Baby, it's Cold Outside

The sunlight was near blinding as the group burst out onto the roof, the howls of the mutants now mere background noise as they mowed them down with gunfire.

Quinn did not expect to see Casey Shingler, every trace of her shy, bumbling nature gone, armed with a stolen rifle and shooting everything in sight.

With deadly aim and the grace and conviction of a seasoned predator, she moved unfazed through the chaos that whirled around her. But the sheer numbers of the enemy had clearly been overwhelming her, as she had retreated right back to the vertibird, leaving a trail of death in her wake.

They watched as she threw down the rifle, apparently now empty, and move even further away, pulling out a pistol as she edged towards the shattered remains of the cockpit.

"Case!" Carson yelled, firing into the advancing group of mutants.

They turned their stupid, ugly faces towards Carson, and Casey took her chance, unloading the pistol into as many of them as she could, before one of them picked her up by the neck, shaking her like a dog with a rabbit. She pulled a knife out from the depths of her pockets and gave a strangled shriek as she plunged the blade into its throat.

The mutant dropped her as it staggered away, gurgling, and Casey hit the floor, howling with pain as she clutched at her ribs.

"Holy shit," said Quinn, taken aback. None of the others seemed surprised, though, and they quickly fell upon the remaining mutants, making short work of them before they could attack Casey again.

There was little time for celebration, however. As Danse put a bullet in the last one's head, Carson finally lost his cool, sprinting towards the vertibird, completely ignoring the shouts of Rachel Marguerie.

"Tom!" he bellowed, throwing his weapon down, barely giving Casey a glance as he circled the wreckage, looking for a way inside. "Tom!"

"He's still alive," Casey said, slowly pulling herself up, wheezing. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"I know you're fine," Carson snapped. "You just razed an entire army of these freaks by yourself, for fuck's sake." He glanced over at her, looking on the edge of reason. "Where is he? Have you seen him?"

"He's still inside, but-"

Carson listened no more, and began clambering up towards the crumpled cockpit, still yelling Kapraski's name. Danse followed him, thrusting his gun into Quinn's hands as he vaulted up onto the vertibird.

"What happened, Casey?" Quinn asked, watching the two men fight their way up, slipping and sliding on the distorted aircraft. The scribe didn't answer immediately, her breathing laboured and shallow, her hand clutched at the side of her chest.

"Tom barely managed to land the ship without it exploding." Casey nodded at the vertibird. "But it's, well...you can see the damage. I was wedged in the holding bay enough that I didn't suffer too much from the impact. Bump to the head, maybe a broken rib, but nothing major."

"You can move with a goddamn broken rib?" Quinn gawked. "I thought scribes were intellectuals, not fucking commandos."

"I was a wastelander before I was a scribe," Casey replied, shrugging and then wincing a little. "You learn to defend yourself out here, or you die. Plus, the adrenaline helped. I'm starting to feel it more now. That being said…" She gave the pistol on the floor an odd look. "I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"Well, we got here just in time."

Casey nodded. "You did. A minute longer and you would have been too late." Her expression darkened. "I wasn't going to let either of us be taken alive by those things."

A shiver rippled through Quinn as she looked down at the discarded pistol as well. "...And Kapraski?"

As if on cue, Carson's anguished wail cut across the discussion, and Casey cringed.

"Not good. I couldn't move him myself, but with your power armour…"

Quinn nodded, giving both her weapon and Danse's to Casey, and then set off up the vertibird herself. Danse scanned the cockpit, his face visibly paling, though his expression remained the same. When Quinn caught up with him, she saw why.

If she hadn't known it was Kapraski, Quinn would have thought they'd found the wrong person. His face was so bloody and battered, it had swollen out of proportion, and there were deep lacerations all across his skin, some of the glass that had caused the cuts still embedded in place. Heavy bruising dappled around a gash on Kapraski's forehead, where she guessed he had hit his head on impact, but the injuries were so many, Quinn wasn't sure which was the most serious.

However, when l she peered fully inside the remains of the ship Quinn realised why Casey hadn't been able to move him. The metal frame of the vertibird had been crumpled inwards so badly it resembled a tin can that had been run over by a bike. The frame buckled in on Kapraski's legs, pinning him in place.

Carson stared down at Kapraski, his helmet long since abandoned, breathing heavily through his nose.

"Knight," said Danse, tearing his eyes away from the battered lancer and fixing his gaze on him instead.

