West of Washington
A sharp, clear ringing brought the entire room out of its lull. Quinn leaned over, glad she hadn't sworn in surprise, and hit the top of the old alarm clock, silencing it.
"Alright, everyone," she called out. "Time's up. Hand your papers in, please."
The squires stood up from the cafeteria tables, which had been cleared that morning for the exam with Maxson's permission, and filed towards her, looking nervous. They gave her their answer sheets, one by one, before leaving with their heads bowed. Joshua Cooper was the last to approach, looking sick with worry as he hesitated, before passing Quinn his work.
Quinn gave him a little wink. "You'll be fine, Josh. Relax."
Josh nodded, but didn't smile, and quickly left the mess hall. Sighing, Quinn leant back in her seat, shuffling the papers. Already she could see at least three of the kids had gotten Washington State and Washington D.C. confused; she chuckled to herself and stood up, nodding to the mess hall officer.
"Thanks for letting us use the space."
"No problem," he replied, grinning. "Gives me a nice break from the grunts bitching about noodles being on the menu again."
Quinn laughed and left, heading towards the section of the Prydwen where the scribes lurked. She needed to find Michelle and check their answers together to make sure there were no mistakes. Stephen Cooper hadn't been lying when he had said the Brotherhood was big on education.
"Quinn!"
Quinn turned in time to see Casey Shingler - who was running full pelt towards her - trip over her own feet and collide head on with her in an explosion of paper that sent them both skidding down the walkway. Quinn stared up at the ceiling, the world swaying from side to side, barely aware of the hysterical laughter of the mess hall officer, or the fact Casey was now splayed out on top of her, groaning.
"And this, ladies, is why we don't run on the Prydwen."
Tilting her head slightly, Quinn saw Carson stood over them wearing a shit-eating grin.
"Carson, I swear to God-"
"Alright, alright, hang on." He crouched down and scooped his hands under Casey's arms, lifting her to her feet with ease. The scribe staggered, leaning heavily on the railings, clutching a hand to her forehead as Carson pulled Quinn up, still smirking.
"You alright?" she said to Casey, who was red faced and looking worse for wear.
"Yeah, just…" Casey looked down at the papers all over the floor, and then leaned over the rails to the floors beneath. "Oh, darn it. That'll take ages to pick up and sort out."
"What was it?"
"Notes from my interview with you. I just wanted to make some adjustments with things I found in pre-war history books and those tourist guides you recommended. What were yours?"
"The squires' exams."
"Oh, darn it!" Casey repeated, her eyes widening. "They're so important! We need to get them now! We need to-!"
"Case, calm down," said Carson, putting his hand on her shoulder. "I'll help. Come on."
The three of them spent the next twenty minutes running up and down the various levels of the Prydwen, picking up pieces of paper and throwing them into random piles, before spending another fifteen in the cafeteria, extracting all the squires' answer sheets and putting them in a neat little pile. While they worked, the mess hall officer brought over an ice-cold Nuka Cola for each of them.
"That crash was the funniest thing I've seen all week," he said, smiling shyly at Casey, before giving Quinn a friendly wink. "Here, on the house."
When the papers were eventually sorted, Quinn drained the last of her drink and took her leave, hoping Michelle wouldn't be too angry at how late she was. Not that Michelle Cooper wasn't a nice woman - she was. But she also stressed about every little thing, and when you were in charge of a group of restless children pretending to be adults, there was a lot to stress about.
"Where were you?" Michelle snapped, descending on Quinn as she reached the scribes' section of the Prydwen. She wrenched the papers out of Quinn's hands and hurried back to her desk, pouring over them.
"Bumped into a friend," Quinn said, deciding she couldn't be bothered explaining. She sat down next to Michelle and pulled one of the old books towards her, being careful not to damage the fragile piece of literature any further.
"Why do they keep mixing up Washington state and Washington D.C.?" Michelle said despairingly as they worked their way through the tests. Six of the squires had gotten it wrong.
"It was a pretty common thing back before the war, too. Don't worry about it."
"But Elder Maxson wants them educated properly, the same way he was! This isn't acceptable! This isn't-"
"They're kids," Quinn said firmly, fixing her with a stern look. "They're not going to remember it all straight away, no matter how brilliant Max - Elder Maxson was when he was their age. What matters is that they're trying, and they're willing to learn. You know how many children flunked school in my day?"
