In Death and Duty

Sanctuary loomed in the distance, a sprawling mess of run-down houses and even more run-down people. The sight of it filled Danse with relief. His mood had been decidedly ugly since he had set off from Boston that morning, an awkward quiet crackling between himself and Hancock.

The day had started with an edge of hostility so fierce he had surprised even himself. Danse had his suspicions of its source: a sharp, prickling sensation within him that felt uncomfortably close to shame.

The ghoul knew.

That in itself was entirely unforgivable. It was one thing for Quinn to know as much as she did, but Hancock?

How long would it take before that knowledge was used against him? How long before the ghoul's lip twisted into a sneer as he jeered about the soldier who had nightmares?

But despite his sharp comments, Hancock had not taken the bait. This was...unusual. Danse couldn't think of a single time where the ghoul hadn't leapt at the opportunity to rankle him, and yet all of a sudden he had the patience of a saint.

Not that it wasn't annoying Hancock - it was obvious that the ghoul was gritting his teeth and praying for restraint. But somehow he was managing to keep his cool, simply ignoring the deliberate goading.

Perhaps he's just biding his time. Waiting for an audience.

Yes. That was the obvious answer. Danse wondered if he should push harder. After all, better to trigger it now, on his own terms, than wait for the blade to fall.

All thought of the ghoul was driven from his mind as they crossed over the bridge that led into the settlement. Piper's red coat was bright and bold against the dull, dusty ground, and she nudged Nick and Preston before waving.

They're alright.

Danse resisted the urge to raise a hand and calmly made his way down toward them as Hancock forged ahead, waving wildly back.

"Are you two ill?" asked Piper as they drew towards the group. She cocked her head to one side, smirking at Hancock and Danse's confused faces. "You're not bickering like an old married couple."

Danse scowled, tensing as the ghoul grinned.

"What can I say?" Hancock said, tipping his hat in her direction. "A little time away from it all was just what we needed to bring the spark back."

They all laughed, and Danse suddenly felt like an outsider, standing on the edge of their world. His frown deepened. What did he care? The Brotherhood was all he needed, all he wanted...and yet there was a desire to be part of the circle that stood in front of him.

Stupid.

"Was your mission a success?" he asked loudly over the dying giggles.

"Yeah," said Piper, still snickering a little. "We gave it to the preacher in Diamond City to look over while we organise the rest of it here. Means he can carry on with his duties for now, and we can escort him back here when we're ready."

Danse nodded. It made sense. "I have the flag, but I think we should practice on something else in the meantime, to save dirtying it."

"Good idea," said Hancock.

There was a beat of silence and everyone turned to look at him.

The ghoul frowned as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a tattered packet of cigarettes. "What?"

"That's it?" Nick quizzed, folding his arms. "Nothing to add?"

"Like…?"

"Tin can," said Piper.

"Clanky," interjected Preston.

"Rust bucket," Piper continued, counting off her fingers.

"Mailbox," Preston added.

"Crew cut."

"Scrap heap."

"Ol' Clanger."

"Rusty."

Piper frowned. "No, we said 'rusty' already."

"Nah, that was 'rust bucket.'"

"Oh damn, you're right...wait, 'toaster-'"

"Alright, settle down," Nick said quickly, shooting Danse a nervous look.

Danse looked at Piper and Preston, blinking. A strange feeling bubbled up within him, and suddenly he found he was chuckling.

It was everyone else's turn to stare at him.

Danse shrugged and turned to Preston. "Get your Minutemen organised. We're going to need two bodies to assist you with the flag folding. The rest will come with me to learn how to do the gun salute the Brotherhood adopted from the old military books."

He strode off towards the houses without waiting for an answer, still quietly laughing. In the distance he heard them begin to talk amongst themselves.

"Hancock, did you break him?"

The work with the Minutemen was slow. Danse hadn't expected any less; even with the Brotherhood, learning a perfect gun salute had been hard work. He had been taught the process by none other than Paladin Krieg, and had fought tooth and nail to make sure he was on the rifle party the day they had buried all those who had died at the battle of Adams Air Force Base. That day had been his first participation in a funeral, his first real attempt of the three-volley salute, but it had not been the last.

Sarah Lyons. Owyn Lyons. Those had been his duty, too.

He'd taught other brothers and sisters the salute after that; now it came to him as naturally as breathing. But he'd never led a volley before. Danse felt nervous.