Carson did not respond.

"Carson!"

Carson flinched and looked up. Danse pointed to the metal twisted against Kapraski.

"We need to move this now. Take hold of that side, and I'll take hold of this one. When I say go, we pull."

Carson blinked, his face ashen, his eyes unfocused.

Danse slammed his hand down on a bent panel next to Carson, making everyone jump. "Knight, that's an order! You want him to live? Then start acting like it and help me!"

These words seemed to strike a chord within Carson, and he flared to life at once. "Yes, sir!" He grabbed the wreckage, and when Danse gave the command, pulled with all his might.

A horrible grind of metal on metal resounded through the vertibird, and then slowly but surely, the warped frame began to pry apart, the ruined cockpit relenting to the will of the two men. There was a deep snapping sound, and the splintered frame broke free. Quinn helped them throw it away, and it slid off the apartment complex with a bang, before tumbling down into the city below.

None of them paid it any attention. They all stared inside the vertibird, silent with the exception of Carson, who let out a low, horrified moan.

From the angle of Kapraski's arm, he had definitely broken it. But that paled in comparison to the state of his leg. While the right had remained relatively unscathed, the left had been crushed by the impact, now a mangled mess that barely resembled flesh and bone, let alone a functioning limb. Blood oozed from the leg at a steady trickle. Quinn dreaded to think how much he had lost.

"Get him out, now!" Danse ordered.

This time, Carson did not hesitate, and between the three of them, they managed to drag Kapraski from the vertibird. His leg trailed behind him, held together by what, Quinn didn't know.

As they lowered him down to Rachel and Casey, his eyes flickered, and he mumbled, "Liam."

"Tom!" Carson slid down the side of vertibird so quickly, he nearly sent himself shooting off the building entirely, but caught hold of the aircraft and steadied himself at the last second. He rushed over to Kapraski, and helped lie him down, holding his hand.

"Knight, I need you to guard the entrance to the stairwell," said Danse, stepping forward and nodding at Rachel and Quinn. "You two as well."

"Like hell I am," Carson snarled, wearing an ugly anger that didn't suit his features. He rose to his feet, squaring up to Danse, and tried to push him back. "I'm not moving from—"

Danse grabbed his wrist, wrenching it away, and then slammed Carson against the vertibird with a rattling bang. Quinn expected to see anger in Danse's face, but instead saw only an air of patience. When Danse spoke, his voice was firm, but also calm, with a hint of kindness.

"Carson, Tom needs care now. Between myself and Shingler, we will do what we can, but you're in no state to help us. Right now the best way you can assist is for you and the others to guard the fire exit and make sure nothing else comes up to greet us. I need to leave my armour to treat him, and I won't be any good to him if I'm shot dead. Can you do that for me?"

Carson stared down at the limp body of Kapraski and bit his lip, and then after a brief silence, nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what came over me."

"Good man." Danse released him and clapped him on the shoulder, before turning to Rachel. He pulled out a flare gun from his armour and tossed it to her. "Marguerie, signal for another pick up. I don't doubt they saw the first, but a second flare might reinforce our pressing need for assistance."

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, Danse left his armour and crouched down next to Casey, cleaning his hands with an alcohol rub from one of the pouches on her uniform, and then setting to work on Kapraski.

Between them, they pulled his lancer's jacket off, tore away the arm, and fashioned it into a makeshift tourniquet, fastening it tightly around his left thigh. Almost immediately, the blood dribbled away to nothing.

However, they couldn't stop Kapraski stirring as they worked, his hazy consciousness quickly devolving into agonised, panicked screaming as they applied the jacket sleeve, before vomiting all over himself.

"Carson!" yelled Danse, apparently changing his mind as he tried to turn the struggling lancer on his side to stop him choking on his own sick. "I need you here to keep him calm, if you can!"

Carson didn't need telling twice. He left his own armour in a rush, tripping over himself as he dashed over. He took the remains of the jacket and cleaned away the vomit as best he could, and then took Kapraski's hand, squeezing it tight as he babbled out a string barely coherent words, begging him to hold on, that it would be alright, that he would be fine, that—

Quinn tried to tune it out. She felt like she was intruding on something private, but the screams of Kapraski lessened with Carson's presence, and she threw sneaking glances while she watched the stairwell entrance, to check on their progress. Kapraski himself flicked from excruciating awareness to passing out from the pain.

