WARNING: Spoilers for the main story are hinted at here. After this chapter, this fic will contain definite spoilers for Fallout 4.

Reunions

The void yawned beneath her, hungry and waiting.

It was a peculiar feeling, Quinn decided, to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Would existence be offended by her? Would it care? Would it even notice at all?

Her body grew numb as the landscape – choked and saturated by nothing – shifted between a dazzling black and a deep white. Or was it the other way around? Quinn frowned as the colours melted together into a blur that pushed down on her with infinite weight. And yet she floated, unbound and lost in the vastness of...of what?

What is this?

A blast of energy surged through a small, circular room, crackling up the walls and streaking along the floor in jagged bolts. And then Quinn was there.

Quinn hadn't expected to be there. Truth be told, she hadn't known what to expect, but the idea of suddenly being flung forward into an entirely new state of there without any actual force was something time and space wasn't quite prepared for. Apparently neither was Quinn; her body braced for an impact that had no intention of existing and she went skidding along the floor.

Quinn clamped down on the scream of shock with everything she had – her gun flew away from her with a loud clatter, and there was a bang as she hit the ground, followed quickly by a stream of barely coherent swearwords. She lay there for a moment, panting and shaking as the adrenaline worked its way through her, leaving just as quickly as it came. After a few seconds, the haze cleared and a strange, elated terror bubbled up from the pit of her stomach, filling every crevice of her body. She was in the Institute. She had survived.

My gun? Where the hell is my gun? Quinn thought, frantically scanning the area for it. It lay in the next room, about three feet away, the low lighting reflecting dully off its tarnished casing. With a grunt, Quinn pulled herself onto her hands and knees and crawled forward, scooping up her precious weapon and holding it aloft.

The room was devoid of any life, but full of glossy furniture and several computer consoles; they were not as grand or as advanced as she had anticipated, and certainly wouldn't look out of place in the wasteland. The area was dark, save for a row of dim lights that gave a slight glow to the walls and floor - an eerie companion to the silence.

This was the thing that unnerved Quinn the most. It occurred to her that she had never heard true quiet until this moment. The Commonwealth was in a constant state of chaos, where a rare place of peace was still plagued by bustle and ambient danger. Even the quiet of the pre-war countryside - or the churches and libraries - paled in comparison; some form of distant noise could always be heard. But here, there was nothing.

At least they weren't expecting me, Quinn mused as she climbed to her feet and edged forward, scanning through the gloom. If they had, I would be dead by now.

She shot the computer console a quick look and shrugged. If the most scientifically advanced organisation in the wasteland hadn't been expecting intruders, maybe they wouldn't be expecting someone to be snooping on their computers either. Quinn pulled the device out of her pocket and set it down on the side while she tapped away. As she had suspected, they hadn't bothered to tighten up the security on it, and soon she had found where Sturges wanted her to go. The device clicked into the computer with ease, and within minutes it began bleeping, demanding to be returned to her pocket.

Quinn complied and then glanced down the corridor, her heart in her throat. She stepped forward, and a pleasant voice, rich and low, rang out from the intercom system. Its refined quality threw her off - despite being in the lair of the Commonwealth's bogeyman, it wouldn't have sounded out of place at a pre-war hospital.

"Hello. I wondered if you might make it here - you're quite resourceful. I'm known as Father...the Institute is under my guidance. I know why you're here. I'd like to discuss things with you, face to face. Please, step into the elevator."

Step into the elevator. It had to be a trap, but as Quinn moved into the next room, she could see no other way forward. There was only one other door, and it was securely locked. Chewing her lip, she glanced at the elevator - it was beautiful, a glass cylinder with what looked like a DNA helix pattern emblazoned on it. Gun raised, Quinn stepped inside and hit the button. As she began to move down, the man - Father, or whatever his name was - spoke again:

"I can only imagine what you've heard. What you think of us. I'd like to show you that you may have...the wrong impression."

Bars of light flickered past in the dark elevator shaft while the man paused. If Quinn hadn't been so wound up, she would have rolled her eyes. He clearly had a love for the dramatic. She didn't care. She was only here for-

"Welcome to the Institute."

The dark tunnel opened out into a wide, gleaming facility. It stretched out below her, a huge dome filled with such polished perfection; it took Quinn's breath away. The ceiling was the first thing she noticed, a curved sheet of metal with a spattering of white lights across it, like the night sky of centuries past, captured in an old black and white photograph.