After a week of constant drills, he'd finally gotten the Minutemen to learn all the commands and hold themselves properly. There had been a lot of slouching and standing incorrectly, which he'd stamped out quickly and ruthlessly. Any grumbling had also been pressed out of them. Danse knew he was being harsh, but he didn't care. He had held little confidence in the Minutemen being anything more than settlers in uniform, and their complete lack of discipline had proven him right.

Thankfully, his training worked wonders. The art of intimidation was something he held in his core, and his power armour certainly helped to enhance that particular skill. Gone were the eye rolls and mutterings as he had barked out his orders. Rifle in hand, he stomped down the line, inspecting them and their uniform.

Being included in the rifle party wasn't just about being able to shoot and move in time. They had to look immaculate, like they gave a damn not just about themselves, but the man who was being buried.

"You must be crisp in manner, in action, and in appearance," he had said, towering over them with a glare. "Anything less than perfection is disrespecting the dead. If you can't be bothered to bring yourselves up to standard, you'll have a hard time convincing the grieving widow that you're bothered about the death of her husband, too."

His eyes trailed over each recruit as they stared determinedly ahead, still as statues and wearing stony, serious expressions.

Good.

With one final glance over them, he moved to the front, pausing.

"Phase one!" he said sharp and loud, noting with satisfaction that their hands clenched at the guns in their grip, the butt of the rifle planted firmly in the ground. "Ready!"

They moved in unison, bringing their rifles up to their chests in one fluid motion.

"Right turn!"

The line obeyed, and when he rolled off the next two commands of "chamber" and "round," they loaded their weapons in a single click, still looking straight on. Danse smiled and walked around them, checking their stances and hold. All were perfect.

"Phase two!" he barked, glad to see none of them jumped. The first time he had yelled at them, one of them had dropped their rifle. It had gone off with a bang, shooting a hole through the brim of their friend's hat; the reprimand Danse had given them had carried all the way across Sanctuary. Hancock still liked to bring it up every time he saw him.

"Firing position! Aim! Fire!"

The crack that filled the air was music to Danse's ears. Not a single rifle was out of place. The group hesitated, all of them shocked at the success, and one man let out a nervous giggle.

"Quiet in the ranks!" snapped Danse, though secretly he was pleased. This was a huge improvement. The man who had laughed went bright red, but did not move.

"Chamber! Round! Aim! Fire!"

Again, a clean shot. Danse hardly dared to believe it. He continued the rest of the drill, and every time they all fired together without a single shot straying. A warmth flared in his chest, and he realised, almost disbelievingly, that he was proud of them.

Standing them down, Danse stomped back to the front again, his lips twitching. He didn't bother to hold back, and a wide smile broke out on his face. The stunned look that rippled through his team was nearly enough to make him laugh, and after a moment, they tentatively smiled back.

"Excellent work," he said, still smiling at them. "Tomorrow we will work towards reducing the commands. In the real drill, the only orders you will receive will be 'ready, aim, fire'; I expect the same level of quality as I've just seen now. You're more than capable of it. For now, though, you're dismissed."

The group nodded and saluted, before moving away, chattering amongst themselves in low voices. Danse watched them go, the smile still lingering on his face, and then sighed. On the day, he would be with them, doing the salute. Once they had the basic commands sorted, the training with him would start. That would be...difficult. While they moved together well, his standard was a lot higher than theirs.

Maybe I should just lead…?

No, that wouldn't work. There were only six of them. Training up another Minuteman to make the seventh member would throw a spanner in the works - he would either have to run them into the ground with the drill, or learn how to match their level instead.

Shaking his head, Danse strolled across to where the others were practicing the flag folding. Thankfully, Preston and the synth were quick to learn, and he had left them in charge of leading that particular drill, but he still liked to check on their progress when he was free.

None of them looked as Danse approached, and he lurked on the outskirts of the little gathering, watching Preston give out his orders. Despite his gentle nature, he was doing surprisingly well, keeping to the strict tempo that Danse had taught him.

The folding itself was a different matter.

This was the one thing Danse couldn't help with, and he felt utterly useless for it. As a tradition, the Brotherhood didn't use flags in their ceremonies - finding the resources just to make them was difficult enough without giving them away at every funeral. He'd scanned the book as best he could and practiced it himself before going over it with the others, but somehow, the whole procedure felt sloppy. Anxiety spiked within him as he watched the six of them fumble their way through the folding, tucking in the material clumsily and occasionally bickering when one of them got it wrong.

Eventually, Preston turned to Danse, sighing.