Between the paladin and the scribe, they managed to slow the worst of the bleeding, cleaned a majority of his wounds, and administered a stimpak to the base of his skull. Quinn recognised it as the same procedure given to Danse when he had earned himself a concussion in the Slog.

Finally, after an agonising wait, the familiar grinding hum of a vertibird engine sounded in the distance, and it loomed over the horizon, its miniguns dealing with the mutants perched on the nearby buildings before they could be shot at. Apparently they had taken the two-flare distress call to heart, and wanted to avoid a repeat performance.

Dust flew up as the vertibird landed, and a team of scribes jumped out, running over to them to see who was wounded.

"Jesus Christ," the tallest of the group exclaimed, looking from the aircraft wreckage to Kapraski himself. "One of them survived?"

"He's the only one seriously wounded," Danse corrected. "The rest of us are unscathed, though we suspect Scribe Shingler may have a broken rib."

"The rest of you?" The scribe gawked. "Well, shit. He must be one hell of a pilot to get you all through that." He turned to Quinn and Rachel. "Help me with him, please?"

They loaded Kapraski aboard the new aircraft, Casey joining him at Danse's insistence to have her ribs checked over. Carson lingered at the threshold, staring intently at Kapraski and Casey for a moment, before glancing back at Quinn and Danse.

"Knight Carson," Danse said gently. "If you want to leave, you have permission to go with him."

Gratitude flickered across Carson's face, but then he looked from Kapraski, to Casey, and back to Danse, and then shook his head.

"You're a scribe down, and this mission...it's important." He stepped away from the vertibird, looking as if he hated himself for what he was about to do. He clenched his fists, and then let out a long, shuddering breath. "If I leave, you'll be undermanned for the mission, and more people could be hurt. If you abandon the mission, the Institute will continue to exist. So I'm staying, sir."

"Are you sure?" Quinn asked, and Carson nodded.

"I will make sure the right people hear about this," Danse said, giving him an approving look. "Your dedication is noteworthy."

Carson looked as if he didn't give a damn about it, but he forced a weak smile. "Thank you, sir. And...and sorry for...for…"

"It's fine. Considering the circumstances, I think you did an excellent job, Knight."

Carson didn't answer but turned back towards the assisting vertibird. When it took off, while everyone ducked down to avoid the dust, Carson simply shielded his eyes and watched it fly away, not moving until it disappeared behind a trail of low clouds. He hung his head and stared at his feet.

Quinn walked over and put her arm around him.

"He'll be fine," she murmured into his ear. "I saw you skewered and you're still here. His leg is a mess, sure, but nothing else seemed too bad."

"His head…" Carson said, still looking at the floor.

"We gave him a stimpak the way a doctor taught us. That will do him a world of good. Next time you're on the Prydwen, he'll be fine. You'll see."

Carson said nothing for a moment, and then reached up and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Thanks."

He took a deep breath and turned to Danse.

"Sir, what's our next move?"

Danse seemed momentarily flustered at this shift in mood, but he took it in stride. "Make our way back down to the ground floor and head over to Milton General Hospital for what we need to collect. With any luck, there won't be any lurking mutants waiting for us inside." He paused, and then gave Quinn an odd look. "You said you knew this apartment building well. How?"

"I…" Quinn shrugged. "It...my father lived here before the war and I used to visit him a lot after he left my mom. I stopped once I married Nate, but…"

She trailed off, feeling uncomfortable. Everyone stared at her.

Danse frowned, and then his expression softened. "Do you want to go anywhere in the building while we're here?"

The question caught Quinn by surprise. There was one ghost she'd like to put to rest, but she hadn't wanted to trouble the others with it. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to face it herself. There were bad memories all around when it came to her father.

"Yes," she replied. "Yes, there is one place."

The apartment was exactly as she remembered it.

Well, not exactly. The gaping hole in the living room floor was a new feature, but aside from that, the rest of the layout looked relatively untouched.

They'd had to force the door open, Rachel huffing a little as she watched the others. Thankfully, Quinn's power armour made short work of the hinges, and as she had stepped over the threshold, she'd been greeted by the familiar, if somewhat staling, smell of beer and cigarettes.

She had hated her father's drinking habit. Hated that he swilled on beer, parked in front of the television, chain smoking and complaining about the Chinese and the war, while never lifting a finger to help anyone but himself.

That had partly been where her love of whiskey had come from—she'd practically forced it on herself, deciding she would be a classy drinker, not a belching pig like him.