Great pillars - no, towers - ran all the way from the top to the bottom, uniform in appearance, the repeating balconies and furniture suggesting apartments or offices. Lit up signs of different colours were hanging from the vast walls in equally divided sections, and as Quinn drew closer to the ground, she saw the floor was glass plating overlaying clear water. Metal lay on top of this glass, framing each panel in a precise, symmetrical pattern. Scientists - or at least men and women in clean, white outfits - walked by, either oblivious as they talked amongst themselves, or deliberately ignoring her presence.

"This is the reality of the Institute; this place, these people, the work we do: for over a hundred years we've dedicated ourselves to humanity's survival. Decades of research, countless experiments and trials, a shared vision of how science can help shape the future. It has never been easy-"

The voice had been babbling on as Quinn had stared out at the structures with wonder. Then she lost sight of it all as the elevator went through the ground floor and into the levels below.

"-our actions are often misinterpreted by those above ground. Some day perhaps we can show them what we've accomplished. But for now, we must remain underground."

The elevator slowed to a smooth halt, and the glass doors opened. The corridor wasn't as glossy as the area above. It was still clean by pre-war standards, and pristine by the wasteland's, but deliberately less impressive. It spoke of function, not form; bare metal walls painted grey with highlights of yellow, and exposed pipes and machinery casing on display.

"There's too much at stake here to risk it all. As you've seen, things above are...unstable."

God, he likes to talk, Quinn thought to herself, her palms sweating as she clutched tightly at her rifle. She would put a bullet in the fucker's head regardless of whether she had Shaun with her or not; this Father needed to pay for what he had done to her family, and his death could ensure she wasn't followed once she escaped with her son. She followed the yellow and grey corridors before reaching another elevator. Like the corridor, it was less showy than the previous elevator, its purpose decidedly practical. Quinn stepped inside and hit the button with a loud click.

"I'd like to talk to you about what we can do for everyone. But that can wait. You are here for a specific...very personal reason."

Damn right I am, you sonovabitch.

The elevator opened. This room was also grey and yellow, a door visible from where she stood, a console full of red and yellow buttons to the left of it. With steely determination, Quinn checked her gun was loaded and ready to use, and then moved on. But as she stepped into the room, she saw the door was connected to what looked like a glass cell, and inside was…

Shaun.

"You are here for your son."

Quinn froze. Her baby. Her little boy; the spitting image of Nate. All other thoughts left her head as the world stopped, ice flooding into her veins. He was here. He was safe. Losing all sense of a rational plan, Quinn sprinted forward, jabbing at the control panel for the door. It wouldn't open. A great, desperate longing was building up inside her, trying to claw its way out towards the child. Crying out in frustration, Quinn ran to the glass and began banging on it, but it didn't so much as move, even when she hit it with the butt of her rifle.

Shaun was looking at her, wide-eyed and frightened, backing away. It didn't matter. She could explain in time. She could explain.

"Shaun!" she screamed, dropping her weapon to the floor and beating frantically on the glass with her fists, trying to push aside thoughts of the vault and of Nate. "Shaun, it's me! Shaun!"

"Hey there, crew cut."

Danse stopped, his hand hovering over the screwdriver Sturges had lent him. Every muscle in his body tensed; it seemed even at night he couldn't escape from being provoked. This was the second day of hell now. Two days of waiting for Quinn to return, two days of the ghoul testing his patience with his childish rhetoric of 'freedom' and near constant goading. Two days of the Brotherhood's name being openly mocked in front of him. He was doing his best to avoid a confrontation, but whatever he said to Hancock seemed only to fuel him further. Danse was sick of it.

The trouble had begun when the ghoul had found out about his altercation with the synth. Danse had thought no more of it – he had promised Quinn he would trust her, and he had stuck to his word – but Hancock seemed to take some sort of personal affront to the incident, despite the fact he had kept as far away from the synth as possible.

"What's your problem with Valentine?" the ghoul had said. "What's he ever done to you?"

"He's a freak of nature, just like you," Danse had snapped back. The insult had come from nowhere. Something about the ghoul just rubbed him the wrong way – coupled with Quinn's recent departure and his own confused feelings, he'd had little energy to mask his distaste.

Upon reflection, perhaps he shouldn't have called the ghoul a freak. But then again, Danse wasn't the kind of man to feign tolerance or friendship. If he didn't like someone or something, he would not hide it when pressed.