"Can you take over from the orders? I can't do both at once, and I think having an outside pair of eyes will really help with this."

Danse pushed his surprise away - he thought they hadn't seen him, after all - and nodded, striding over. The book was on a nearby crate, where they had clearly been into it, back and forth, to check what their mistakes were. He picked it up and stood next to them, observing as he gave out the orders. Almost at once, he spotted the error.

"Alright, alright. Let's slow this down." He flipped the book around so they could look at the pages, and he pointed out a diagram. "Piper, you need to tuck it under, not over. And gh...you," he said awkwardly, turning to Hancock, "you need to make sure you keep the fabric stretched tight on your side, otherwise the whole thing is too slack and it'll just fall apart. Let's start from the beginning…"

By the time he had finished with them, the folding was a lot neater, though still not quite right. They all looked tired, battered by Danse's perfectionism, but pleased as well. Danse handed the book back to Preston and nodded.

"A little more work and you'll be well on your way," he said.

Preston glanced at the sky, which was streaked with the dying light of a late sunset, and then met Danse's eye. "Will you help us tomorrow? I think your supervision was a lot better than us trying to do this on our own."

"Yes, but…" Danse frowned, trying to work out the logistics in his head. He couldn't be in two places at once. "Hm. I'll have to split the rifle party and the flag folding sessions across the day. Maybe in slots of an hour per task, with rest breaks between for each…"

"Don't over think it," said Hancock, rubbing his eyes. "I think we're all fucked right now. We can talk about it tomorrow after some sleep. Having a clear head does wonders for planning."

The others muttered in agreement, but Danse shrugged. He had far too much to run through his mind right now for something as trivial as sleep. There were the drills he planned to do in the morning with the rifle party, and now the added drills he would have to learn for the flag folding in case he was needed for that during the actual ceremony. Not to mention he had to practice the rifle drills himself…

A pain shot through his head and he winced, the telltale sensation of stress washing over him. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed. They were too busy packing up the practice flag.

Danse strode away, stifling a yawn, and scowled. In truth, he hated funerals. They made him think far too much of Cutler, whose grave had been a super mutant hive, and of Krieg, his first real funeral.

"Hey, Danse."

Danse turned around to see Piper looking at him.

"Yes?"

"Um...in the book…" she flicked through the pages and stopped, walking over to him and prodding the page. "In the book it says that the flag has to be presented to the family by the…'detail leader.' Whatever that is. But… as you're leading this whole thing already, we…" Piper glanced at the rest of the group behind her, who all nodded vigorously. "...we thought maybe you would-"

"No."

His blunt tone took her by surprise. "Pardon?"

"No. Don't ask me again."

He stomped off before she could respond, leaving her spluttering at his abruptness. There was a twinge of guilt, but the last thing Danse wanted was to discuss it with her, let alone in front of a crowd of people. The idea of him presenting the flag was so inappropriate it made him cringe.

Grumbling to himself, he made his way across Sanctuary to the house on the furthest edges of the settlement. Isolated and quiet, it was just how Danse liked it. He tried to push the flag out of his head, and found his thoughts drifting back to Krieg. Normally he tried to stifle these recollections, but at the moment, the only other alternative made him much more uncomfortable.

Not that the memory of Krieg's death was ever really far away. Danse could remember the moment he was told as clear as day.

They had been preparing for a fight.

2277

Cheers rang out through the Citadel, echoing down the corridors, filling every room and space with merriment. The Enclave was gone! Adams Air Force Base had been taken! Victory for the Brotherhood!

Krieg was dead.

This simple, universal truth had reached Knight-Sergeant Danse less than two hours before, as he and his knights were preparing to mobilise and join the fray. The battle had been won without them, but by god, what a spectacular win it had been.

Danse didn't care. Paladin Krieg was dead.

He had managed to keep his composure in front of the others, even smiling a little as his friends had celebrated, Rachel Marguerie almost knocking over her husband as she had thrown herself into his arms, and Cutler whooping as he clapped Danse on the back. But no amount of jubilation could fill the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, the loss of his mentor a growing coldness that was spreading to every inch of his being.

Krieg was dead.

Not wanting to dampen the mood, Danse had sloped away, shuffling through the twisting corridors of the Citadel with his head bowed, thoroughly ignored by the soldiers now buzzing with revelry. The officers only tried to settle them with a half-hearted attempt. This was their moment. This was everyone's moment.