Now, remembering her little mishap on the Prydwen, Quinn wondered if she'd ended up like him anyway. She certainly couldn't moderate her alcohol intake when the mood took her—classy wasn't the word to describe it, at any rate.

Sighing, Quinn made her way across the apartment and towards the hole, listening carefully as the floor creaked underneath her feet.

"Rachel, you might want to stay back," she said over her shoulder. "We'll survive if the floor caves, but as for you…"

"I figured as much," Rachel said with a shrug, gesturing to her unarmoured body. "I'll just keep watch here."

The other two hovered by the door as well, hesitating to follow. Quinn smiled behind her helmet.

"Danse, Carson...come in if you want. Maybe you'll find something useful in here."

"I've no intention of looting your father's home," Danse replied, but he stepped inside and began investigating an old record player that had been fixed to the wall.

Her dad had loved that piece of junk. It had crackled and skipped through every song, and yet he had refused to throw it out, even after he had left her mom.

Despite herself, Quinn smiled.

With an edge of foreboding, she turned and peered over into the hole below, flicking on her helmet flashlight and illuminating the inky depths. The drop went on for at least several floors, if not further.

Had her father been sat here, drinking his damn beer when the bombs had fallen? Were his bones now lying at the bottom of this rotting pit, surrounded by super mutants and old beer cans?

She felt a dull ache in her chest as she stepped back from the edge. He'd been an asshole nearly all her life. He'd abandoned her. He'd never tried to better himself, never grown out of his selfish ways, never given Nate a chance.

Shaking her head with disgust, Quinn walked towards the kitchen. Then she stopped, staring at the cupboards.

"Dad, dad! Look what I made!"

"What's that, sweet pea? You drew that all by yourself?"

Hanging on the cupboard, right next to the fridge, was a drawing. But not just any drawing. She had given it to him when she was eight years old, a childish scrawl of a cat, its colours a kaleidoscopic mess of waxy crayons. Her mom had often told her that she needed to grow out of using crayons, but her dad…

In the corner, inked with his small, neat writing was her name, her age, and a date. Next to that was another untidy scribble, a signature. Her signature.

"It's a work of art, sweet pea. All the best artists sign their work!"

Quinn reached out to touch the picture, and then thought better of it. Who knew how fragile it was now? She swallowed, a hard lump in her throat, and memories came flooding back.

Teaching her how to ride a bike and how to tie her shoelaces. Showing her how fix her own roller skates when a wheel fell off. Bedtime stories and art lessons. Secret trips to the store to browse all the crayons after her mom had taken all of hers away and replaced them with pencils. Giving her money for makeup when she was older, and surprising her with tickets to her favourite band one birthday.

The fact he left still stung, as did the way he treated Nate. But those slights had clouded everything else he had done, too, smothering all the good with bitter memories and hurt, so that all she could see was a fat old man, propped up in his chair, a can in his plump hands.

Whatever he had been, he had loved her. And underneath it all, she had loved him. Oh yes, part of her still hated him. She couldn't deny that. But she loved him too.

Her dad.

"Who's that trip-trapping on my bridge?" her father growled, peering over an old illustrated book, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Quinn exited her armour and walked back across the apartment, halting at the edge of the hole.

"Quinn?" Danse said, sharply.

"There's something in my father's room," she said, her voice somewhat strangled. "I'll have a better chance of getting across if I'm like this. Can I go, please?"

He paused, and she knew what was going through his mind. She had a habit of doing stupid things and getting herself hurt. But that had always been in the heat of the moment, with no thought involved. Now she was asking for his consent, and if he said no, Quinn knew she'd obey. But she had a feeling he wouldn't.

Danse nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Quinn edged her way around the gaping wound in the floor, her feet occasionally slipping on broken wooden panelling, making her heart stop in her chest. But eventually, she made it across, and strode into his bedroom.

It looked the same as ever, almost unused. Her dad had fallen asleep in his armchair most nights, even when she wasn't around. Her eyes fell on his nightstand, and she walked over to it, wrenching open the top drawer.

Quinn rooted through an assortment of screws, old house keys, broken plugs, snapped pencils, and appliance manuals, until she found what she was looking for. She hadn't been certain he would even have it, but if there was one place it could be, it would have been his bedroom drawer.