"Go away," Danse said now, not bothering to turn around as his fingers closed around the screwdriver. He'd seen Hancock twirl his knife with surprising ease; Danse's rifle was not at hand, and he was not in his armour. Better to have something than to wait like a brahmin for slaughter.

"Now that's not very nice," the ghoul sneered. "Can't a guy just come and talk to his favourite Brotherhood drone? I just want to see what makes you tick."

Hancock's voice needled Danse in ways he never could have imagined, and he suspected the ghoul knew this. Gritting his teeth, Danse adjusted the light hanging next to the power armour station and focused on the hole in Quinn's armour – courtesy of the deathclaw – and set about removing the metal plating. It would probably need replacing entirely, but Quinn had accumulated plenty of scrap to deal with the issue.

"Come on, Paladin." Hancock moved into the workshop and sat on a nearby toolbox tower, propping his boots up onto the arm of Quinn's stationary armour, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You're out here representing the Brotherhood. I thought you wanted to make a good impression to all us lesser beings. Talk to me, man to man."

Danse firmly pushed Hancock's feet away, so that the ghoul nearly fell off his perch as his heels slammed back down into the box.

"You're no man," Danse shot at him before he could stop himself. The ghoul had managed to get another rise out of him. Again.

Hancock looked up at him, his black eyes gleaming with triumph. "Oh, I don't know. I think those who have taken a trip to my bedroom would disagree."

Danse made a noise of disgust, but didn't comment, forcing himself to return to his work. His head was pounding with rage, his hands trembling so much he could barely remove the armour plate. Personal insults he could handle, but one more quip about the Brotherhood, just one...

"What's your problem with ghouls?" Hancock asked, running his fingernail down the edge of his blade in a nonchalant manner. He seemed unconcerned with Danse's rising annoyance.

Danse could see him playing with his knife out of the corner of his eye, and tightened his grip on his screwdriver. "Why does it matter? I've done my best to keep out of your way."

"Nothing quite beats the satisfaction of pissing off a bigot."

There was a smugness to Hancock that Danse didn't like, but he liked being called a bigot a lot less. It made him think far too much of Quinn at the Slog, eyes blazing as she shouted him down and denounced him in front of an eager crowd.

"I see ghouls for what they are: a threat waiting to happen. You've been mutated into something past the point of humanity but without the good decency to die first."

"Ooh, that's a real doozy, that one," Hancock cackled, slapping his knee. "Do you practice that in front of your mirror every day before you suit up?"

"Are you honestly unconcerned about the chance of turning feral?"

The question clearly caught Hancock by surprise, as he quickly stopped laughing.

"No," Hancock snapped, flicking his knife between his fingers more quickly now. "And what would you care? You and your friends think you have a right over ordinary folk, but you don't really give a shit."

"People are foolhardy, selfish, and stupid," Danse said, pleased that he had hit the ghoul so close to home. "We protect them from themselves."

Hancock snorted and rolled his eyes. "People aren't kids that need babysitting by a bunch of self-important assholes." He slipped off the box and began pacing up and down the workshop. "Besides, no one fucking asked for your help. What the fuck would you or any of your brothers know about scraping out a living from the dirt?"

Danse threw the screwdriver down with a bang, and for a moment, there was delight on Hancock's face as he took the bait. He didn't care. The glee slipped away from the freak the second Danse spoke. "I'd done more scraping in the dirt by the time I was ten years old than you've done in your whole life."

"You think you've had a harder time than a ghoul?" Hancock asked incredulously, flicking the knife menacingly as Danse loomed over him.

"What I think is that you're a scumbag who got lucky with a cushy job in a cesspool town," Danse spat. His temper, which rarely reared its ugly head, was screaming at him, begging him to grab Hancock by the front of his ridiculous clothes and crack him across the jaw. Only the thought of what Quinn would say if he attacked one of her friends held him back.

"It's easy to be idealistic 'for the people,' but we make the hard judgement calls," Danse continued, taking a step forward. He had hoped to intimidate the ghoul, but Hancock stood his ground, glaring. Danse shook his head. "You're just another corrupt figurehead with no care or responsibility for anyone but yourself-"

Hancock pointed his blade at Danse, indignation etched into every inch of his decaying features as he snarled, "One thing I ain't is a figurehead. I bled for my town when I took over, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"That's debateable," Danse retorted. "What would a self-serving junkie know about lives riding on your every decision?"