Me included. Well, almost.
"They'll get it eventually, I promise. Just keep up the good work, encourage them with positive thinking, and they'll do it at their own pace."
Michelle let out a deep, whooshing breath, and nodded. "You're right. You're right. I'm just...thanks."
Quinn smiled. "It's okay. Want me to get you anything?"
"No, no, I'm good. I think we're finished here, anyway. Thanks again for the help."
"Anytime." Quinn stood up and stretched, ironing out the pains in her neck and back from being hunched over the test results. As she looked up, she saw senior scribe Neriah at the cage of her precious molerats, writing on a peeling clipboard. Now would be the perfect opportunity to ask her a few questions.
"Senior Scribe Neriah?" Quinn said as she edged over.
"For the last time," Neriah said, glaring at her, "my specimens did not escape their cages. I don't know where this ridiculous rumour has come from, but I can assure my work is secure in their-"
"Actually, I just wanted to ask a few questions about ghouls. Scribe Cooper has been teaching me about the wasteland geography and history, but you seem like the right person to go to about the biology of wasteland creatures."
Neriah peered over her notes curiously. "Ah, wait. You're the vault dweller, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Come with me." The senior scribe swept past her, leading her to a desk on the other side of the area. She sat down at it and gestured for Quinn to pull up a chair, before opening a drawer and pulling out a huge book, stuffed with loose pieces of paper. Neriah opened it and flicked through; Quinn was astounded to see it was filled with tiny, almost unintelligible handwriting.
"Did you write this book?" she asked, impressed.
"Yes." Neriah continued to turn the pages, apparently looking for something. "Notes from my studies on the various inhabitants and animals of the wasteland. I have an entire section on ghouls." She stopped, and pointed her finger over the page without touching it. "Here we are. Ghouls. What did you want to know?"
"Well...how they age, mostly...but I don't really know much about them at all. I've noticed some ghouls that I've spoken to talk about being around since the war and haven't changed a bit, but some others are recent, and yet are slowly aging. Why?"
"Well, since your overall knowledge is lacking, I'll give you a brief overview." Neriah flipped a page and pointed at a section of the book. "Necrotic post-humans - that's 'ghouls' to you - are created from intense and prolonged radiation sickness, and typically they have a greatly extended lifespan, with a rumoured ability to not only be immune to radiation, but also potentially heal from it, too. Transformation time varies, depending on the genetics of the individual and how much radiation they are exposed to, but it can range from hours to a year."
"Hours?" Quinn said, stunned.
Neriah nodded. "Hours. The more radiation they are exposed to, the quicker the change, and the more drastic the transformation is." She gestured to a series of intricate, hand drawn diagrams of ghoul anatomy. "Quick transformation is considered to be much more painful and traumatic - or at least by the individuals I have interviewed - and the result is often a ghoul who looks more like a corpse than their slow-exposed counterparts."
"You've...interviewed ghouls?"
"Yes," Neriah said impatiently. "I have no time for the petty prejudices some of my brothers and sisters indulge in. I needed data, so I interviewed them. Their first-hand accounts were nearly priceless to my research. What is interesting is that it appears that the radiation has affected their regeneration abilities. Limbs can be reattached with the more irradiated ghouls, and the most badly affected pre-war specimens appear to not age at all.
"However, it is my theory that ghouls do age, but the background radiation of the wasteland continually slows it down, meaning we still haven't reached a point where a ghoul will die of old age yet. I believe it will happen eventually, though."
"Do all ghouls age the same, then?"
"No. Think of it like this: the more radiation exposure, the slower the aging rate. Some ghouls are only barely ghouls, and age at the same rate, or just a little slower, than a 'normal' human. Those kinds of ghouls are exceptionally rare, though. I have only interviewed one in my time, and his transformation had been very recent. While he looked like a ghoul, his deformity was merely a loss of some of his skin and minor body parts, such as his nose, ears, and hair."
Well, Quinn thought to herself. That explains Rachel's daughter. I'll have to tell her later. Maybe it'll help her come to terms with it.