With trembling fingers, Quinn lifted out the old, crumbling copy of her favourite bedtime story: The Three Billy Goats Gruff. He had read it to her every night, without fail, until she had decided she was too old for such things. There had been a flicker of disappointment in his face, but she had been too young to recognise it at the time.

He had kept it after all these years.

He had kept it.

Quinn trailed back into the main area, clutching the book tight to her chest. Part of her wanted to take the drawing as well, but that was different. That was her gift to him, and no matter where he had ended up, here is where the picture would stay.

She stashed the book away in her armour, and then clambered back into it with a clunk.

"Soldier?" Danse inquired, frowning.

"I'm good," Quinn replied, glad she managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Come on. We still have work to do."

The hospital was chaos, but it was the sort of chaos that Quinn did not have time for. Carson seemed to share her sentiment. Far from letting his separation from Kapraski bring him down, the knight seemed to be filled with fierce determination that blossomed into a cold efficiency that Quinn had never seen in him before. He put down raider after raider, killing them without pause before moving onto the next room, only stopping when Danse gave out his orders.

"Is everything alright?" she'd asked him.

"I just want to get home to Tom," he'd replied, and then refused to say anything else on the subject.

Finding the magnets had been a different matter.

"It's not like Ingram gave me a diagram," Quinn protested when Rachel started complaining at their lack of progress. The search had taken hours, but eventually they'd managed to find one inside a mostly intact piece of hospital equipment after it had interfered with Carson's visor display, causing it to cut out until he'd moved away from the source of the trouble.

Rachel had been given the honour of transporting them, being the only one who wasn't wearing power armour. She sat in the corner now, fast asleep, the rucksack containing the magnet held close as she snored softly. Danse was at the opposite end of the room, also asleep, still and small, his chin resting on his chest.

Quinn was surprised that Carson hadn't argued when Danse had decided that they were bunkering down in the hospital for the night, and even more surprised that Danse would suggest it in the first place. She supposed he didn't want to lose anyone else through tiredness.

Quinn sighed. She should be sleeping, too, but her mind brimmed with images of Kapraski. Every time she closed her eyes, she only saw blood and bone, his strangled screams filling her ears as she began to doze off. Was this what Danse saw in his nightmares?

She shifted on the spot, unable to get comfortable, and played with the bottle of purified water that she had taken earlier from her armour. Perhaps she should check on Carson. He had volunteered for first watch, scowling when Quinn had tried to convince him otherwise. Danse had looked worried too, but in the end allowed it. Rachel, meanwhile, had said nothing, lighting up a smoke and shrugging when Quinn had asked why she wasn't concerned.

"Everyone has their shit to deal with," Rachel had replied. "But he's not gonna get himself killed. Not while Kapraski is still possibly alive. He still has someone to fight for. If Kapraski dies, though...that's when you should be worried. Because then he'll be in the same place you were. The same place a lot of us have been."

True words, Quinn supposed, but still cold. Once again, she wondered how much she actually liked Rachel. The knight-sergeant had been quick to declare Casey and Kapraski lost causes, and even quicker to suggest she would kill them if they had been turned, without so much of a hint of grief. They were supposed to be her friends. Even Danse, whose issues with mutants and ghouls were strong, showed distress at the fact he had killed a mutant Cutler.

Once she had thought Rachel's beliefs were on par with Danse's. Now she suspected they surpassed them. Had her daughter's fate caused a disconnect with her sense of empathy and compassion? By letting her family escape her own beliefs, was Rachel trying to make up for it by showing no mercy to anyone else? Maybe her disdain towards non-humans had been amplified instead of dampened.

I should talk with her about it, thought Quinn, taking a sip from her bottle of water. Maybe she doesn't realise she's doing it.

A slight scuffling noise in the corner dragged her from her musing, and she looked to see Danse twitching as if pushing away an invisible enemy, a slight frown on his face.

Glancing first at Rachel, and then the doorway which led to the room Carson lurked in, Quinn made up her mind. Still holding her bottle of water, she made her way to the paladin, crouching down in front of him. More than likely she would receive a crack across the jaw, but Quinn didn't mind. It would hurt, and yet it would fade, unlike the shame Danse would feel if the others knew of his nightmares. Better to stop his dream now before it became a full blown episode.

Steeling herself for the pain, Quinn set down her bottle and clamped her hands down on his shoulders, giving him a little shake.

At once, Danse's hand shot out, grabbing the front of her uniform and yanking her forward as he raised his other hand in a fist. Then he blinked, and lowered his arm, letting go of her and looking horrified.