"I'm responsible for everyone in Goodneighbor, you asshole."

Danse gave a barking laugh. Even to his own ears it sounded odd, but he paid it no attention. After two days of biting his tongue for Quinn, he'd had enough. Finally, he had struck a nerve, and by god he was going to press on it. With a surge of bitter satisfaction, Danse launched into his next line of attack, "And you do a stellar job of it. Drug addicts everywhere, criminals running rampant-"

"It ain't perfect, but at least folks think for themselves. You don't like it? Tough shit. That's how we live and that's how we like it."

"You're letting them slowly kill themselves."

"They're free!"

"They're deluded, and so are you!"

"Enough!" a new voice bellowed.

Danse blinked, becoming aware that he was almost nose-to-nose cavity with the ghoul. Hancock seemed equally surprised, and they turned to see Nick Valentine, hands on hips, glaring at them. He looked from one guilty face to the other, and Danse had a sudden, strange feeling that he was a child about to be told off by a parent.

"What the hell do you two think you're doing?" Nick said sharply, his yellow eyes blazing in the dark. Both ghoul and paladin opened their mouths to protest, but Nick cut them off with, "Button it!"

Danse flinched. That one had been a common utterance of Cutler's, along with a myriad of other quirky pre-war sayings, thanks to a book he had found during their training. Danse had dismissed it as junk, but Cutler had lapped it up, rereading it over and over until he knew it word for word. Slowly, but surely, the peculiar little phrases had bled into his everyday talk. Hearing it now was like seeing Cutler's ghost, and Danse found himself stunned into silence.

Nick paused before speaking again. "If you two want to want to tear a strip off of each other, be my guest." He folded his arms. "But do it in your own time. Not at night, when folk are trying to sleep. And certainly not when we're waiting for Quinn to return with her son. That kid will have been through hell - no, in fact, both of them will. And the last thing they need is to come back here and find you two idiots yelling at each other. So knock it off!"

The synth's scowl was so sharp, Danse could feel it cutting into him despite the distance between them. As much as he loathed to admit it, the thing was right - not that he would ever say that out loud, and certainly not within earshot of the two freaks. He rubbed the back of his head, feeling the fight drain out of him, fatigue and worry taking over. Where was Quinn? Had something happened at the Institute? He should have been there to help her. He should have insisted-

The hairs on Danse's neck stood on end, and he straightened up as the air became thick and greasy, crackling with energy. Something was coming. The synth and the ghoul had grown still too, glancing around the area, confusion clear on their faces. Danse caught their eyes, and at once, they all knew.

A crack like an electronic gunshot rang out, reverberating through the settlement with a thrumming aftershock that rippled and clawed its way over the landscape. Without so much as a word to each other, the three of them tore around the corner to the burnt out teleporter...and there she was.

Quinn.

It was as if someone had plunged him into a vat of boiling water - heat shot up through him, from his toes right to the tips of his ears. Danse was filled with an urge to grab hold of her, pull her away from that infernal death trap, and make her promise never to…

His thoughts trailed away from him, and he found his body slowing down of its own accord. Nick and Hancock were doing the same. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

Quinn stood alone on the blackened platform, rigid and looking straight ahead. If she saw the three figures in front of her, she made no indication of it. In her hand she held her beloved rifle, but loosely, as if she was barely conscious of its presence. Quinn swayed on the spot with an unreadable expression - that concerned Danse most of all. No matter what mood she had been in, whether grief-stricken or angry or happy, he had always been able to tell. Now she seemed...lost. The Institute had returned an empty shell.

It was Nick that broke the disturbing quiet.

"Quinn," he said, his voice no more than a whisper, "where's Shaun?"

At the mention of Shaun's name, life flooded into Quinn's eyes, but it was nothing but a dull echo; the spark was gone, replaced by a cold, empty sheen that simply imitated the vigour they had once held. She stared at them, her barren features riddled with shock as her mouth traced the word "Shaun."

The gun tumbled to the ground as her hands flew to her head, fingers tearing at her hair, a chilling howl leaving her lips. Danse barely had time to register it before Quinn crumpled, anguish cascading from her and crashing down onto them as she screamed and screamed and...