"I believe, however," Neriah went on, "that if he went into a highly irradiated area himself, his 'ghoulification' would increase to the point of completion, in which his appearance would further degrade, but his lifespan would increase. A fair payoff, considering he was already being stigmatised by his peers for his condition, without the benefits of a longer life."
"What happened to him?"
"Unfortunately, I am unsure. He left to go find such an irradiated area, with promises to give me data on his experiences. Not long after, Elder Maxson declared we would be leaving for the Commonwealth, and I was assigned to this ship for the journey." Neriah sighed, looking wistful. "The sooner we go back, the better. I am eager to find out what became of him. Hopefully he didn't succumb to ferocious post-necrotic dystrophy."
"Post-necrotic what now?"
"Apologies. The layman's term for it is 'going feral.'"
"I've never understood it," Quinn said, frowning. "What causes them to go feral?"
Neriah flipped forward in her book. "There are multiple theories, but the most plausible ones all agree on one principle foundation: the radiation causes their brains to rot, to the point where they can no longer function like a civilised, intelligent individual. Their aggression increases, along with their appetites, and oddly enough, they stop giving out body heat."
"Their brains rot?"
The senior scribe nodded. "Precisely. But as we know, not all ghouls go feral at the same time - there are pre-war ghouls still in full control of themselves, and there are new ghouls that go feral after only a few months. There are two main theories as to why this happens. One suggests that ghouls with further prolonged radiation exposure run an increased risk of becoming feral, which would explain why every glowing ghoul that I have encountered has been feral. There were rumours of a glowing ghoul that had remained civilised, but I honestly think that is nonsense…"
"So you think that theory is true?" Quinn asked, wanting to get the scribe back on track.
Neriah shook her head. "It doesn't explain why some pre-war ghouls with much higher levels of radiation exposure have not gone feral. No, I think the second theory holds a lot more weight than the first."
"Which is?"
"The prejudice and isolation that many ghouls endure, coupled with the trauma of the change, causes them to slowly fall prey to their condition. It has been noted in many unofficial studies that a majority of feral ghouls were individuals who were isolated from - or ostracised by - their peers. Meanwhile, ghouls who are accepted in their communities, or live in ghoul-only settlements, have a substantially lower incident rate of ferals."
"So...people treating them like monsters because they're scared of ferals could be making them into ferals?"
"A crude, sweeping way of putting it, but in its most basic form...yes. It is my belief that if we wish to eradicate feral ghouls from the wasteland altogether, then first we must understand why it happens in the first place." Neriah sighed and gave the Prydwen a dark look. "Sadly, I am almost alone in that sentiment."
Before Quinn could respond, a scribe approached them carrying a huge stack of books. Neriah put her research away and stood up. "I will have to cut this short. Did I answer all of your questions?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Good. I must say, it has been refreshing to meet another open-minded individual on this ship. I hope we can talk again soon. Farewell."
Neriah strode away, taking half of the stack of books with her, the other scribe hurrying after her. Quinn watched her go, and then strolled off in the opposite direction humming to herself. So, it sounded like Rachel's daughter was, at best, some form of half ghoul, unless she was exposed to further radiation. Was it worth telling the knight-sergeant about this? It might help her reconnect with her family. On the other hand, it might drive her further away.
Josh was standing at attention at the end of the walkway, staring determinedly ahead. After abandoning his post several more times over the last month, his mother had dragged him to a corner by the ear and given him a telling off so loud the entire Prydwen had heard it. He had been the embodiment of discipline and dedication ever since.
"Hey," Quinn said as she approached.
"Ma'am," said Josh, saluting her.
"Want to hear your test score?"
His eyes went so wide, he looked like a startled owl; Quinn had to bite back a laugh. He nodded vigorously, so she bent down and whispered in his ear, "One hundred percent."
Josh whooped with delight, bouncing on the spot, just as his mother marched into view. While Stephen Cooper looked like a balding, slightly ruffled pigeon, Vivian Cooper held herself the way a tiger with chronic toothache would.
"Joshua Cooper!" she barked, glaring at him. "What have I told you about-?"
"Full marks, mom!" he cried, face shining with delight. "One hundred percent! I got one hundred percent!"