Danse walked on, wondering if the bottle of vodka he had stashed in his footlocker was still there. Alcohol had a nasty habit of going missing in times of war. Not that it would be a problem after tonight.

"Danse!"

Danse glanced back, surprised anyone had noticed him at all, and spotted Cutler forcing his way through the crowd, frowning. He smiled to himself. Of course Cutler would know something was wrong. He always did.

"Hey," Cutler said as he caught up. He motioned to an empty room and walked inside. Danse followed, and Cutler closed the door behind them, before turning back to his friend, still looking troubled. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Danse." Cutler was using the tone of voice he always did when he was worried. He sounded like a parent trying desperately to convince their child to eat all their vegetables. Or so Rachel Marguerie had said, anyway. Danse had nothing to compare it to.

Danse shrugged and leaned against an old desk, folded his arms and staring at his feet. A second later, Cutler had parked himself next to him, nudging him gently in the ribs, right where he was ticklish. Danse made a noise like a molerat being sat on, and nearly fell off the desk.

"Come on," said Cutler quietly. "You should be celebrating with the rest of us. What's wrong?"

There was a pause, and then Danse sighed. The news would get around sooner or later. "Krieg is dead."

Cutler drew in a sharp breath. "Are you...are you okay?"

He considered lying for a brief moment. No. This was Cutler. There were no secrets with him. Danse shook his head.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." Danse looked at his friend and smiled before he could argue. "I just...I need some time alone to think, that's all. Go enjoy the party with everyone else."

"Party?" Cutler pulled a face. "We're not having a party."

"If everyone in this facility doesn't wake up with some form of hangover tomorrow, I'll be extremely surprised."

Cutler laughed and stood up, stretching. "Yeah, I think I'll be a part of that number." He dropped his arms as Danse got to his feet, his expression softening. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you?"

"Thanks, but...no. You go on with the others."

Danse could tell from the look on Cutler's face that he wasn't happy about it, but he relented with a nod and left the room. Danse followed him out, turning left while Cutler went right, and made his way towards the dorms, craving the bitter kick of vodka more than ever.

The dorms were completely empty, but despite this, Danse could still faintly hear the noise of the other soldiers in the distance. He walked over to his bed and crouched down next to his footlocker, opening it with the resignation that it would be empty.

It was not empty.

This shocked Danse more than anything else, but he decided not to dwell on the matter. He couldn't remember the last time he had been drunk, but now felt like a good time to revisit the state.

Danse sat on his bed, cracking open the bottle and savouring the sharp smell, before swigging directly from it. He coughed, his eyes watering at the burn, and then grinned. The warmth that spread through his chest reminded him of the nights in Rivet City, when a bottle of vodka had been the only thing to stave off the cold.

"What are you doing?"

He had just been in the middle of another swig when the quiet voice made him jump and spill the alcohol all down his front. Spluttering, he glanced over to see a small boy standing at the entrance of the dorm, silhouetted by the light of the corridor.

Danse jumped to his feet, almost dropping his bottle. "Maxson, sir!"

Arthur Maxson's face fell. "Why does everyone have to call me that?"

"Sir?"

"Calling me 'sir' all the time. Why?"

"Well, I…" Danse voice trailed off as he looked at the boy, before slowly lowering himself back down onto his bed. "What would you like to be called?"

Arthur Maxson glanced up sharply at him, as if looking for a trace of a joke. Danse held his gaze, his expression grave, and the boy suddenly smiled.

"Arthur," he said. "What's your name?"

"Knight-Sergeant Danse." He paused, wiping at the damp patch on his uniform. "But...you can call me Danse if you want, si- I mean - Arthur."

Arthur beamed at him. Despite himself, Danse smiled back.

"So, what are you doing?" Arthur asked, edging closer.

Danse looked at the bottle in his hand and sighed, screwing the lid back on. As much as he wanted it, he didn't really agree with heavy drinking in front of children. "Just...wetting my beak a little, sir. I mean, Arthur."

The boy giggled at him. "You don't have a beak."

"It's...well, it's a figure of speech. A stupid one, mind." Danse stood up and walked back to his footlocker, stowing away the alcohol with a twinge of longing. The boy watched him, shuffling forward again as Danse stood awkwardly next to his bed, unsure what to do. Children were...difficult.

"You look sad," said Arthur, and Danse winced. "Why are you sad?"

"I'm not…" Danse paused, and then sat back down on his bed. "A friend of mine died today."

"Who?"

"...Paladin Krieg."

