mercenary grabbed her hand. His face was burning, his heart hammering against his chest as he watched him tug her away. Quinn was spluttering denials - she had been caught out after all - but she wasn't resisting the stranger. And he was still smirking.

"Come on, babe," the mercenary said, and he leaned over, hitting her backside with the palm of his hand.

Maybe it was Quinn's reaction - a yell of anger, the look she gave the stranger, or any other part of her body language that screamed displeasure - or the fact he could hear the painful noise all the way from where he was. Whatever the reason, Danse saw red.

"Where are you going?" Sturges asked, looking up from his own workbench and frowning.

Danse blinked, realising he had strode halfway across the room, his hand actually on the door frame that led to the outside. He hadn't even put his power armour back on. With mounting unease, he glanced back at Sturges and then to the window where he had been stood moments before. In the distance he could see the mercenary, still pulling Quinn down the hill and towards an old house. The uncomfortable flipping sensation in his stomach was back, intensifying as the questions over Quinn and the stranger returned with a vengeance. Why had that made him so angry? Quinn was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

Danse turned away and returned to his workbench, muttering a weak excuse at Sturges as he picked up the piece he had been working on. His mind was filled with images of the scene outside, of them holding hands, of the mercenary's actions. The mere thought of it was agitating him, and Danse found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. Why did it bother him so much?

Like a vault door rolling into place, realisation came to Danse with a slow, heavy clunk. He dropped the circuitry he had been fiddling with, a sudden heat racing up his cheeks as he stared blankly at the dirty wall in front of him. He was her sponsor; it was wrong. And yet…

Danse glanced over his shoulder; she was just visible on the horizon, and he felt his stomach flip again.

"Shit."

Time slipped through Quinn's fingers like sand as scrap and junk trickled through the workshop, slowly changing into a construction that wouldn't have looked out of place in a science fiction movie. An army of generators hummed in front of her, power coursing through them, ready to be unleashed. The sight of it took Quinn's breath away.

Sturges was bent over a console, its front panel open as he rooted through a technicolor nest of wires and circuit boards. Danse was stood a little further away, inspecting the wires that hooked up the generators to each other and the teleporter. Sturges closed the panel, pressed a few buttons, and then stepped back as the machine flared to life, light surging from the towering platform in the centre.

Her nerves were getting the best of her again. Quinn approached it apprehensively, feeling the heat roll off the teleporter, beckoning her forward. She quickly ran over the plan in her head again, the plan she had told the others earlier while the final touches had been put in place. Leave her armour behind, for starters. Stealth would be key here, and once she made it there, hiding would probably be her best option, unless a firing squad was waiting on the other side. If she survived, she must find Shaun and leave by any means necessary, hopefully the way she had come in.

There were secondary missions too. Promises she had made to get the information she needed. Quinn had only some intention of keeping them: the data hack for Sturges and the package for Virgil. Part of her felt guilty that she would only fulfil these if it was convenient to her, but she held true to what she had told Danse earlier.

Shaun came first.

Quinn turned and saw everyone looking at her; Sturges and some of the other settlers seemed interested, but the rest of them - Danse and Nick, in particular - looked sick with worry. Nick's face was almost perfectly blank, but his arms were crossed tight against his chest. Danse, on the other hand, was wearing a frown and hadn't climbed back into his armour yet. That alone said something had him worked up. He couldn't even look at her properly. Quinn swallowed. She had waited so long for this moment, but now it was here, she didn't know what to do. What would she see on the other side? Would she even survive the journey? Was this the right decision? She would soon find out.

Swallowing her fear, she gave a shaky smile to her friends. "Thank you, everyone. Thank you for all the help you've given me."

There was a mixture of various "you're welcome" from the rabble that stood before her, some more enthusiastic than others. Danse said nothing, still not meeting her eye. No. She couldn't leave like this. Not with an argument. Not when she might…

"Danse," Quinn said, clearing her throat, painfully aware that everyone had turned to stare at the paladin instead. Her voice felt like razor blades. He finally looked at her, and her words became stuck. Danse looked pale and nervous, jaw clenched, eyebrows knotted tightly together, and staring at her with such intensity that, for a moment, she forgot where she was. It was just the two of them, stood either side of a gaping void. She'd never seen him like this before.

With what seemed like a great effort, Danse smiled. "Stay safe, soldier."

"Christ, will you two get a room?" Hancock chipped in. Danse scowled deeply, but everyone else laughed. Even the corners of Quinn's mouth twitched, though the twisting sensation in her stomach quickly made it fade.

"I'll come back," she said, once the laughter died down. "As soon as I can, I'll be back. I'll try and teleport back here, if I'm able. If not...I'll walk it."

There seemed little else she could say. It was time to go. With a deep breath, Quinn faced the teleporter once more, the gale it was creating whipping through her hair and stinging her eyes.

I'm going to die. But if I'm going to die, Nate will be with me at least.

Her fingers scrambled for the tape player on her Pip-Boy, and her husband's voice drifted out from her wrist. She listened as she edged closer to the roiling heat and light, terror crackling through every inch of her body as her hair stood on end with static. Her heart crashed repeatedly against her chest, fighting to escape, and sweat trickled down her cheeks as she shook like a leaf, her breath coming hard and fast.

"Bye honey. We love you."

Quinn stepped into the light.

A/N: I hope I got the characterisation of Deacon right. I never had him as a companion, so I had to do a lot of research, as well as getting actual Deacon fans check over my work to make sure it was right. They said it was.

Also, I imagine Danse as being the kind of guy who only swears when something really pisses him off or when something really surprises/shocks him.

Thank you to ravenbohique , mayorjohnhardcock , normangayden , solstheimart, critrawkets, borderlineslacktivist , and pixel-shiv for their general beta help and/or Deacon characterisation help. Seriously. Thank you.

I've also been planning out this chapter for about a month, right since the start of the fic. I really hope you enjoyed it.