Vivian paused, her jaw dropping, before smiling. She ran to her son, scooping him up into a bear hug and peppering him with kisses. "Oh, well done!"
"Mom!" moaned Josh, squirming in her grip, but Quinn caught his surprised grin.
His mother set him down, beaming with pride, and ruffled his hair. "Just wait until I tell your father. I think he may have to visit Proctor Teagan for a special treat tonight."
"Fancy Lad Snack Cakes?" Josh gasped.
"We'll see. Proctor Teagan might not have them."
"See you later, Josh," Quinn said, deciding to leave them be.
"Bye!" he said, before turning back to his mother. As Quinn walked away, she heard him ask his mother if he could leave his post, just for a second, and then heard running footsteps as he yelled, "Wait, Quinn!"
Quinn stopped and faced him, just as he threw his arms around her middle, hugging her tight.
"Thanks for the help!" He let go and ran back to his mother, who was watching Quinn with a kind eye. She nodded, her eyes offering her gratitude, and then crouched down to hug her son again.
Quinn left. As much as she liked Josh, she couldn't bear to look at the scene any longer. It made her think too much of Shaun.
Instead, Quinn wandered off towards Teagan's little corner of the world - she had been avoiding him ever since she had gotten drunk, but now she really wanted to work on her armour again, and he had all the equipment she needed. Of course, he would know that her 'radiation sickness' had been something else entirely. The man was not stupid, and as he had sold her the whiskey shortly before her blackout, Teagan would have likely put two and two together.
Had he told anyone else?
No one had mentioned alcohol to her. But then again, they could just be talking about it when she wasn't around. Quinn sighed, trying to push the paranoia away. Cade had told her it was a symptom of her grief, expecting the worst to try and soften the blow when something did go wrong. After all, if it was expected, how could it hurt her?
A lot, it had turned out. She had spent a great deal of time with Cade over the last month, helping him with the other soldiers and learning the tricks of the trade. Over time, she had come to know the same old faces - the thrill seekers, the reckless, the brave, the stupid, the broken - they all had their place in Cade's office.
Her favourite had been the knight with a torn ligament in his leg. He had tried to lie about what he'd done, but eventually the truth had come out: the soldiers - and not just the grunts - had been jumping from the highest places they could find, in order to set a record. Unmodified power armour, able to walk away afterwards - those were the only rules.
The grilling Cade had given the poor knight had been enough to reduce Quinn to tears of laughter. However, when Cade had sent him away, she noticed he didn't report the knight for misconduct. When she had questioned him why, the knight-captain had shrugged.
"Soldiers will be soldiers. I think they're idiots, but I won't take away what small entertainment they have. It helps to keep morale up."
The strange thing was, the more she worked with Cade, the more the others noticed her. On more than one occasion, someone who she had helped patch up once for a minor injury had greeted her in the corridor with a smile. Or given her a little nod from across the armour stations. Or included her in a joke or a conversation while she waited in line for breakfast.
Perhaps it was this then that was soothing the pain in her chest. It all still hurt terribly, but instead of a sharp, cutting agony, it was more like a throbbing ache, calmed by the warmth that now surrounded her.
Quinn had told Cade this, and he had smiled, before asking if she had spoken with Rachel.
"Yes."
"And did it help?"
Now that had been the kicker question. Quinn wasn't sure how she felt about Rachel Marguerie after their talk. Resentful, maybe, that Rachel had her family but wouldn't see them. Ashamed, because Quinn knew she had done the same with Shaun. But most of all...what?
Pity, understanding...relief? No matter what Shaun had done, Quinn still loved him, and for that reason, she couldn't be near him. There was someone in the world who knew what it meant to endure this. That was more comforting to Quinn than words could explain.
"Yes. I think it helped."
The biggest shock to Quinn was that this utterance was not a lie. For the first time in months, Quinn had hope.
I will get through this.
"How's your radiation sickness, knight?"
Quinn jumped. She had walked on autopilot all the way up to Teagan's storeroom. He raised an eyebrow at her, leaning forward through the gap in the mesh that surrounded his little kingdom.
"I...yes. Fine, thank you."
"Good to hear it. I'll make sure not to pass you any unpurified water from now on." He winked, and Quinn knew it would be alright. He wouldn't say a word about the truth.