"Oh." Arthur shuffled forward and sat next to Danse on the bed, looking up at him. "He was scary, but...he brought back books for me when I told Sarah I liked them. He overheard, I think."

Danse blinked. "That's what he was doing in those sweep missions?"

Arthur shrugged as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Danse found a chuckle bubbling up in his throat. Krieg had risked life and limb on numerous occasions to bring pre-war books in pristine condition back to the Citadel. He had often wondered what had happened to them. Now he knew.

His laughter died away quickly, the awkward silence returning. Arthur stood up, fidgeting, not quite looking at him.

"I better go. Sorry for bothering you."

Paladin Krieg was not...had not been the kind of man to value name and rank above skill. Brutal in his ways, his mentor had preferred to push hard to achieve results. Gifts to children for the sake of it had been simply unheard of.

There was something more here. Something he was missing. Danse thought of all the days he had seen Arthur in the corridors, head down, avoiding the stares of the soldiers as he trailed around after whichever scribe was escorting him to his next lesson. Always quiet. Always separated from the others. Always…

Alone.

"Wait," Danse said, before the little boy had taken a single step. Arthur looked at him, puzzled. Danse hesitated and then made up his mind. Yes, he would take up the mantle. Clearing his throat, he said, "If you want...next time I'm out on patrol, I can try and bring some books back for you."

Arthur's face lit up with delight.

Right face. Chamber. Round.

Tomorrow, he'd be leaving to collect her.

The weeks in Sanctuary had taken their toll on Danse, that was for sure. Constant drills, continuous planning, lying awake at night running every miniscule detail through his mind, making sure everything was in place…

Ready. Aim. Fire.

Danse still wasn't certain if they were ready, but Piper had insisted there was nothing more to learn; Preston, the ghoul, and the synth had set off that afternoon to Diamond City to escort the preacher. Soon Danse would be leaving to escort Quinn.

Ready. Chamber. Round.

The thought was daunting. Would Quinn be ready? Would she even want this to happen? Would he return alone to tell everyone that the funeral wasn't going ahead at all? Would she scream and yell at him for presuming he could organise such a sensitive event on her behalf?

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should stop it now before I offend her. I barely know her. I shouldn't be the one to do this.

Ready. Aim-

Danse paused mid movement and looked dumbly down at the gun in his hands. Quinn had made him this rifle. His grip tightened on it.

"Knock knock."

Danse flinched and swung sharply around to see Piper stood at the open door, hands raised in mock surrender. He relaxed, lowering his weapon.

"You alright?" she asked, giving him a warm smile.

"Fine." He turned away from her, resuming his practice.

Ready. Aim. Fire.

"You've been doing that for weeks," Piper said gently. "I think you've got it."

"A job needs to be done properly, or not at all."

"True." Piper paused. "This is a real good thing you're doing for Blue, y'know."

Danse's stomach clenched. "You've all helped."

Ready. Chamber. Relo-

"But it was your idea."

Danse hesitated, lowering the rifle again as he glanced over at her, unsure what to say. Thank you? A denial? Eventually, he settled for, "Why do you call her Blue?"

Piper stretched as she moved across the room and sat on the nearby bed. "For that old vault suit she used to wear."

"Oh."

"Oh?" She frowned. "What did you think I meant?"

"Her eyes."

"Her eyes?"

"Well, they're blue." Danse paused as realisation at what he had just said dawned on him. Noticing Piper's smirk, he flushed.

"Been paying attention to her eyes, huh?" Piper said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"My training makes me more perceptive than most," Danse said hurriedly. "That is all."

"Uh huh. And what did your keen observational skills deduce about her eyes?"

"Nothing of any note."

He could feel his face burning; if Piper's wicked grin was anything to go by, she was enjoying this immensely.

"Alright, alright. I'll stop teasing." She stood up, still smiling. "But don't worry, soldier boy. I won't say a word."

The idea of simply denying it sprung to mind, but Danse realised it would be pointless. Piper was not a stupid woman. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a handful of colourfully wrapped candy, selected one, and then held out her hand to Danse.

Danse frowned, staring at them. Childish things, really.

"Go on," she said, shaking her hand impatiently. "They won't bite."

Danse took one.

Piper grinned as she popped a piece of candy in her mouth. Then her smile faltered slightly. "You look exhausted. Have you been doing that drill all night?"

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"...I know."

She sighed, still watching him closely, and tapped her fingers on her arms. "Changed your mind about presenting the flag yet?"

Not this again.