He was at her side with no memory of moving. All that mattered was being there and stopping the hurt. Her shrieks were ripping through him, the way her nails were ripping through the skin of her cheeks, blood trickling down in thin lines and smearing across her pale complexion. Danse tried to grab her hands, but as he reached for her, she pulled away, a frightening stillness falling over her.

He glanced at the synth and the ghoul; he didn't care what they were, he just needed to know if they could help, but they looked just as alarmed as he felt. Dragging his attention back to Quinn, he noticed her gaze fixed on something behind him, and turned to see what it was.

In the distance, surrounded by trimmed bushes and empty flower beds, was Quinn's old house.

She had pointed it out to him when they had first arrived, in an attempt to distract him from his endless questions about the teleporter. It had been left untouched, Quinn had told him, as a tribute to all she had lost: a memorial. He had nodded, barely giving the run-down old wreck a second glance, and then continued on with his gripe.

I'm an idiot, he thought. It was clearly important to her.

Quinn was staring at it now, wearing a wide-eyed, crazed expression. Every muscle in her body appeared to tense as her breathing quickened, patches of colour bursting onto her cheeks.

With a speed that took him by surprise, Quinn leapt to her feet and launched herself forward, screaming again. But this time there was no grief; it was a frenzied, violent battle cry. She wrestled with the dials of the Pip-Boy, and the holotape compartment popped open, exposing the tape inside. Quinn wrenched it out and hurled it down the street with a strangled sob. A piece of its plastic casing chipped off as it bounced away with a clatter into the darkness, but Quinn didn't so much as look at it as she sprinted towards her crumbling home.

Was that…?

He could think about it later. Danse scrambled up and tore after her, outstripping both Nick and Hancock as he followed her into the house.

The interior was a whirlwind of destruction, and at its centre was Quinn. Furniture flew as she kicked at it, and every fragile, material survivor of the bombs quickly fell prey to her wrath. Danse realised - with an edge of panic - that she had picked up her gun again in her flight. He needn't have worried. Quinn took it like a baseball bat and started clubbing everything in sight, sending a vase sailing past Danse's head as he crossed over the threshold.

"Quinn!" he shouted, striding across to her, but Quinn simply spun on the spot and threw the rifle at him as well. Danse ducked and felt the barrel catch the fabric of his uniform hood, before it crashed straight into the tarnished television set behind him. Quinn didn't seem to care or even notice. When Danse looked up, he caught her running into a room at the other end of the house, and quickly pursued, barely aware of the footsteps of the others as they caught up. As he reached the room, another object - a child's toy - narrowly missed him, hitting the door frame and pinging off it like a bullet. There was a dull thud and a "Fuck!" from somewhere behind him, but Danse paid it little mind. Quinn had turned her rage onto the blue crib, and all at once she seemed to explode.

Whatever Danse had thought her anger had been, it paled into comparison to this. She was incensed, throwing everything she had at the small cot with the peeling paint. Or she would have done, if Danse hadn't grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Quinn ignored his grip, her arms and legs lashing out at the little piece of furniture with such fury that he found himself struggling to keep hold of her. With a grunt of effort, he managed to lay his other hand on her shoulder, and dragged her around to face him.

Snarling, she shoved him. Danse had expected her to simply bounce off him, but to his shock, he actually gave a slight stagger. He had made up his mind by the time Quinn had whirled back around, ready to continue her assault. Whatever had happened, he suspected she would be heartbroken if the crib was destroyed. Praying he wouldn't hurt her in the process, Danse flung himself at her, wrapped his fingers around each of her arms, and then yanked her back so hard she was nearly pulled off her feet.

Whether through sheer determination or his reluctance to hold her too tightly, Quinn wriggled free and whipped around to face him; all trace of humanity had left her, replaced with something wild - something feral. His hands darted out again and clamped down on her, pinning her in place, but Quinn had other ideas. Her shoulder smashed into his chest, and he finally lost his balance, both of them toppling backwards into a corner of the room.

The wind was knocked out of him as she crashed down, and Danse found himself noiselessly gasping for air while his body processed the blow. When his breath came back, and he sat coughing and shuddering on the floor, he realised that Quinn hadn't moved. Danse glanced down at her to find her almost splayed out on top of him, her head on his chest, her frame limp. Panic shot through him, and he tried to sit up, ignoring the pain that bit into his bruised back and limbs - but as he moved, so did she, her legs drawing up to her chest as her arms slid around his middle, squeezing him.

There was a lump in Danse's throat. This was...unsettling. With an air of uncertainty, he said, "Quinn?"