"Um," said Quinn, blushing. "Just looking to mod my armour. What you got in stock?"
She spent the next twenty minutes haggling with Teagan. For her, it was the principle of being stingy - she had never been one to part easily with her money, a trait Nate had shared. Teagan, however, simply seemed to have a taste for the game, and let her challenge him on every price before firmly putting his foot down when his limit had been reached. By the end of it, both of them were grinning, and even though Quinn left with her pockets lighter than she would have liked, she had enjoyed herself nonetheless.
She made her way to the armour stations, noting Proctor Ingram's approving look at her as she stalked past, barking orders at the initiates. Quinn unloaded the pile of mods in her arms onto a nearby crate, and glanced at her somewhat battered power armour, which had been left untouched since Danse had departed the Prydwen. It had reminded her too much of him.
Quinn wrinkled her nose and sighed, a sharp twinge in her chest. Danse had been drifting in and out of her thoughts with increasing frequency over the course of the month, her feelings a mixed mess. Although her anger was but a distant memory, new emotions had sprung in its place: shame, worry, and longing. None of her friends knew where he had gone - whatever his mission was, it had clearly not been for the ears of the majority. What if he didn't come back at all, and the last thing she had said to him had been borne of spite?
The hardest time was at night. In the enclosure of her own mind, her thoughts swayed between Nate, Shaun, and Danse. All were equally unpleasant - memories of her family stung her and made her eyes prick with tears.
When she thought of Danse, it was their conversations that came to mind.
Some of them had been bad. Her rage, her disrespect, and her hurt, directed at a target that would never really fight her back. Maybe that was why she had done it in the first place.
The one conversation that plagued her the most hadn't really been a conversation at all, but a moment of pure insanity; a catastrophe avoided, only because Danse's character far outstripped her own.
Sanctuary.
Everything had been a mess - nothing clear, a fog in which could not see or feel or think. Blind rage had delivered her to Shaun's room. Danse's persistence had delivered her to his arms.
A haze of pain, and then suddenly, she was aware. He had been clutching her, rising from the depths of his nightmares, and in that instant, Quinn had felt. It had been an explosion in her chest, clouding everything, until all she could focus on was the man in front of her. Nothing else mattered. Just her. Just him.
Her hands had slid across Danse's shoulders, exploring him, her vision tunnelled as her eyes had trailed across his face, drinking in every detail. His brown eyes, usually intense and serious, had been wide and confused, their colour obscured in the dark. But despite the uncertainty, Quinn had felt the tremor in his body as she'd moved towards him, hovering on at the edge of a place she could not return from.
His breath had tickled her skin, his eyes flicking briefly to her lips as she'd waited in front of him, a prize ready to be claimed.
But something happened.
A sharp terror had cut through the smog, and in an instant, Quinn had been filled with an unsettling sense of being there. Whether it had shown on her face, she didn't know, but her limbs froze up as her heart hammered away in panic. What was she doing?
Still, she hadn't moved. Afraid to withdraw. Afraid to proceed. It was all too much for her to process, her brain banging against a glass wall while her body went through a series of hollow motions.
Salvation had come in the form of Danse. The second he had moved her away, life had crashed back into her, so overwhelming that everything was a blur after that.
Even thinking about the incident made her stomach crawl with humiliation. Thank God Danse was enough of a gentleman not to bring up such a blatant meltdown on her part. And yet at the same time, Quinn found herself wondering what he really thought about it. If his words back in Goodneighbor were anything to go by, he was...fond of her.
"I...I didn't know you felt that strongly about our...well, about us."
Her cheeks were burning with the memory, and yet at the same time, it was precious to her. A small moment where perhaps they had both been fully honest with each other, even if they hadn't understood it at the time.
Deacon's words at Sanctuary had played over and over in her head, hitting closer to home than she ever could have imagined.
"Quinn, you're going to have to admit it to yourself sooner or later. Maybe then you'll be more honest about why you make the decisions you do."
No. She couldn't do that just yet. She wasn't ready to accept it. Her love for Nate still burned, but it was like the dying embers of a fading fire, rather than the blaze it had once been. However, until the weight of string and cheap metal around her neck lost its hold on her, moving on was out of the question.