"No." This was a topic he would not back down from, no matter how hard he was pushed. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do that to Quinn.

Piper frowned. "But you're close to her."

"Which is precisely why I shouldn't do it."

"No, it's precisely why you should." She moved towards him, hesitated, and then reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder.

There was a brief urge to shake her off, but it passed quickly. In all honesty, Danse simply felt too tired to care. Her fingers gave a little squeeze, and then she let her arm drop away.

"We've all talked and we think you're the best man for the job. This is your idea and...you're the closest one to her."

"Don't make me do it. Please."

The pleading note escaped before he could stop it, and he felt his cheeks burn again as her eyes widened. There was a long pause.

"What's stopping you?" she said finally. "What's the problem?"

Now that was a question with infinite answers. How could he even begin to explain his thoughts on the matter? The delivery of the flag was a heartfelt moment - a mark of respect from the military to the deceased's loved ones. A display of gratitude for their service to their country and their sacrifice to keep others safe. The book said so.

The idea of standing over that man's grave, handing such a precious symbol to his grieving widow, when he felt the way he did about her, made Danse feel sick to his stomach. He was already overstepping his boundaries by organising this in the first place, especially since he hadn't consulted Quinn at all. Presenting her with the flag would be the final insult: not only to Nate, but to her as well.

But he couldn't tell Piper this. Admitting it to himself was taxing enough without inviting others into his misery.

Silence followed for an uncomfortably long time, until Piper sighed, folding her arms. "Try to get some rest before tomorrow, okay? You're worrying us."

Danse blinked. "Us?"

"Yeah, you know…" She gestured vaguely, and then frowned as he continued to give her a blank look. "Me. Nick. Hancock, Preston, and Sturges. Us."

"Why would you be worried about me?" The comment was not meant as sarcasm - his confusion was genuine. Danse had known from the beginning where he stood with them, and he had returned the favour. They were all here for a singular, shared goal. Concern wasn't supposed to be a part of it.

And yet he had been concerned about them when they had gone to the library.

"Oh come on, Danse. We all know you don't sle-"

Something clicked in Danse's head.

"What has the ghoul told you?" he snapped, the venom in his voice making Piper jump violently.

"Nothing," she said, her voice equally sharp. "Why? What happened?"

Danse could tell from the tone of her voice that she was telling the truth, and he groaned in frustration, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Danse?"

He looked at Piper blearily, to see she was smiling again, though this time it was forced.

"Talk to me."

Danse shook his head. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine."

She glared at him so fiercely he almost relented. Instead, he glared back and said, "So you're the one who gave Quinn lessons in scowling."

Piper blinked at him, her face dropping, and then started to laugh. Danse relaxed. The moment had passed. Tilting her head to the side, Piper grinned at him, before her expression softened into something almost akin to fondness. Danse had the strange feeling that he was growing on her.

Don't be ridiculous. You have nothing in common with these people. Nothing to offer them. The only thing you know is war and death.

"She won't hate you for giving her the flag, Danse."

Danse flinched, his grip tightening on his gun, and Piper's triumphant look told him he had given himself away. He cursed inside his head, but worked to keep his face as blank as possible.

"If anything," Piper continued, "I think Quinn will find comfort in what you've done. You listened to her and you remembered what was important, even though it was just a passing comment. She'll love you for that."

"I'm not doing this to make her like me. I'm doing it because it's what she needs."

"I know. We all know. And it shows, I promise."

Danse sighed, but didn't reply, his mind whirring.

"Get some sleep, okay?" she said, turning to go.

He made a snap decision.

"Wait," he said sharply, and Piper glanced back, eyebrows raised. Danse swallowed nervously and then forced the words out, his stomach twisting with dread. "I'll...I'll do it. I'll present the flag."

Her face broke into a gentle smile, and she nodded. "Thank you."

She waited for him to answer, and when he didn't, she left.

When her footsteps faded, Danse exhaled heavily.

He opened his hand and looked at the candy in his palm, small and brightly coloured. Putting his rifle on the bed, Danse unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, before discarding of the plastic wrapper and picking up his gun again.

Ready. Chamber. Reload.

Left face.

A/N: To quote my beta, "... I just wanted to nudge [Danse] from behind like a toddler too shy to go play with the other kids."

Thank you to waiting4morning for their invaluable beta help! They're amazing. And thank you to everyone who reviewed or sent messages! Much love to you!

My next two chapters may be delayed because I have various trips around the country over the next two weeks.