"Quinn," he whispered. "I'm...you shouldn't have...I could have hit you."

Quinn smiled and picked up the bottle she had brought with her, holding it out to him. "Here."

"But I almost—"

She shook the bottle in her hand so that the contents sloshed noisily, and Danse sighed before taking it. He drank almost half of it in two gulps, and then handed it back as he laid his head against the wall, his eyes closed.

Quinn screwed the cap back on and then sat down in front of him, waiting. When he didn't speak, she said, "Do you think Kapraski will survive?"

"I don't know."

Quinn paused, watching him carefully.

"If you have something to say—" Danse began, his eyes still shut.

"What happened to Kapraski wasn't your fault."

"Of course it's my fault," Danse shot back, opening his eyes and looking at her, glaring. "He was my responsibility, and once again I've been unable to keep my own team safe."

"With all due respect, sir," came a voice from the other side of the room, making them both jump, "you were just a passenger on an aircraft. You had very little to do with it."

Quinn shuffled around to see Carson stood in the doorway, looking ashen-faced but determined.

"Knight Carson—" Danse began as he rose to his feet, but Carson cut across him.

"The only person who influenced the outcome was Tom, and that's because he's a damn good pilot. He saved his own life. But whatever happens now, it's not your fault for leading the mission. It's not Tom's fault for not landing better. It's not my fault for…"

His voice cracked, but he frowned and forced himself to continue. "It's not my fault for not getting there sooner. Sometimes, it's not anyone's fault. The sooner you learn that, sir, the better."

If Carson's tone bothered Danse, he didn't show it. If anything, he looked confused, as if unsure why he was being offered such kindness.

"It was my decision to…" he tried again, but Carson shook his head.

"I don't blame you, sir. And when we go back, and...and when…" Carson's face crinkled with despair, before hardening. "And when Tom is better, he'll tell you the same. As would any of the men and women who served with you, alive or dead."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Carson folded his arms and stared at Danse, a fierce look on his face. "I've heard the stories, sir. People talk. Maybe you don't know what others think of you, because you're an officer and because you're too focused on your work to seek out your own gossip. But people look up to you, myself included. The squires idolise you. The grunts know that if they're working with you, shit gets done. And everyone knows that you care for your team and that you're honest, and that…" Carson paused, his voice choking up. "...that if something goes horribly wrong, you won't just leave people behind. You'll own up to your mistakes and you'll go out of your way to fix them."

"Hear hear," mumbled Rachel Marguerie from across the room. Everyone turned to look at her, and she opened a bleary eye and shrugged. "Danse, if you're ever worried at what kind of person you are, compare yourself to me. That should show you your worth."

She yawned and shut her eyes, pulling the rucksack closer to her chest. Within seconds, she was snoring again.

Carson stared at her for a moment, and then turned back to Danse. "I'm sure you've had your share of fuck ups, but this one isn't one of them. Shit happens, sir."

Danse said nothing, but straightened up, looking like a soldier again, and nodded.

Apparently feeling he had done his part, Carson nodded back, and then left.

The second the knight had departed from the room, Danse seemed to deflate, leaning back against the wall and sliding down to the floor, his hand pressed to his forehead.

"He has a point," Quinn said in a low voice, in case Rachel was still listening.

"No, he doesn't," Danse snapped back quietly, though he looked uncertain.

Sighing, Quinn sat down next to him, thoughts whirling through her head. There was an urge coursing within her, one that she had been forcefully ignoring for months, but now...

The guilt was still there of course, but it was softer, smothered by the events of the day. If anything, Quinn had learned that her life in the wasteland existed entirely on borrowed time. Tomorrow she could be dead. In minutes, she could be dead. Kapraski had shown her that. But if things could be pushed in the right direction, even with just the smallest of steps...maybe it was time to stop skirting around the inevitable.

Quinn took hold of his hand.

Danse's head turned sharply to look at her, eyes wide with shock. He glanced down at their entwined fingers, and then back to her face, lost for words.

Maybe she'd gone too far. Presumed too much. After the way she'd treated him...no, this was a stupid idea. A terrible idea. What did the military call it? Fraternisation? And he was still staring at her. God fucking damn it.

Feeling mortified, Quinn tried to pull away, getting to her feet, but to her greatest surprise, Danse held on, looking up at her. He was bright red and clearly nervous, but his grip was firm.