But it's happening anyway, isn't it? she thought dully. I'm losing myself. I'm leaving him behind, trapped and frozen in that vault, while I rebuild and forget.
I'm a terrible wife.
I'm...
A loud bang made her jump so hard, the tip of the screwdriver she had been using slipped, carving a deep scratch in the metal of her armour.
"Sorry!" said Carson, and Quinn turned to see him crouching down, picking up screws and putting them back into a small, metal box while Ingram loomed over him, glowering.
Grinning, Quinn strolled over to him and bent over, smiling sweetly. "And this is why we don't run on the Prydwen, Carson."
"Who said I was running?" Carson replied, pouting as he picked up handfuls of screws.
"Well, if you weren't running, then you're just fucking clumsy. Got Kapraski on the brain?"
Carson turned his usual dark scarlet, but he smiled all the same as he worked in silence, clearing the last of his mess. Straightening up, he handed the box to Ingram, who gave him one final scowl before stomping away.
"You've got oil on your face," Carson said, pointing.
Quinn rubbed at the spot, but judging from her friend's grin, all she had succeeded in doing was smearing it everywhere. She let her hand drop, giving up. "So, you and Kapraski. Spill the beans. How are things?"
Carson tried to hide his smile, but it resisted and broke through, wide and beaming. "Good. Really good. I just…" He leaned against Quinn's power armour, his eyes filled with gratitude. "I don't think I would have made a move without your help. I mean, Rachel never bothered to encourage me, and Casey…" The smile faltered slightly. "She tried really hard to convince me, but because of everything from our hometown, I just...I thought she was trying to be nice to me. That people would be bothered."
"And are they?"
"You know they aren't," Carson replied, shrugging. "I found out from Tom that there are some Brotherhood chapters that do care about that sort of thing, but they're more towards the Midwest. I'm...I'm really lucky I ended up here."
"I don't know. You did get speared a couple of months ago."
Carson laughed. "Worth it. Absolutely and utterly worth it to get to where I am now. I don't think I've ever been this happy."
She could tell he meant it. The expression on his face reminded her of her wedding photo, which was tucked away in the depths of her footlocker. Eyes shining with hope, with plans for the future.
Quinn was delighted for him. She gave him her usual, playful punch on the arm, and gestured for him to follow her back to the power armour station. They talked while she worked, her Brotherhood uniform - which Carson had gotten for her a few weeks ago after she had thrown out her whiskey-stained army fatigues - pulled down to her waist, her white undershirt now on show. It clung to her figure in just the right places, and Quinn noticed the occasional pair of eyes wandering up and down her body as she clattered about the tools.
Not that Quinn minded - she had no illusions about the situation. The Prydwen was a confined metal box, the men and women serving on it crammed together with little to no privacy. Had they been stationed at a proper base with the space for the soldiers to blow off steam, she doubted anyone would so much as give her a second glance.
"Anyway, Knight-Captain Cade says I'll probably be fit for duty in a few days," Carson said, passing Quinn one of the tools she had laid out on the crate into her outstretched hand. "Looks like the muscles are pretty much healed."
"That's great!" said Quinn as she tweaked her power armour helmet. "He's not told me when I'll be out yet, but our talks are getting a lot more positive, so it could be soon. When you're back on duty, do you know whose team you'll be assigned to yet?"
Carson didn't answer, but nudged her in the ribs. When she looked up, he pointed down the nearby corridor.
Paladin Danse was walking towards them, glancing from side to side, as if looking for someone.
Quinn took in a sharp breath, her stomach clenching so violently she felt nauseous. From the corner of her eye, she could see Carson smirking at her, and he leaned over slightly to whisper in her ear.
"I'll leave you two alone, I think."
No, wait!
Her words caught in her throat, and before she could force them out, Carson was gone. He walked past Danse, saluting him as he went. Danse nodded at him, and then turned, his eyes landing on Quinn. All at once, he seemed to stop, eyebrows raising in surprise as he fixed his gaze on her, a slight blush rising in his cheeks.