Quinn didn't answer, but she started to shake. The cries were quiet at first, muffled by his body, but once she took a ragged breath, the racking sobs prevailed, filling the room with her utter agony. Danse stared at her, frozen on the spot. This was nothing like Haylen; holding her for a few minutes wouldn't fix this wound. He glanced up at Hancock and Nick with wide-eyed horror, silently begging them for help. They looked down at him, equally rattled; Nick had his arms folded again, while Hancock chewed his tongue, one hand clamped over his eye.

"I think," Nick said slowly over Quinn's wails, "that we best leave you to it."

"What?" both Hancock and Danse hissed at once.

"You think I'm just going to-" Hancock began, moving his hand away to reveal a cut beneath his eye. He stopped at the look on Nick's face.

"You're damn right you are," Nick replied. "We can't help her right now, and I think the less people that crowd her, the better." Nick nodded towards the holes in the walls of the house, where disgruntled settlers were gathering around to see what the commotion was.

As if on cue, Preston and Piper rushed into the room, both of them armed and ready for a fight. Preston halted so suddenly that Piper ran into him, nearly knocking him over. She peered around Preston and gawped at Quinn, before turning a livid eye on Danse.

"What the hell did you do?"

Piper hadn't been too impressed at the tale of his reaction to Nick either, but she had at least been courteous enough to avoid him. Now, however, it seemed she was willing to let it taint her judgement. Danse opened his mouth to argue, but Nick cut across him.

"Out." The synth pointed to the door and glared. "Preston. Piper. Hancock. Out. Go clear the crowd away. The show's over."

Both Piper and Hancock burst into protests, drowning Nick out, and soon all of them stood in a circle, arguing.

"If you think I'm just leaving her here-"

"The General needs space-"

"Look at him! He's no idea what he's doing!"

"-have to drag me out!"

"He's a soldier! He'll know how to treat shock-"

"-fuckin' Brotherhood don't know shit!"

Danse watched from the floor; the volume was rising with their tempers, and he could feel his own urge to yell bubbling up. For Quinn's sake, he didn't want to be left alone with her, but even he could sense the noise was upsetting her. Her shaking was growing steadily more violent, her grip on him becoming painful, but using his training to shout them down would not help matters.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

It was all well and good knowing about 'shock,' but this was far beyond shock, far beyond anything he felt capable of handling. There had only been one other time that he'd seen her so far over the edge, and he wasn't even sure how much he had helped her then. But it was worth a try. With the awkwardness mounting inside him, Danse wrapped his arms around her as he bowed his head, reciting the mantra of the vault.

"Quinn," he said, just loud enough to be heard over the bickering, but quiet enough so as not to startle her. "Quinn, you're safe. You're here with me, Danse. And Piper and Preston, and…" he paused, twisting his mouth with distaste. They were her friends. He could put aside his revulsion for now. "...and Hancock and Nick." His palm gently rubbed her back, trying to pull her away from wherever she had gone, while the other arm was around her waist, holding her to him. He continued to talk, a constant stream of grounding and reassurance, unaware that the argument in front of him was slowly winding down.

It was Piper who saw it first, her anger dying in her throat. Nick followed her line of sight and stopped talking, followed shortly by Preston. Hancock was last, his indignation seeping away with a mumbled, "What are you look…?"

Danse noticed none of this, focusing entirely on Quinn. Perhaps it was his imagination, but her shudders seemed to have lessened, her crying reduced to the occasional whimper. He frowned, his ears becoming attuned to the new quiet, and looked up. All four of Quinn's friends were staring at him. A deep flush crept up his cheeks, and he suddenly felt foolish. This was stupid. He wasn't the right person to help her - he couldn't even help himself these days. Better for Piper or Preston to take over and do a better job of it.

And yet Danse found he couldn't bring himself to let her go.

"Well, I'll be damned," croaked Hancock. "You had it in you after all, tin can."

"I think," said Preston in a slow, careful voice, "that the best thing we can do now is give the General some privacy. Come on."

Piper and Hancock glanced at each other. A series of unspoken words passed between them, before Piper sighed, slumping on the spot.

"Alright," she said, shaking her head. She stepped forward and crouched down, moving a piece of hair out of Quinn's face and tucking it behind her ear. "We'll talk in the morning, Blue, okay?"

Quinn didn't respond.