Hesitating for a moment, Quinn slowly sat back down again, her cheeks now burning as her heart hammered in her chest. Danse looked unsure of himself, as if he didn't know what to do now she was here.

In all honesty, neither did Quinn.

Still, she could try.

"Does...does this bother you?" she asked quietly, praying Rachel was definitely asleep again.

Danse frowned. "I don't know." There was a pause, and then he cleared his throat. "Why have you gone from being distant to...to this?"

"I don't know."

"Outstanding," Danse grumbled, rolling his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall again. "Why are you so damn difficult?"

"Difficult?" Quinn hissed quietly, throwing a glance over in Rachel's direction before glaring back at him. "Don't even get me started on you, Paladin Petulant!"

He gave her such an offended look that Quinn couldn't help but giggle, and as his irritation increased with her mirth, she had to smother her laughter into his shoulder. When she looked up again, he was half smiling, half frowning. With the greatest effort, Quinn calmed herself down.

"You mentioned that you don't know if it bothers you," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Can you tell me what might bother you about it?"

Danse stared down at their hands, and then looked at his feet. "My rank."

"Go on."

"I...I don't want to compromise myself or you."

They were playing the game of talking about it without directly referring to it, a concept that made her feel comfortable. Fraternisation could mean friendships too. After all, if they didn't explicitly discuss it, then nothing had really changed, right? From the way Danse kept looking at anything but her, she sensed he was thinking the same thing.

Quinn frowned. "But surely people get close in the Brotherhood all the time?"

"They do. But generally not with the people that sponsor them. If that happens, an official distance is created between the two parties to prevent any interference with work. As it should be."

"I see."

Danse hesitated, still averting his eyes from her. "Can you tell me why you've been…?"

"Changing how I act around you like the wind changes direction?"

He nodded.

"Today made me realise that I live a very dangerous life," Quinn said with a shrug. "I've had—and still have—a lot of conflict over my past and my husband, but…" She licked her lips and looked at him. "This isn't the world I knew. I don't have the luxury of time. I brushed past death twice today, in the ship and in that stairwell, and I—"

At the mention of the stairwell, Danse's grip tightened considerably, and Quinn winced a little until he relaxed. Then, finally, he looked at her and nodded.

"I understand," he said. "I don't...I'm just…"

Quinn shot him a smile. "I wouldn't worry about it, sir. It's cold tonight."

"What?" He frowned, looking confused. "No, it's not."

"Very cold," Quinn went on, ignoring him. "Knight-Sergeant Marguerie has her rucksack to keep her warm, and Knight Carson has his power armour, but I suppose we will have to make do with more traditional methods."

"What are you…?" Danse said, and then blinked as realisation hit him. "I, uh. Yes, you're right. Freezing cold."

The grin on Quinn's face widened, and after a moment, Danse gave her a shy smile back.

"Very considerate of you, sir," she said, pulling his hand into her lap and holding it with both of her own as she leaned against him. "Very considerate indeed."

Danse didn't reply, but after a minute or so, he rested his head against hers, his thumb tracing small circles in Quinn's palm. They stayed that way for the rest of the night, the two of them slipping in and out of sleep as Rachel continued to snore away on the other side of the room.

"Good morning, sir!"

Quinn awoke with a start, just in time to see Rachel Marguerie give Danse a kick in the boot, grinning down on the two of them like she'd found a large crate of Cuban cigars, her eyes glittering with delight.

Danse struggled to his feet, stammering excuses, but Rachel talked loudly over him.

"Weather's looking good today, huh, Carson?" she said over her shoulder, the wicked smirk still firm on her face. "No rad storms, at least."

"I, uh, yeah," Carson replied. He looked bewildered, but then gave Quinn a small, knowing smile. Sadness lingered in it; Quinn knew his mind was elsewhere, and yet he was happy for her all the same. "Skies looked clear when I checked earlier."

"Get suited up," Danse muttered, storming past both of them, his face bright red.

He said little else as they left the hospital, stomping ahead and avoiding looking at any of them. Carson was quiet, too, far from his usual chatty self, but Rachel radiated smugness. She kept grinning at Quinn, before pulling faces at Danse. Quinn didn't mind.

No, she didn't mind at all.

A/N: Thank to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!

This chapter is dedicated to midnightmooncat, who is ill! Get better soon!

You know what the best thing is about OCs? They're completely at my mercy. :D