She felt exposed, suddenly very aware of the clingy white tank top she was wearing. Hoping he wouldn't get the wrong message, Quinn pulled her uniform into place and zipped it up again, wanting to sink into the floor. This seemed to break the spell, and Danse shook his head, walking over to her, his footsteps sending heavy clunks through the metal walkway.
"Paladin Danse," she said, saluting him.
Again, he looked surprised at this, but pleasantly so. It was her turn to be surprised when he saluted her back.
"Knight." He paused, and Quinn noticed how tired he looked.
No, tired wasn't the word. Danse was a wreck. The stubble that had once graced his jaw line had become a full beard, but even that couldn't hide his rundown appearance. Pale and gaunt, the shadows under his eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them before.
Quinn bit her lip, all previous emotions being replaced by a barrage of worry. She wanted to ask if he was alright, if the nightmares had gotten worse, if there was anything she could do to help...but they were surrounded by people. Mentioning it now would be the last thing Danse would want.
"I've spoken with Knight-Captain Cade," said Danse, shifting a little on the spot. "He has given me his report on your progress, and I'm pleased to inform you that you are fit for duty again...that is, unless you think otherwise."
"Yes," Quinn said quickly. "I mean, no, I don't think otherwise. I think I'm fine, too. I…"
Danse nodded. "In that case, I need to speak to you in private. Come with me."
He set off without another word, leaving a flustered Quinn to trail after him, almost jogging to keep up. They walked past Rachel Marguerie, who was smoking a cigar at the top of a stairwell. She greeted Danse with enthusiasm, which he only half returned. The knight-sergeant frowned, looking confused, and then raised an eyebrow at Quinn. Quinn shrugged, shaking her head, and continued after Danse, heading up to the top of the Prydwen. It was only when they reached a door to the outside that Quinn realised where they were.
"This was where you took me when I needed to listen to my tape," Quinn said. "All those months ago."
"The best place on the ship for discretion," Danse said, nodding. He held the door open for her, and she went outside, greeted by chilling winds that bit her skin and whipped at her hair.
The door shut behind them with a bang. Last time Quinn had been here, she had been admiring the view of the Commonwealth. Now she was entirely distracted by the man standing before her.
He looked nervous, fidgeting a little in the awkward silence between them.
What the hell is going on?
"Danse," Quinn said, shivering in the wind. "I...I'm sorry for what I said last time we spoke. I was...I was lost. Hurting. And I took it out on you. Your work is important, I know that, but the idea of you not being here with me was...difficult. I'm sorry for all of it."
"I lied to you."
Quinn blinked. That was not the answer she had been expecting. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather, and she stared at him, her mouth hanging open. "You...you lied to me? But why?"
"I never had a mission to complete in the Commonwealth. I left of my own accord, with good reason."
"Good reason?" she repeated, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "And what good reason was that, that you couldn't just tell me the truth in the first place?"
His expression was unreadable. Quinn wasn't sure whether he was simply so exhausted he could barely function, or if he was steeling himself for the conversation ahead, but Danse looked almost devoid of life.
"When we visited...when we went into Vault 111, you...you said something." He paused, frowning. "Do you remember what happened in there?"
Now Quinn was definitely confused. What the hell did the vault have to do with any of this? "No, not really. I remember...I remember the rings. I remember I had some sort of fit in there. And I remember leaving. The rest is a blur."
"In the cryo area...you said that you hated the idea of leaving your husband in there, but that you couldn't bury him unless it was done properly."
He hesitated again, just long enough for his words to sink in, and Quinn felt herself grasp at the railings of the ship to steady herself. Now that had he mentioned it, the memory was coming back. The world seemed to tunnel itself, until only Danse existed in front of her. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
"I've been back to Sanctuary," Danse said, looking anxious. "Spoke with the others. Your friends. Did our research. Planned what we could. Improvised the rest. And...and if you still want it..."
"A funeral?" Quinn breathed.
Danse nodded. "Your husband's funeral."
A/N: I decided to release this early because I'm having a god awful time right now, and people reading my stuff gives me a lil' bit of happiness. I hope you enjoy.
As a side note, the kids mixing up Washington D.C. and Washington state was an actual thing I did the other week on tumblr. As a Brit with zero knowledge of American geography, I thought Maxson was originally from the west, in Washington State.
Much shouting about Sealand followed.