Piper drew back and left with Preston, hunched and small, but Hancock remained, his withered face drawn into a tight scowl. He was playing with the knife again, the blade flowing over his fingers as he looked pointedly at Danse, conflict rippling through his features. Then he stopped, the tension leaving him, and nodded, before following the other two out.

Nick watched Quinn for a second and then directed his gaze at Danse. "I'll get you two some blankets so she doesn't get too cold." When Danse nodded mutedly, Nick left the room.

It was just Danse and Quinn now.

He took the opportunity to study her, his hands gently patting up and down her body, checking for injuries. There were none. Examining her face revealed nothing either, though Danse made note of the dark shadows under her eyes and the smears of blood from where she had scratched herself. With any luck, the cuts wouldn't scar; they weren't particularly deep. He went to trace them with his fingers, but then withdrew.

Inappropriate.

If anyone from the Brotherhood saw them now...Danse squirmed at the thought. He could not ignore the fact that although Quinn was having some sort of breakdown, although he was responsible for her well-being, as a friend and a mentor...a small part of him enjoyed having her this close. The disgust he felt towards himself was almost overwhelming.

Danse stared blankly at the wall, heart racing; was this right? Was this what she wanted? Truth be told, it didn't look like she was in any sort of shape to want anything, but...she had clung to him. Was that from desperation or something else? Perhaps he just wanted to justify his improper behaviour rather than accept it like a man.

Nick returned with an armful of blankets just as Danse heard Piper's voice in the distance giving the settlers an earful, telling them to go back to their beds.

"Feisty, isn't she?" Nick said. His hat was set aside as he knelt down and threw several of the sheets over Danse and Quinn. He tucked the blankets around them, taking care to keep her head uncovered, leaving Danse's upper body exposed. Nick considered this and then looked at Danse. "Lean forward."

Danse complied, trying not to disturb Quinn too much as she snuffled in his arms. Nick put his hat back on as he stood and picked up another couple of blankets, draping them around Danse's shoulders and neck. When the paladin leaned back again, he felt much warmer.

"...Why?" It was all he could manage.

"It's a cold night," Nick replied with a shrug. "You're an ass, but you care about her. And she clearly cares about you. That's good enough for me. Look after her. I'll check in every hour or so to make sure you're both alright."

He left without another word.

Danse stared after him - no, it - thoroughly confused. That was not how machines were supposed to act. Obviously it was just a way to try and gain his trust. Well, it won't work on me. He scowled, irritated, and then sighed, watching Quinn. With the addition of the blankets, she had settled down almost completely, her anguish reduced to nothing but a few incoherent mumbles. God, he wished he could help her.

"Quinn…" There were so many things Danse wanted to say, but didn't know how. They were either beyond his ability or his own comprehension. He knew he felt something for her, but exactly what, he didn't know. It was a turmoil he'd never experienced before: a happiness that also troubled him deeply. He shook his head and mumbled, "I'm here for you."

Quinn didn't answer, but he felt her fingers dig in slightly as she moved closer into him. She was quiet now, her breathing moving with his as they sat in silence, and he allowed himself to be immersed in her warmth. That same infectious calm he felt in Goodneighbor was back, his mind swimming with images where they stayed like this for hours, no heartache involved. Just them and a peaceful moment together.

With another sigh, Danse forced his body to relax and laid his head back against the wall.

It was going to be a long night.

A/N: Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title! Thank you to fallendawn, ravenbohique , critrawkets, and synthbutts (on tumblr), and waiting4morning (on FFnet) for their invaluable beta help.

I have been super excited for you guys to read this chapter. I have had it in my head (and have been building up to it) from the very beginning, and I really hope you liked it. :)

Also, I read a thing on tumblr somewhere, and people in it were like "I don't want to list off too many things that I liked about a fic in case the author thinks I'm weird."

Guys. GUYS. Seriously. Feedback is my lifeblood. If I were a dragon, I would make feedback my treasure hoard. If you have anything you want to say about my writing, good or bad, tell me! Theories about what will happen? Tell me! Feelings about a particular thing that happened, or a particular event, or a particular character?

TELL ME. :D

You could write me a goddamn essay and I wouldn't think you were weird. Every time I get a review, I read it over and over because "Oh my god someone took the time to write and tell me what they thought about my story."

Honestly, if you want to tell me something, then tell me something. I will never think it is bad. Every comment makes my day! And I read every. Single. One. :)